Day 138
Unfortunately, I didn’t manage to play any poker today so there could be no repeat of yesterday’s triumph. Mrs. Snowman needed the computer for work purposes and had accumulated such a backlog following our disastrous vacation that I was unable to play even the quickest of turbo games, I therefore found myself twiddling my thumbs and picking the fluff from my belly button for a while.
Even so, it wasn’t as bad as you may think for another reason.
Today was one of those special days that only occur once every twelve months.
Very much like Christmas or a birthday (or in the mother-in-law’s case, the anniversary when someone left the padlock off her laboratory door) it’s a time for celebration and happiness.
Yes, the Eurovision Song Contest was on tonight.
For those readers not from Europe and therefore unable to receive this triumph of modern broadcasting, a note of explanation is warranted.
Every year, nations from all over the northern hemisphere converge on the capital city of the previous year’s winner and fight out the musical equivalent of The Boston Tea Party.
Imagine if you will, the worst pop songs ever written being massacred by the most inept and useless performers on the continent and you start to get the idea.
Of course, there was a mistake one year when Abba won it but other than that it’s remained completely devoid of talent since its inception.
And its absolutely compelling, masochistic, nail-biting, brilliant entertainment.
Car crash television at its very best.
This year’s torture was hosted by Serbia in the 23,000 capacity Belgrade Arena.
It’s probably the most internationally cosmopolitan audience of any event with brightly colored streamers and national banners waved enthusiastically as soon as the television cameras are turned on. It’s an evening of friendly rivalry fought out in a party atmosphere, although for reasons I have yet to work out, someone in the audience turned up with a Japanese flag.
A hugely expensive and enormous, glitzy stage set was graced by a series of groups injected with so much Botox that the first four rows of spectators were in danger of chemical poisoning.
I don’t want to alarm you but there was also astonishing amounts of Lycra and sequins in evidence.
Finland didn’t really enter into the spirit of things and submitted a song that was really quite good so they were guaranteed not to win. They sounded like a cross between Rammstein and Metallica so, whichever way you look at it, were doomed to failure in this event. Watch out for a platinum selling album in the near future.
Everyone else, however, stuck to tradition and wheeled out some real shockers.
Latvia entered a group dressed as pirates and sang like they were about the walk the plank. Croatia thought it best to have their song performed by a group of pensioners, one of whom was so old that a chair had to be provided, while one of the Germany entrants turned up in drag.
Greece found a very attractive young lady who seemed to be doing a Britney Spears impersonation while Finland tried to appeal to the equestrian voters with a large breasted lady in a blue sparkly costume and teeth like a Shetland pony.
Russia decided to pull out all the stops and offered a young gentleman with facial contortions that looked like he had some kind of bowel disorder and belted out his attempt in the middle of a small rink while being circled by a backing singer on ice skates.
I can only assume the Spanish entry had been kidnapped on the way to the area and their place taken by a mental patient who had recently escaped from an asylum somewhere in the Catalonian hills. To put the song into context, it featured an un-amusing comedy routine by a gentleman in an Elvis wig and a plastic toy guitar.
Truly the stuff of genius.
The show was hosted by a fervent couple that did their best to inject some dignity into the evening by compeering it in several languages. Indeed, they almost pulled it off but the female half of the duo blew it when she appeared in a different dress every time they appeared on screen. One of them was so un-nerving I had to adjust the contrast on the television.
I can only assume this meant she either wet herself laughing after each song and was forced to change into something else, or it was a subtle attempt to enter the Guinness Book of Records for the most costume changes in a single evening.
Either way, they more or less held the thing together as the final performer left the stage and the camera switched to intermediate shots of the havoc that was going on back stage.
Having got the songs out of the way it was now time to find the winner by way of a telephone vote. To retain the viewer’s attention while each country dialed their choices, the producers had to come up with something to rival the previous acts.
Even though it couldn’t have been easy, and possibly with the assistance of recreational drugs, they managed it with an inspired choice.
With no sense of irony, the half time entertainment was provided by a traditional Serbian funeral band.
So, to a background of thunderous applause and with tension you could cut with a baseball bat, the results rolled in.
It was clear from the start with the propensity of Slavic and Balkan countries that the winner would probably come from somewhere east of Paris. In that respect, the Icelandic contingent was in trouble before they got off the plane; although they did receive maximum points from one of the Scandinavian countries.
Perhaps they were worried about fishing quotas.
Not that the voting was partisan or politically motivated in any way, it could simply have been some kind of national concern regarding the continued unfettered supply of oil, gas and vodka cocktails.
To be honest, the poll is (and always has been) of minor consideration but for the record it was the Russian’s who emerged victorious.
I must admit, my money was on the Spaniard but he’s probably been recaptured by now and taken back to his institution in a white van with flashing blue lights.
As a veil is drawn over the contest I can sleep soundly with the knowledge that next year we have to go through the whole thing again in Moscow and I’ve already booked my seat in front of the television set.
Not surprisingly, and not for the first time, the United Kingdom finished in last place (and they were lucky with even that position) so have plenty of time to rectify their mistakes.
Maybe the selection committee should make a telephone call to the organisers of this year’s event and obtain a few tips.
Don’t be surprised if they send over an ice skating horse in a sequined tutu with a plastic ukulele and come back with the trophy.
After all, we have to take these things seriously.
Pass the bong.
Starting bank: $0
Current bank: $71.58
Even so, it wasn’t as bad as you may think for another reason.
Today was one of those special days that only occur once every twelve months.
Very much like Christmas or a birthday (or in the mother-in-law’s case, the anniversary when someone left the padlock off her laboratory door) it’s a time for celebration and happiness.
Yes, the Eurovision Song Contest was on tonight.
For those readers not from Europe and therefore unable to receive this triumph of modern broadcasting, a note of explanation is warranted.
Every year, nations from all over the northern hemisphere converge on the capital city of the previous year’s winner and fight out the musical equivalent of The Boston Tea Party.
Imagine if you will, the worst pop songs ever written being massacred by the most inept and useless performers on the continent and you start to get the idea.
Of course, there was a mistake one year when Abba won it but other than that it’s remained completely devoid of talent since its inception.
And its absolutely compelling, masochistic, nail-biting, brilliant entertainment.
Car crash television at its very best.
This year’s torture was hosted by Serbia in the 23,000 capacity Belgrade Arena.
It’s probably the most internationally cosmopolitan audience of any event with brightly colored streamers and national banners waved enthusiastically as soon as the television cameras are turned on. It’s an evening of friendly rivalry fought out in a party atmosphere, although for reasons I have yet to work out, someone in the audience turned up with a Japanese flag.
A hugely expensive and enormous, glitzy stage set was graced by a series of groups injected with so much Botox that the first four rows of spectators were in danger of chemical poisoning.
I don’t want to alarm you but there was also astonishing amounts of Lycra and sequins in evidence.
Finland didn’t really enter into the spirit of things and submitted a song that was really quite good so they were guaranteed not to win. They sounded like a cross between Rammstein and Metallica so, whichever way you look at it, were doomed to failure in this event. Watch out for a platinum selling album in the near future.
Everyone else, however, stuck to tradition and wheeled out some real shockers.
Latvia entered a group dressed as pirates and sang like they were about the walk the plank. Croatia thought it best to have their song performed by a group of pensioners, one of whom was so old that a chair had to be provided, while one of the Germany entrants turned up in drag.
Greece found a very attractive young lady who seemed to be doing a Britney Spears impersonation while Finland tried to appeal to the equestrian voters with a large breasted lady in a blue sparkly costume and teeth like a Shetland pony.
Russia decided to pull out all the stops and offered a young gentleman with facial contortions that looked like he had some kind of bowel disorder and belted out his attempt in the middle of a small rink while being circled by a backing singer on ice skates.
I can only assume the Spanish entry had been kidnapped on the way to the area and their place taken by a mental patient who had recently escaped from an asylum somewhere in the Catalonian hills. To put the song into context, it featured an un-amusing comedy routine by a gentleman in an Elvis wig and a plastic toy guitar.
Truly the stuff of genius.
The show was hosted by a fervent couple that did their best to inject some dignity into the evening by compeering it in several languages. Indeed, they almost pulled it off but the female half of the duo blew it when she appeared in a different dress every time they appeared on screen. One of them was so un-nerving I had to adjust the contrast on the television.
I can only assume this meant she either wet herself laughing after each song and was forced to change into something else, or it was a subtle attempt to enter the Guinness Book of Records for the most costume changes in a single evening.
Either way, they more or less held the thing together as the final performer left the stage and the camera switched to intermediate shots of the havoc that was going on back stage.
Having got the songs out of the way it was now time to find the winner by way of a telephone vote. To retain the viewer’s attention while each country dialed their choices, the producers had to come up with something to rival the previous acts.
Even though it couldn’t have been easy, and possibly with the assistance of recreational drugs, they managed it with an inspired choice.
With no sense of irony, the half time entertainment was provided by a traditional Serbian funeral band.
So, to a background of thunderous applause and with tension you could cut with a baseball bat, the results rolled in.
It was clear from the start with the propensity of Slavic and Balkan countries that the winner would probably come from somewhere east of Paris. In that respect, the Icelandic contingent was in trouble before they got off the plane; although they did receive maximum points from one of the Scandinavian countries.
Perhaps they were worried about fishing quotas.
Not that the voting was partisan or politically motivated in any way, it could simply have been some kind of national concern regarding the continued unfettered supply of oil, gas and vodka cocktails.
To be honest, the poll is (and always has been) of minor consideration but for the record it was the Russian’s who emerged victorious.
I must admit, my money was on the Spaniard but he’s probably been recaptured by now and taken back to his institution in a white van with flashing blue lights.
As a veil is drawn over the contest I can sleep soundly with the knowledge that next year we have to go through the whole thing again in Moscow and I’ve already booked my seat in front of the television set.
Not surprisingly, and not for the first time, the United Kingdom finished in last place (and they were lucky with even that position) so have plenty of time to rectify their mistakes.
Maybe the selection committee should make a telephone call to the organisers of this year’s event and obtain a few tips.
Don’t be surprised if they send over an ice skating horse in a sequined tutu with a plastic ukulele and come back with the trophy.
After all, we have to take these things seriously.
Pass the bong.
Starting bank: $0
Current bank: $71.58
