I'm at Brother Edward's and Sascha's house in Canary Wharf, which is rather beautifully decked out for Christmas with a lovely tree and a fabulous red cloth on the table. The scene confirms my decision not to decorate our own house this year. It's something I like doing with Nathan, and something I can't really see the point in doing alone. Yeah yeah, bah humbug and all that. They'll keep for next year.
Anyway, today we're watching Eurovision Song Contest entries from the past. We've just seen the Song for Europe from 1980. This was the UK Eurovision selection competition we had in the days when the contest wasn't a closed shop; ironically the days when we actually used to do really well. It was a rather epic affair with twelve songs and juries from all the BBC regional centres all of whom phoned in their votes.
The 1980 contest became rather infamous on account of the fact that two songs tied for first place, and no one had any idea what to do as a result. A young Terry Wogan improvised his way through a couple of links, and in the end, they went all the way around the regional centres again to ask the juries for a quick show of hands, as the score board in the background flashed and flickered randomly.
I slept for twelve hours last night and feel almost human as a result, although I don't seem to have seen much daylight. I am, officially, nocturnal. By the time I'd watched the X Factor, it was time to get in the car and drive at a snail's pace through East London traffic to Edward and Sascha for the results, which were accompanied by wraps: a Sunday night tradition in that part of town!
It never ceases to amaze me how awful London traffic can be and that it will regularly take an hour to drive just eight or so miles, even on a Sunday afternoon.
As I pulled up outside Edward's house, a man, wearing nothing but a pair of under pants ran past the car and down the middle of the street, shouting at the bloke running after him, "I need to feel I have your support." There is, I concluded, limited support one should be prepared to offer someone running down the street in the middle of winter wearing nothing but a pair of under crackers! I wonder what on earth that particular scene was all about. Only in the East End. I was probably in some kind of hidden camera show. Trouble in London is that you see so much lunacy, you end up taking it all with a healthy pinch of salt!