Fitting – that’s the word that sprang to mind when it came to 2024’s host nation for the annual camp carnival that is the Eurovision Song Contest; half-a-century on from Abba’s historic victory in Brighton, Sweden was the venue thanks to the triumph of Edwina Scissorhands with a song everybody forgot the day after last year’s shindig in Liverpool. And, amidst an avalanche of TV shows marking the 50th anniversary of ‘Waterloo’ – which I’d always foolishly imagined had happened in 1815 – we came full circle and hopefully drew a line under any further documentaries about Bjorn, Benny, Agnetha and Frida. Besides, another element has come to dominate Eurovision since the innocent, distant days of 1974, and that is politics; I first noticed it 21 years ago, when Russian lipstick lesbians Tatu were booed during their performance, the same year when Europe made its feelings known about the invasion of Iraq by giving the UK entry its first-ever ‘nul points’, even if the tone-deaf vocals of Jemini quite possibly played their part. This year, Israel was cast as the pantomime villain. With the War in Gaza being the cause célèbre of the moment amongst all Bright Young Things with a social conscience – the latest fashion accessory for the dedicated collector of causes – it was only natural that Eurovision disciples on ‘the right side of history’ would demand Israel’s expulsion.
Ireland’s gender-neutral entry, Bambie Thug, apparently ‘broke down in tears’ when Israel qualified for the Contest; wearing a pro-Palestine keffiyeh around his/her/their neck (this season’s must-have), he/she/they/it said, ‘It goes against everything Eurovision is meant to be’. Indeed, Israel making it to the final on the strength of a performance and not being judged by the policies of its country’s government – how very un-Eurovision that is. In the end, however, it wasn’t the designated pariah state of the year that was ejected from the Contest on ‘moral grounds’, but Holland. The Dutch entry, a wacky rapper with the kind of shoulder pads unseen since David Byrne circa 1986, was disqualified just hours before the show began following an allegation of inappropriate behaviour with a female crew member backstage; speculation mounted that something was afoot when Joost Klein missed Friday’s dress rehearsal, but the story of his absence wasn’t revealed until yesterday afternoon. At least his disqualification reduced the number of participating countries, even if only by one. Anyway, those who remember last year’s Winegum post on the Eurovision will recall I gave a brief summary of each act, having jotted down my immediate impressions as I watched; this was then later incorporated into the post. I thought it worked quite well, so I’m repeating the exercise. Bizarrely, the show opened with host nation Sweden, so that’s where we’ll begin.
SWEDEN: A pair of Norwegian twins with over-familiar nasal vocals; routine electro beat; performance feels more like a promo video than live, with video effects guaranteed to induce epileptic fit/UKRAINE: Female duo – one fat, one thin; thin one sings, fat one raps – in her mother tongue. Non-rap part of song not bad; surreal shot at the end, with the two superimposed over ‘bodies’ beneath their feet, an unsubtle reference to current events back home/GERMANY: Song resembles one of the UK’s many flops over the past 20 years, sung by a plump young man who looks like he works at Specsavers/LUXEMBOURG: Girl with pigtails surrounded by muscle-bound male dancers; could have been performed at any Eurovision in the last couple of decades. The way vocals are treated these days, no vocal sounds live now/ISRAEL: Original lyrics apparently altered due to references to October 7 massacre; ballad – bland, but not bad; audience whistling audible; anyone with a sense of mischief willing it to win/LITHUANIA: Back to Europop beat again; male singer’s ‘nose-cuff’ piercing distracting – looks like he’d head-butted a door the day before; routine sound trademarked by Eurovision in the 90s.
SPAIN: Female singer slightly older than one would expect, a touch of the middle-aged Kylie as well as the gay disco act Amanda Lear did in the 80s; male dancers also look like rejects from the ‘Relax’ video; repetitive 90s electro beat; crowd already familiar with song/ESTONIA: Old guys in black and shades giving shouty performance to usual electro backing; comedy dance routine/IRELAND: Gender-neutral singer who cried because Israel qualified. Visually reminiscent of Lene Lovich/Hazel O’Connor, with a touch of Bjork thrown in; song strange, but a bit too odd even for Eurovision; despite off-stage crap from the Goth princess, a genuinely weird and welcome change/LATVIA: Male solo singer who looks like a clean-shaven Pep Guardiola sings a slow ballad/GREECE: We receive the night’s first of many outings for that electronically-processed, Middle Eastern ‘ethnic’ sound/UK: A solo singer with a video backdrop that makes it look like he’s singing in a gents’ urinal; dancers dressed like gay boxers. Song sounds like something you’d hear playing in the background in Superdrug; the whole spectacle reminds me of the ‘I Love Willies’ number in the gay musical episode of ‘The IT Crowd’.
NORWAY: An alleged rock band, lumbered with same old ‘trance’ dance rhythm yet again; big sound, but has all the soul of an empty aircraft hangar/ITALY: Ever heard Italian rapping? You have now, but it’s that ‘ethnic’ beat again; female dancers with the size of thighs unseen since the heyday of Chaka Khan/SERBIA: Female singer sat on a polystyrene rock like the statue of the Little Mermaid in Copenhagen; slow and a bit too self-consciously moody; doesn’t go anywhere/FINLAND: Comedy interlude; same old electro beat, sounds like it’s playing at the wrong speed; Mr Windows 95 seemingly forgot to wear his trousers and runs round the stage like an out-of-shape, middle-aged streaker/PORTUGAL: Female singer dressed all in white with matching dancers who look to be wearing stockings over their faces in 70s bank robber style; song a forgettable plodder/ARMENIA: Yes, here we go again – it’s that ‘ethnic’ beat once more, with a girl singer who almost looks to be dressed in national costume/CYPRUS: Nasal vocal returns for first time since opening act. Singer like a dozen female pop stars in terms of presentation; touch of that ethnic beat again, but could’ve been at any Eurovision this century.
SWITZERLAND: Non-binary boy in a skirt; again, looks more like a video than a live performance; reliant on props, but moderately catchy/SLOVENIA: Blonde with the once-ubiquitous Britney Spears mic attached to her cheek, wearing an outfit the Daily Mail would probably call ‘revealing’, but reminds me of Legs & Co circa 1981; forgotten song already/CROATIA: Someone else who looks like he’s wearing national costume; horrible, Bon Jovi-like, Stadium Rock ‘woah-oh’ in chorus of otherwise annoyingly catchy tune/GEORGIA: Same presentation as Cyprus – girl singer with muscle-man dancers; we can hear echoes of that good ol’ ethnic beat for the umpteenth time this evening/FRANCE: Shares same title as a song I came up with for a spoof Eurovision video a decade ago, but mine was funnier; ‘Mon Amour’ an OTT ballad sung by a man who looks like the owner of a Turkish restaurant/AUSTRIA: High-speed electro-pop’s final outing of the evening; same old dance routines and lap-dancer persona obligatory for all post-Madonna female pop stars.
So, after the always-entertaining voting segment, the UK’s lavatory cowboy improved upon last year’s dismal second-from-bottom placing by finishing 18th out of 25 (success!). Israel couldn’t quite provoke further tears on the part of other contestants by finishing fifth, but those calling for Eden Golan to be banished will have felt extremely smug that the crown went to Switzerland’s non-binary boy as the MSM adhered to his demands by referring to him as ‘they’. I’m sure they is very happy today, for at least they is probably the only person in Europe able to remember a number all about their stunning and brave battle to celebrate their mental illness. Bet you’re sad you missed it, eh?
© The Editor
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So, here we go again in the latest round of local litmus tests for a government presiding over its disintegration – the last batch before the country gets to play Pontius Pilate and give a nationwide thumbs-down to Sunak’s shower of shite as it hands over the reins of power to slippery Starmer. ‘Disappointing’ is a familiar buzzword on days like these; it serves as a better means of putting on a brave face than simply saying, ‘Yeah, we’re f**ked’. The PM wheeled the word out once more when asked for a response to the slaughter suffered by his Party in the council and mayoral elections that took place in England on Thursday. At the time of writing the Tories have lost over 400 council seats as well as the Blackpool South by-election, with the latter proving to be yet another by-election loss to their nemesis that the Conservatives have experienced over the past twelve months. Blackpool South was also one more record-breaking humiliation for the Tories, with the 26% swing from Conservative to Labour being the third biggest in post-war by-election history. Rishi Sunak found a straw to clutch in the shape of Boris groupie Ben Houchen, re-elected Tees Valley Mayor, and the Prime Minister went so far as to fly up to Teesside to bask in one of the few glows available to him. The fact that the office of regional mayor – much like police and crime commissioner – is merely an additional layer of bureaucratic bullshit, an extra carriage on the local government gravy train for the self-aggrandising Westminster reject, matters not when there’s precious little else to shout about, so one can’t really blame Sunak for milking it.
Choosing a title for a post on here and occasionally coming up with an old-school Fleet Street pun of a one can often take more time than penning the post itself. As with selecting an accompanying image I feel best illustrates the piece (or will provoke a titter), getting it right sometimes means a longer delay between writing and posting than I’d care for. It’s not always the case, of course – a title and image that fit can just as easily appear before me as soon as I’m writing the first paragraph; but another factor I now have to contend with is the possibility I’ve used the same title before. Due to the fact the Winegum has been in existence for eight and-a-half years, there are over a thousand posts on here and the odds of me coming up with the same title every once in a while are quite strong. It shouldn’t really matter, and I’m pretty sure few if any readers see a new post and think, ‘Hold on a minute – he’s used that before’; but I confess it does annoy me if I stumble upon an old post and there it is again. Anyway, I digress (what’s new?); the fact is I was convinced the title of the previous post, ‘Living on Borrowed Time’, was too obvious not to have been recycled, but I went for it anyway because it fitted. And it proved to be perfect, even if I didn’t realise the borrowed time upon which Humza Yousaf was living would expire within 48 hours.
Magazines – remember them? I used to buy quite a few at one time, everything from music mainstays like Uncut and Mojo to Vogue (which I liked because of ‘the articles’, obviously); then, with the exception of Private Eye and the Radio Times, I just stopped buying them at some point around a decade or so ago. It didn’t help that they were becoming increasingly expensive, but I guess, like a lot of people, I found the information contained within their pricey pages was easier (and cheaper) to access online. Long after one ceases to fork out for such items, it’s strangely comforting to realise they still exist; therefore, when one abruptly folds, one is overcome with a sudden rush of nostalgia. The news that the UK edition of Reader’s Digest is to end after 86 years comes as something of a shock in that I didn’t realise this one-time fixture of the waiting rooms in GP’s surgeries (not to mention my grandparents’ shelves) was still being published. Collecting articles from periodicals around the world and reproducing them in a convenient, bite-size compilation, Reader’s Digest hit on a winning formula that made it a familiar sight in households that harboured modest intellectual aspirations back in the 50s, 60s and 70s; along with National Geographic, it was a handy window into a world its readers weren’t prepared to invest in any further than a mere monthly sample at an affordable price. As relatively recently as 2000, Reader’s Digest could still sell over a million copies in the UK a month, but that world, along with Reader’s Digest itself, is now evidently gone.
Elected on the strength of a promise yet to be delivered, the SNP has always relied upon its raison d’être as a form of insurance that will guarantee it the enduring support of Scots who dream of breaking away from the UK. This enticing carrot dangled before the Scottish electorate means the Party has been routinely free to exert its inherent authoritarianism, to push ahead with increasingly illiberal proposals and legislation, safe and secure in the knowledge that the pro-independence brigade will always forgive it like a parent always forgives a wayward child who happens to be the favourite. The Gender Recognition Reform Bill, the Hate Crime and Public Order Act, the notion of the State appointing a ‘named person’ to effectively raise (indoctrinate?) children instead of their parents – it’s hard to imagine these and a raft of other insane ideas gaining any sort of traction had they not been proposed by a Party that knows it can get away with it. Well, maybe the SNP has been guilty of a little complacency when it comes to this bedrock of support, convinced its most devoted followers will turn a blind eye to what they don’t like because the Party has always promised to fight for the one thing they do.
‘The League of Gentlemen’, that superb 1960 British caper movie with a delicious dollop of black comedy, highlighted the irony of how particular talents that are valued in wartime are rendered redundant once peace comes around. The bitter ex-Army officer character played by Jack Hawkins, given his cards by his superiors due to there being precious little for him to do anymore, attempts to get his own back on the establishment that abandoned him by assembling a motley crew of former war heroes whose post-war careers on Civvy Street have seen them drift aimlessly on the seedy fringes of society, gifted with skills that peacetime has no outlet for. He surmises the only outlet left for those skills is to use them for criminal means via an audacious bank raid; and all goes well up until the inevitable climax when the team is naturally foiled by the boys in blue. The film tapped into a dead-end that confronted the demobbed when returning to ‘normal life’, though this wasn’t a sensation unique to the aftermath of WWII. A rarely-mentioned side-effect of the end of the Napoleonic Wars brought about by the victory of Waterloo in 1815 was the decommissioning of His Majesty’s Forces, men who suddenly had nowhere to go once their country no longer needed them to do their duty. After 20 years of battling post-Revolutionary France, a battle that necessitated a constant supply of cannon-fodder, Britain received an influx of bewildered and often mutilated men for whom there was no safety net in place.
If the current trend for everyone who ever lived before us being judged on the social and moral mores of our times rather than their own continues, one wonders how the present day will fare in the future’s cultural courtroom. How many individuals and attitudes will be found not guilty and how many will be condemned to eternal damnation without the hope of redemption? I’ve long suspected some of these individuals and attitudes will eventually be cast in the same negative light as those they themselves retrospectively demonise, yet for the vast majority of folk – who don’t control the means of mass communication or run corporations and institutions – the insanity of this ascendancy to positions of power and influence was both baffling and concerning from the off. Most of us already knew this wasn’t a good idea, but the sheer weight of propaganda relentlessly streaming from the platforms the masses depend upon – along with the vicious attack dogs those platforms can summon – has marginalised and suppressed dissenting voices and encouraged self-censorship. But were one to look into the crystal ball, it’s evident that today’s indulged ideologues are tomorrow’s slave-traders or eugenics advocates; today’s dogmatic mantras are tomorrow’s discredited belief systems.
Whichever way one looks at it, the past fortnight has not been great when it comes to highlighting the ‘moral fibre’ of our elected representatives. Across the Irish Sea in that outpost of Albion known as Ulster, DUP leader Sir Jeffrey Donaldson has been forced to resign after being charged with rape and other ‘historical sex offences’, despite the fact the latter charge always sounds like something that should be levelled at a dead Viking. On the mainland, Labour’s deputy leader Angela Rayner has been caught in Fleet Street’s headlights due to a property she sold back in 2015; accused of not paying the correct amount of capital gains tax on the house during the sale, the question of breaking the law or submitting false information depends upon whether or not the house was her principal residence at the time; most of us have to settle for just the one, but there you go. Anyway, this old news was primarily stirred-up by former Conservative Party chairman Lord Ashcroft, who incidentally avoided paying £112m in UK tax from 2000 to 2010 on account of his non-dom status. The theory previously aired by our old friend Mudplugger that most Labour scandals stem from financial affairs whilst most Tory ones tend to concern ‘Ugandan discussions’ appears to ring true with regards to the current woes of Conservative MP and vice-chairman of the 1922 Committee, William Wragg.
During his star turn as the waspish comic relief to Cliff Michelmore’s straight man in the BBC’s 1970 General Election coverage, Robin Day’s relish at the pollsters having got the result so wrong was impossible for him to contain; at one point he confronted a professional pollster who had supplied what proved to be inaccurate pre-Election forecasts for the Evening Standard and Sunday Times; rounding on the hapless pollster, Day asked ‘Does it matter to you that the people in their wisdom seem to have treated the polls with contempt?’ Whereas professional pollsters relied on tried-and-trusted methods, the 1970 Election was the first time the BBC had attempted asking voters how they voted as they exited the polling station, rather than the usual formula of asking voters how they were going to vote beforehand. Although the phrase ‘Quiet Tories’ hadn’t been coined back then, there were few indications via the old way that so many would choose the Conservatives over Labour, suggesting plenty of those surveyed were reluctant to reveal the truth prior to putting a cross next to their chosen candidate’s name. The Beeb canvassed the electorate of Gravesend on account of it being named the most ordinary constituency in the country, claiming ‘if you know how Gravesend votes, you know how the nation votes’; as it turned out, they were right – and Gravesend swung to the Right, as did the rest of the UK, something the opinion polls failed to predict.
Without wishing this here blog to become a listings guide for Talking Pictures TV – though I admit it’s a tempting alternative to commenting on relentlessly grim contemporary headlines – I’m moved to mention a movie which comfortably slots into the station’s schedules, so much so that it appears to air every few weeks on there. ‘Hell Drivers’ is a gritty B&W British thriller of the late 50s, a low-budget look at the corrupt, corner-cutting haulage industry and the shady figures that profit from it. The film boasts a breath-taking cast of the best character actors this country could offer at the time, including Stanley Baker, Patrick McGoohan, Herbert Lom, William Hartnell, Gordon Jackson, Alfie Bass, Sid James, David McCallum, and even a pre-Bond Sean Connery. The motley crew of drivers employed by the company are incentivised to deliver their goods a minimum of twelve times a day; anyone failing to keep up with the demand is handed their cards whilst anyone exceeding the minimum amount of daily deliveries is favoured by management. Forced into competition with each other, the drivers take their lives in their hands by hurtling along narrow and bumpy country lanes on a 20 mile round-trip at increasingly reckless speeds. As seemingly irrelevant as ‘Hell Drivers’ is to our glorious modern age, its regular presence on TPTV is actually quite prescient with regards to an ongoing spat between elected and electorate that is well and truly under the radar of all but those who stand to be directly affected by it.
Picture the scene: Scotland’s First Minister indulges in another of his race-baiting speeches, spitting out the word ‘white’ with enough thinly-veiled venom to warrant a complaint; once back home, there’s a knock at the door from the Edinburgh Police, who inform him he’s just committed a Hate Crime and they cart him off to the nick. That’s the trouble with creating monsters; the monster has a habit of eventually turning on the creator. Just ask Maximilien Robespierre. The architect of the Terror during the aftermath of the French Revolution was ultimately responsible for dispatching thousands of his fellow citizens to a rendezvous with Madame Guillotine, and yet he met the same fate himself a year after introducing the policy. The brief stint he enjoyed as the most powerful and feared figure in France saw Robespierre as a prominent member of the National Convention’s Committee of Public Safety – a title used without irony, yet one which has had echoed down throughout history ever since; it’s there in every totalitarian state that calls itself a Democratic Republic, and it’s there in legislation masquerading as fairness, tolerance and equality. War is Peace, indeed.
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