Sunday, 9 November 2014

Eurovision moons

We're at Brother Edward and Sascha's house watching a deep orange harvest moon rising above the black Thames.

We've just watched ourselves on telly winning the Grierson Award. Edward is one of the few people I know with Sky, so we asked him to record the broadcast last Friday. It was rather strange to watch it again. As they announced our award, Nathan and I both started to feel a little nervous, almost as though we'd imagined winning it, and were about to be revealed as frauds!

We also got our first opportunity to see our appearance on This Morning which was recorded the day after our wedding. We looked a sorry sight. Me particularly. I was bloated, blotchy and remarkably fat, with great big bags under my eyes. Holly and Philip must have thought they were interviewing a semi-deflated balloon. Grotesque. Time to slim down again.

I had a horrible dream last night. I kept waking up, falling asleep again and re-entering the same dream! I was in Cambridge on my birthday and trying to gather my friends for a photograph, but they were all in different places in the city. Every time I managed to locate one group, another group would disappear, or tell me that they needed to get back to London. It was hopeless.

We're now, once again, listening to previous Eurovision entries, with an added twist tonight that everything we're hearing failed to be chosen to represent the UK at some point in the last 50 years. The songs very much demonstrate that by 2006, when this country stopped doing a national pre-selection, we were entering absolute rubbish; largely talent show rejects singing songs with little or no merit, written on the backs of cornflake packets by writers who were saving their best songs for more credible artists. Jordan, six months pregnant, in her ghastly pink rubber catsuit, was an all time low. It frustrates me to hear these songs, not just because it makes me realise quite how little interest the BBC has in Eurovision, but because they remind me that the British pop industry was simultaneously going down the pan, engulfed by manufactured pop groups thrown together by money-hungry managers desperate for a fast buck.

By contrast, in the 1980s, amazing tunes were falling at the last British hurdle. This was back in the days when the Eurovision actually mattered. I certainly hope that listening to these failures isn't tempting fate for our own entry this year. I'd obviously rather not join a list of "never wases!"



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