Jump straight to Part One.

I’ve started, so I might as well finish, right? After this, there will be no more mentions of Eurovision for a good long while. And that’s a promise.

After the ludicrous operatic interval (about which the less said the better), we launch into the second half of the contest with another big favourite:

13 – Finland. Addicted To You – Laura.

This year, in an act of uncharacteristic restraint, I waited until I had all the participating songs on MP3 before listening to them. I then played them all in a single sitting, and in performance order, so that I might judge them as they would be judged on the night. On the strength of a single play each, Addicted To You was my clear favourite to win. It was bright, breezy, engaging, with just enough musical substance to lift it above the competition. Unfortunately, it was also Finnish, and Finland’s track record in the contest has always been abysmal.

With the hall filled with enthusiastic Finns who had skipped across the Baltic to show their support, the song goes down a storm. However, there is something off-puttingly outré about Laura’s angular, gangly performance which would never connect to a sufficient degree with the international TV audience. Still, the chorus does provide us with our favourite “alternative lyric” of the weekend, as If you were a drug I’d be addicted to you mutates into If you weren’t in drag I’d put my dick into you. Fnarr fnarr!

14 – Denmark. Tell Me Who You Are – Malene.

Despite its disastrous showing in the voting, and despite the nondescript dreariness of the song, we rather enjoy Malene’s actual performance. Once again, she is out front on the spur extension, with the giant screens switched off. As the audience remain seated this time, and as we aren’t too far back, we can give our undivided attention to Malene herself, without the distractions of edits and differing camera angles. She really does give it her best shot, and deserved better.

15 – Bosnia-Herzegovina. Na Jastuku Za Doje – Maja.

Every contest has its “dull section”, and we are now into ours. Plenty of delights are yet to come, but for now we must sit politely through Maja’s competent but uninspired brand of soft-rock. Next!

16 – Belgium. Sister – Sergio & The Ladies.

I was expecting a lot more from sweaty old Tom Jones soundalike Sergio. I was expecting full-on, unabashed daftness, in the manner of Germany’s Stefan Raab in 2000 (anyone remember Wadde Hadde Dudde Da and the illuminated bikinis?). What we get is throaty, chugging pub-rock, with a somersault. It isn’t enough. Chubby geezers of a certain age may have ruled the roost for the past couple of years (Dave Benton, The Olsen Brothers), but their time has now firmly passed.

17 – France. Il Faut Du Temps – Sandrine François.

Yikes, another peace anthem – albeit with considerably more lyrical subtlety than Sarit Hadad’s earlier offering. Mind you, this still doesn’t prevent it from having one of the daftest couplets in the whole contest: Monsieur Ghandi est mort; est-il mort pour longtemps? Yup, I guess so.

This is the sort of “quality” power ballad which always gets the “true” Eurovision fans slavering at the chops and reminiscing fondly about the golden age of the early nineties, when we still had juries and orchestras and stuff. Personally, I always look back on that period as an extended gloopfest of uniform dreariness, with some of the contests barely containing a single uptempo entry. That Celine Dion still has a lot to answer for. Her sceptre still hangs over Il Faut Du Temps, which occasionally threatens to turn into The Power Of Love. Nevertheless, Sandrine is a likeable performer, exercising both dignity and restraint (qualities which have been in somewhat short supply this evening). Despite her best efforts, Il Faut Du Temps goes the way of all the “fan faves” in this age of televoting. Tant pis.

18 – Germany. I Can’t Live Without Music – Corinna May.

A hot favourite, this Bassey-does-disco belter goes rather tits-up on the night. Closely surrounding the blind-since-birth Corinna May with a troupe of energetically gyrating sexy dancers was maybe not the wisest of moves, as this merely serves to show up the singer’s awkwardness on stage. Shuffling uncertainly from side to side, repeatedly clenching and unclenching her microphone, the poor love looks a little lost. Tellingly, the final reprise clip of the song almost entirely edits her out, in favour of the sexy dancers. A shame, as I was really rather taken by the ludicrously overblown campery of the song itself.

19 – Turkey. Leylaklar Soldu Kalbinde – Buket Bengisu & Group Sapphire.

How can you not love a singer with a name like Buket Bengisu? Even if she does looks like Narinder from last year’s Big Brother, except with a wobblier mouth? Over the years, I have become a complete sucker for the Turkish entries, and their seemingly dogged determination to “keep it real” in an authentically Turkish stylee. This strategy, admirable in its refusal to pander to European popular tastes, will of course never, ever, give Turkey a winning song. I rather love them for that. This year’s offering has the added bonus of some rather nifty Swingle Singers style “doobedoobedoo” scatting, the likes of which haven’t been heard since Mana Mou (Cyprus 1997, and yes, I know too much).

20 – Malta. 7th Wonder – Ira Losco.

The week’s slow grower now comes fully into its own. If we could have voted, most of our little group would have voted for Malta’s sweet little ditty and its captivating delivery by lovely Ira, in her saucy “is she wearing underwear or not” lacy frock. There are also two killer features on offer tonight, which elevate the performance and help it to stick in the memory.

The first is where the music pauses and Ira softly whispers the word “reality”, before blowing a handful of glitter out into the audience. In the few seconds preceding this, she has had to reach deftly into her cleavage in order to retrieve said glitter. My spies have told me that this manoeuvre was taking far too long in rehearsal, making it look as if Ira was merely indulging in some extended tit groping. Thankfully, there are no such problems tonight.

The second is where Ira delivers the final chorus while making the long journey from the main stage out onto the spur extension, thus completing the song amidst the audience. This has the effect of bringing her close into the crowd, as if she has spontaneously chosen to Come
Amongst Us. We are of course deeply thrilled, and applaud wildly. Go Malta! Go Malta!

21 – Romania. Tell Me Why – Monica Anghel & Marcel Pavel.

Dearie me: it’s Dawn French and Mini-Me, as some wag memorably put it. Proper singers with powerful operatic voices, but mismatched to the point of comedy, and quite wasted on this terrible song. Why / goodbye / foolish lie / cold and dry / couldn’t we just try / reach the sky / yadda yadda yadda / bye bye bye. The voices do harmonise together wonderfully well on the final long note, though.

22 – Slovenia. Samo Ljubezen – Sestre.

Some of the video postcards have been particularly well matched to the countries that followed them. Each one is supposed to illustrate one aspect of Estonian life/culture, by means of a dramatised fairy tale and a concluding slogan. We therefore particularly liked the single word “Freedom” which was displayed on screen just before the Russian entry – no coincidence, surely. So, immediately prior to an act consisting of three drag queens dressed as air stewardesses, what slogan do we get? “Beautiful women.” But of course!

Sestre have spent the entire week in full costume and character. Not once have they appeared in public in man-drag – not even on arrival at Tallinn airport. Their choreography is a hoot, even incorporating a display of the plane’s emergency exits – but somehow, it’s not enough. After the initial moment of comedy has died down, I find my attention is wandering. The problem lies with the song. It is just not strong enough. Sorry, ladies!

23 – Latvia. I Wanna – Marie N.

We are now firmly in the “gender confusion” section of the contest. A trite little cod-Ricky Martin number (all cheesy Latin flourishes and ay-ay-ay-ay-ays), with some decidedly odd lyrics (You make me sweat in my emotions under your fly-away, fly-away wing) is saved by very clever, very witty, highly professional choreography.

Our Marie is dressed in a white jacket and trousers, with a matching white fedora, in true Victor Victoria fashion. This allows Marie to flirt shamelessly with one of her lady dancers, who – guess what? – thinks she has been pulled by a hot Latino stud. Saucy lesbo action alert!

Next up is the chunky blonde muscle boy who I saw earlier (his name is Guntris, fact fans), who also thinks he’s on for some hot Latino stud action. So much so that as Marie stands behind him, he bends right over, beaming out at us in greedy expectation as he assumes the requisite prone position for a major shag up the jacksie. Ooh, missus!

However – and this is the twist in the tail, viewers – Marie is quickly being disrobed behind Guntris’s back. Off comes the hat, off come the jacket and trousers, and hey presto! Out she pops in a sexy pink mini-dress! Why – she’s a beautiful lady!

And as if this wasn’t enough, there’s one final coup de theatre. As the song finishes, Marie’s dancers grasp the hem of her mini-dress and yank down hard. The skirt opens out down to her ankles, miraculously transforming the tarty little frock into an elegant and sophisticated full-length evening gown.

Clever frock-work always goes down well in Eurovision. We ignore this at our peril.

24 – Lithuania. Happy You – Aivaras.

Well, we liked this one, even if nobody watching at home did. There is no clearer illustration of the difference between the forgiving nature of the amplified vocal sound in the echoey hall, and the merciless nature of the microphoned sound coming through Europe’s television screens. In the hall, we merrily dance and sing along to one of our favourite little ditties. Across Europe, a hundred million viewers clasp their hands to their ears in horror. Hey, how were we to know that Aivaras could barely hit a note? Or maybe we were just seduced by all that gorgeous Lithuanian knitwear. Yes, that was probably it.

As the interval act approaches, a quick straw poll amongst the group. Most of us are backing Malta. Someone predicts a win for Cyprus. Meanwhile, the quietest member of the group says, quietly and firmly, “It’s going to be Latvia.” Pah. What does he know?

I am not a fan of Eurovision interval acts, but there is one particular moment which I have been looking forward to this time round. Allow me to quote from the official programme:In other words, a dozen shirtless hunks start beating themselves with birch twigs. I am easily entertained.

The voting is dead exciting, it has to be said. Latvia and Malta are more or less neck and neck all the way through, with the final result resting on the votes of the final country. This is the way we like it! We are all desperately rooting for Malta. The Maltese have made it abundantly clear over the years that they would love to host Eurovision, even promising to build a new stadium if needs be. This is their best chance since Chiara in 1998. But clearly, all that frock-work has paid dividends for plucky little Latvia. We are astonished at how well it has done (except for one of us who is quietly smiling, with a faint look of I-told-you-so). As for the UK – it’s a great result. After a shaky start and a couple of nul points, those lovely Austrian people put us on the map with our only douze points of the night. From then on, it’s a steady stream of sixes and sevens, accompanied unfailingly each time by loyal cheering and flag waving from our section. My poor little arms get quite sore from all the twirling.

Show over, and Chig is off to the official party. No such treats await us lesser mortals, as we head off to the taxi queue. I’m looking forward to another late night quaffing session, even though it is already one o’clock in the morning and our hydrofoil sails at noon. The four skins are having none of it, though. They head straight back to the hotel for bed, leaving me going into town on my own. This is no bother, as I have met so many people over the course of the weekend and am bound to fall into conversation in the X Baar.

If I can find the X Baar, that is. My cab driver has never heard of it. I am dropped off near the main square, and spend around ten minutes stumbling up random alleyways until I gratefully alight upon the rainbow street sign. Once inside, I immediately fall in with four London guys who are also staying in our hotel. They’re a friendly, jolly bunch, and make excellent quaffing companions for the rest of the night. The atmosphere inside the X Baar is great. It’s a bit like Week One at university: everybody is striking up conversations with everybody else, with only one thing on our minds – and for once, it ain’t copping off. Every last detail of tonight’s contest is dissected in detail, assisted by the instant video replay on the bar’s two TV screens. News filters through of R from the Retro Bar, who had bet £250 on Latvia at odds of 8-1. Lucky man!

We talk to Finns, Estonians and various other Europeans. On three separate occasions, groups of Estonians approach and ask, with great earnestness, what we thought of tonight’s show. Was it good enough? Was the technical standard high enough? Did Estonia do OK? Could it hold its own with the other, richer countries which had hosted the show in the past? I realise just how important tonight has been for this fledgling nation, struggling to re-establish itself after decades of suppression, and eager to show the rest of the world just what it is capable of. By a happy coincidence, the UK and Estonia have scored an equal number of points tonight. There is much smiling and shaking of hands between happy Brits and happy Estonians. I am having a bloody marvellous time. This is why I love coming away for Eurovision. It’s more than just a bunch of cheesy pop songs. I bloody love it.

Taxi at dawn, which is spectacular this morning. The Lithuanian entry drifts through my booze-addled mind: Watching the sunrise, beautiful red skies, hoping this day will never end. Bed at 4.30, up at 11, taxi, hydrofoil (a thankfully smooth crossing), taxi, a pleasant mooch around Helsinki for a couple of hours, plane, train, taxi, train, taxi, home, video highlights, bed. Top, top weekend.

Labels: eurovision, eurovision2002

So, it’s back to the hotel for a change of outfit (Eurovision night simply won’t be the same unless I am wearing my swanky rainbow-striped Etro shirt!), and back out to the Saku Suurhall for the second time today. Hooking up with Chig and the four others (the other four have returned to Helsinki), I discover some further welcome news. The tickets that had been reserved for us were “restricted view” only – although near the front of the hall, our view would have been obstructed by some of the larger boom cameras. However, on returning to the box office to pick up and pay for the tickets, some of our group had been approached by an Estonian who wanted to sell her own tickets, at the same price. These tickets are slap bang in the centre of the main floor, with an excellent view of the stage and of the giant video screens. Many other visiting Eurovision fans have paid a great deal more for considerably inferior seats. Our good fortune has become almost embarrassing.

No alcohol for us now! We don’t want to waste a single second of tonight’s show on anything as mundane as toilet breaks. Milling round the bars and souvenir stalls, we notice the grey metal commentators’ boxes arranged around the edge of the arena. They look like nothing more than filing cabinets. Surely our beloved Terry Wogan can’t have been consigned to anything this grim? We decide to go Hunting For Wogan. Sure enough, on a higher level in the arena, we find the BBC commentary box. It is an altogether grander affair than the filing cabinets below (which must have been allocated to obscure Balkan satellite channels and the like). Through a half-opened door, we espy the back of Wogan’s head, and duly pay our homage. Mission accomplished.

During the final fifteen minute countdown to the show, the giant screens show a selection of past Eurovision favourites. Sandie Shaw, Cliff Richard, Brotherhood Of Man and Bucks Fizz give us a chance to practise our flag twirling. I discover that the optimum twirling technique involves tracing a slow, graceful arc back and forth. Anything too vigorous, and the flag starts rolling itself up. We also have an enormous Union Jack, requiring all six of us to hold it up. This should look good on TV – and indeed, with judicious use of slow-mo and freeze-frame, it is possible to spot us several times over. Or rather, it is possible to spot our flag; we are holding it so high that our faces are entirely concealed behind it. Jeez, I can’t believe that I’m doing this.

And so – at last! – to the show itself.

1 – Cyprus. Gimme: One.

We had been promised hot boyband totty, and raunchy shirt shredding halfway through the song. As it was, the tops all stayed on – which was probably for the best, given the slightly raddled state of the talent on display. In the X Baar later on, we all agreed that there was only one member of the five piece act for whom we would Give It Up. This was settled by means of much furious finger-jabbing at the TV screen near the bar. In fact, fingers were being jabbed so furiously that the bar owner eventually came out and told us off (“Don’t touch!”). Boyband Finger Jabbing Brit Shame: it’s hardly on a par with football hooliganism, is it?

2 – United Kingdom. Come Back: Jessica Garlick.

Jessica was my favourite of the female Pop Idol finalists, and we all thought she acquitted herself magnificently (despite the flimsy little piece of fringed nothingness she was wearing, and despite those frightful little pink boots in particular). Unlike so many contemporary pop acts (Steps being the worst offenders), Jessica gave an emotionally appropriate rendition of the sad, yearning, desperate lyric, rather than grinning her way inanely through it. The performance was warmly received in the hall. Too restrained to be a potential winner, but clearly a candidate for a respectably high placing.

3 – Austria. Say A Word: Manuel Ortega.

Manuel later won the title of Sexiest Man In The Contest, in our snap straw poll in the X Baar. A lovely little mover to be sure, but the song was a dog, with the most annoyingly repetitive chorus in living memory. It also had exactly the same chord structure as Free’s All Right Now. There’s even an MP3 bootleg knocking around somewhere which merges the two, just to illustrate the point.

4 – Greece. S.A.G.A.P.O – Michalis Rakintzis.

One of the show’s two bona fide “water cooler” moments, this had everyone in our office talking about it on Monday morning. Eurovision electroclash, no less! A bunch of leather clad stormtroopers galumph about the stage in formation, growling “GIVE THE PASSWORD”. Now look, Michalis: we have a clearly defined Acceptable Usage Policy to cover such matters. Under no circumstances are we permitted to divulge our passwords to third parties, no matter how gruffly you bark at us. I dare say things might be very different in Greece, but your tactics cut no ice with us here.

5 – Spain. Europe’s Living A Celebration – Rosa.

Never mind Jessica Garlick - as the winner of Operacion Triunfo (Spanish TV’s version of Pop Idol), Rosa is the direct equivalent of our Will Young. Not only that, but the Spanish equivalents of Gareth, Darius, Zoe and Hayley are performing as her backing singers. And as if that wasn’t enough, Rosa is a champion slimmer to boot! In the preview video, you can trace her “emotional journey”, all the way from fat-with-bad-hair to thin-with-gorgeous-hair. One is inescapably reminded of Ricki Lake. With credentials like these, plus an irresistibly bouncy piece of Latino-froth like …Celebration, how could she fail?

This thinking is clearly shared by the huge Spanish contingent within the hall, who have been conducting massed laps of honour round the main floor of the auditorium before the start of the show, flags aloft, in a raucous display of premature triumphalism which simply screams “hubris”. A large chunk of that contingent is situated directly behind us, making its presence vocally felt and attempting to stop Chig from standing up for the UK entry. Come the Spanish entry, and they are of course all on their feet, punching the air and roaring for Rosa at the top of their lungs. As they continue to do at random occasions throughout the evening. “RRRROOOSSSAAA!!!” When, during the voting, it becomes apparent that Rosa doesn’t have a hope in hell of winning (she limps in tenth), the entire contingent leaves the hall early in disgust. Dashed unsporting, if you ask me.

6 – Croatia. Everything I Want – Vesna Pisarović.

A dull song, but Vesna delivers a captivating performance none the less, with her whips and chains and stuff. Looking round the hall, we are unable to spot a single Croatian flag, and so make a collective decision to support Vesna by giving her our wildest applause. We are almost the only ones who rise to our feet at the end of the song, and Vesna duly flashes us her brightest smile. In the X Baar later on, Vesna is voted Sexiest Woman In The Contest. Maybe it was the whips and chains which swung it; anyhow, I am sure that she would be thrilled at this news.

7 – Russia. Northern Girl – Prime Minister.

The other “water cooler” act of the night. We were expecting Russia’s premier boyband, and instead we got…this. I suspect that the big fella with the shades ‘n braids will be appearing on “ironic” videoclip montages for many years to come. Oh, and what a disappointment to realise that they weren’t singing “Northern girl, frosty eyes, I wanna mount you baby” after all…

8 – Estonia. Runaway – Sahlene.

Tumultuously received in the hall, despite many adverse factors. Firstly, Sahlene delivers the entire song from a spur extension to the main stage, which actually places her within the audience, behind the front few rows. As a result, the giant screens either side of the stage are now in shot, and so are switched off, thus preventing us from seeing Sahlene’s performance in close-up. As the home crowd audience are now all on their feet, we cannot actually see Sahlene at all, except for the occasional glimpse between the bobbing heads and shoulders in front of us. But most damningly of all, there is not one single Estonian actually on the stage. Sahlene is apparently a Swedish singer (of no great repute) who was drafted in at the last moment after the original singer (Ines, of 2000’s fantastic Once In A Lifetime) refused the song. Once appointed, Sahlene promptly sacked all her Estonian backing singers/musicians, replacing them with her own Swedish crew. This has not gone down too well in Estonia. Nevertheless, Sahlene’s rousing performance goes down an absolute storm, and we seriously wonder whether Estonia could do it for a second year running (it eventually places third equal with the UK).

9 – FYR Macedonia. Oд Hаc Зависи – Karolina.

Every year, there are one or two entries which remain, despite repeated exposure, utterly unmemorable. This is one of them. It would take more than a gold bustier and a voluminous red skirt to shove FYROM up the ratings. Bye bye FYROM – see you in 2004!

10 – Israel. Light A Candle – Sarit Hadad.

Unbelievably, the composer of this ghastly schlock was also responsible for Dana International’s Diva in 1998. How are the mighty fallen. Okay, so it was always going to be a tough gig for Sarit Hadad to perform a “peace anthem” in the light of recent events between Israel and the Palestinians, all of which took place after the song had been selected. I also reminded myself that Israel’s Eurovision entries have traditionally emerged from the secular part of Israeli society, and that maybe – just maybe – Sarit’s performance could encapsulate a sincere desire for peace from that sector of the population. Indeed, at the dress rehearsal she had given an understated yet intense performance (I was watching her eyes). It was just about believably sincere, and bordered on being moving. In short, I wished her well.

But, oh dearie dearie me. As Sarit swung into the first chorus (“Light a candle, light a candle with me, a thousand candles in the dark will open up our hearts”), both groups of Israeli supporters, on either side of the hall, simultaneously switched on little pocket torches and held them aloft, swaying along in time. The effect was cringeworthy in the extreme, and shockingly misjudged. I looked at Sarit. Insincere showbiz schmaltz simply poured from her, as the massed “candles” twinkled on either side. Ugh. Please, please don’t let this win.

11 – Switzerland. Dans Le Jardin De Mon Âme – Francine Jordi.

A slow grower, which deserved rather better than its abysmal score on the night. Maybe Francine (a likeably gamine performer) should have entered the stonking trance remix of the song instead.

12 – Sweden. Never Let It Go – Afro-Dite.

Gladys! Blossom! Kayo! As Heat magazine so aptly put it: the oven ready Three Degrees! So sassy in your bacofoil and tit tape! With your fabulous retro-disco stomper which wowed me from the off when I first heard it on Melodifestivalen all those weeks ago! How dearly I would love to return to Stockholm in 2003!

But not on the strength of this woeful performance. Girls, girls, I died a thousand deaths for you. You let yourselves get over-excited by the rapturous crowd and the vast worldwide TV audience. You needed a bit of discipline, a bit of restraint, and a lot more polish.

Jump to next part.

Labels: eurovision, eurovision2002

Saturday, late morning. Chig and I finally haul our asses out of bed, and into a taxi. Destination: the Saku Suurhall, out on the edge of town. After five hours’ sleep and no breakfast, I am feeling surprisingly together. The hangover can be postponed for another day at least. Right now, I have more pressing things to do than yield to the ravages of sleep deprivation, alcohol abuse, and sore extremities. While all eight of the skinheads are “doing” the old city today, I have decided to chance my luck on nabbing a ticket for this afternoon’s dress rehearsal. It seems fairly unlikely – after all, Eurovision tickets generally sell out months in advance, for the dress rehearsals as well as for the finals. But the word on the street is that I might get lucky.

Chig disappears into the press enclosure, to see what he can find out. We arrange to meet in half an hour. I wander round the enormous shopping mall that adjoins the concert hall, eventually settling down for some long overdue breakfast of herring salad and Coca-Cola. Looking up, I see Chig slowly walking towards me, his face a mask of gloom. Shit. Hey, it was worth a try.

“Let’s face it,” he says. “It was always going to be a long shot, getting tickets this late in the day.” I grunt in affirmation.

“But…guess what!” Chig has suddenly brandished a ticket, and is waving it in front of me, grinning from ear to ear. Evil, evil bastard! I let out a shriek of unalloyed, ecstatic delight. For some strange reason (probably just the remnants of the booze), I suddenly find myself wanting to kiss his feet. I only just manage to restrain myself. So, I shall go to the ball!

Walking back to the hall, we pass a chunky blonde muscle boy in a tight sleeveless T-shirt and shorts. One of the Latvian backing dancers, Chig tells me. Ooh, my first Eurovision celeb spot of the weekend! Okay, so we’re somewhat stretching the definition of “celeb” here. But then this is Eurovision, where different laws apply. Where naff becomes cool, where cheesy becomes uplifting, where nationalistic flag-waving becomes fun, and where strangers strike up conversations with each other in gay bars, without an underlying sexual agenda.

Chig already has a seat in the press section of the hall, so I shall be watching the rehearsal on my own. He disappears off to the separate press entrance, as I stumble through the airport style security at the main entrance (now accompanied by Brandy and D, who seem to have materialised from somewhere or other). At this point, overwhelmed with the unexpected excitement of the moment (I still can’t believe I’m actually here!), my hangover attempts to kick in, and I begin to feel quite disorientated and giddy. I make a complete hash of the airport security. Once inside the hall (reassuringly compact, compared to the vastness of the previous two years), my powers of conversation almost desert me entirely. I am reduced to standing there, beer in hand (well, why not?), simpering dumbly at Brandy and D, and secretly rather looking forward to a nice quiet sit down in a darkened room for the next few hours.

Inside the arena, there are a surprisingly large number of empty seats. I quickly shuffle round to a more favourable position: dead centre, towards the back, slightly raised above the main floor. With nobody on either side of me, I maintain a slightly detached approach towards the proceedings. The atmosphere is cheerful, but somewhat restrained – after all, this is still a rehearsal rather than the real thing. It becomes quite apparent that we are spectators at the recording of a TV programme, rather than an audience at a concert. Still, there are warm receptions for most of the acts – especially for the home team, and for neighbouring Finland (my initial favourite from several weeks back, Addicted To You). The quality of the performances is high, with a particularly strong showing from Malta (7th Wonder). Germany’s Corinna May (I Can’t Live Without Music) and Spain’s Rosa (Europe’s Living A Celebration) are also very well received, whipping up as much of a party atmosphere as is possible this Saturday afternoon. However, I am disappointed by Sweden’s Afro-Dite, who seem all over the place – a messy, over-enthusiastic performance which badly lacks polish. Last night in the Ring Club, I had blogged in support of Sweden at #1, Malta at #2, Lithuania #3 (the latter two being the slow growers of the final week). Now, I have absolutely no idea who is going to win this thing. None of the performances have shouted “Winner!” at me. Maybe Spain, Estonia, Finland, France, Germany, Malta or Lithuania. Maybe even Israel’s cloying peace anthem (although this was booed by some of the people around me). Maybe even our own Jessica Garlick, who did a bloody good job with Come Back.

There are some niggles. The acoustic in the hall is clearly favouring ballads over the more uptempo numbers, which can sound rather muddy by comparison. Also, some of the camera work is decidedly eccentric. Seemingly every time that a song reaches the first line of its chorus – the potential “money shot” of each performance – the camera pans right away, sweeping round the stage and the front few rows, denying the viewer the opportunity of seeing the singer deliver the song’s main hook line. It breaks the intensity of the performance, almost fatally in some cases. Nevertheless, it’s a hugely enjoyable spectacle, boding well for a cracking show tonight.

As the rehearsal moves from the interval act to the first set of voting (from Cyprus), you can feel the audience automatically re-focussing themselves, sharpening their concentration in anticipation of the drama to come. What everyone has temporarily forgotten is that these aren’t real votes. It is traditional in dress rehearsals for each country to be told in advance how to vote, so that at the end of the contest, all participating countries end up with an equal score. This is a highly sensible way of checking the whole process, but it’s also about as much fun to watch as the test card. Gradually, as reality dawns, the trickle of exiting spectators becomes a flood.

Chig, Brandy, D and I meet up at the pre-appointed spot, and grab a cab to the old town hall square in the city centre, where we join seven of the eight skinheads at a pavement café (the eighth is still sleeping off his hangover, even at this late hour). Their table is already decked out in the flags of several different countries. Much beer is being quaffed. There is already a large crowd in front of the giant video screen, which is relaying interviews with the performers and SMS quizzes on Eurovision trivia. Five hours before kick off, a party atmosphere is already building. It’s going to be a great night.

The skins are a bit freaked. Sightseeing round the old town earlier on, they encountered a group of Estonian skinheads coming the other way – who, in an excruciatingly misplaced attempt at a fraternal greeting, promptly Sieg Heiled them. How exactly do you explain to a large group of Neo-Nazis that actually, you are re-appropriating and re-contextualising masculine dress codes in a post-modern, semi-ironic manner which betrays complex fetishistic undertones? What is the Estonian for “It’s a London gay thing, you scary bunch of meatheads”? No matter. There are, however, a couple of distinct little fascistic clumps at the edges of the square. In the midst of such cheerful internationalism (there are flags everywhere), they look irrelevant, powerless, pathetic.

There is another, more interesting buzz going round the square. Apparently – astonishingly – there are still some unsold tickets left for tonight’s final. With tickets priced way above the pockets of most Estonians, there has been something of a miscalculation. Now, with the embarrassing prospect of empty seats being beamed to the international TV audience, prices are dropping (remember that they had started off at a prohibitive £180 each to non-Estonians). It might be worth an exploratory jaunt back to the Saku Suurhall. What does the group think?

The group hum and hah a bit, then settle on a maximum of £25 per ticket. If we can get them for that price or less, then count us in. A couple of the group collect up the necessary EEKs and head off to the taxi rank. A long, long wait ensues, during which I take a late lunch. Eventually, someone’s mobile rings. Tickets are available at £50 each. Is anybody still interested?

Oh, you betcha. The instruction goes back loud and clear: buy, buy, buy! I can scarcely believe our luck. For the second time today: we shall go to the ball!

Jump to next part.

Labels: eurovision, eurovision2002

So, I’ve flown from Heathrow to Helsinki with a group of 8 London gay skinheads, only 2 of whom I’ve ever met before. Friends of friends, that sort of thing. They’re a close-knit bunch, who all live in the same part of East London, and who all go out on the scene together (The Block being their particular stomping ground). It’s a bit like a gay London skinhead version of Friends. I’m the only one in the group with anything longer than a Number One crop, I’m the only one who is travelling without his boyfriend, and I’m the only one who doesn’t live in London. However – and to my relief – they are a friendly, welcoming bunch who do their best to make me feel like less of an outsider in the group.

None of us have tickets for the contest itself. When they went on sale to non-Estonians, our information was that prices were starting at £180 per ticket. It’s only a relatively small hall this year, as opposed to last year in Copenhagen, when the contest was held in a football stadium. Last year, the entire show sold out within a day of tickets going on sale. Clearly, there would be no hope at all for us this year. Still, we’re not bothered. The Estonian government has promised a “People’s Eurovision” in the main central square in Tallinn, with a giant video screen relaying the contest to the assembled throng. This should be a laugh – maybe even as much fun as being inside the Saku Suurhall itself. The whole jaunt is really just an excuse for a jolly old time in Tallinn, seasoned with a bit of Eurovision fever.

However, four of the group have since decided to base the weekend in Helsinki instead. They’ll come over tomorrow for the day, but will be staying both nights in the luxurious splendour of Helsinki’s Hotel Kämp. So, the remaining five of us set sail on the hydrofoil from Helsinki to Tallinn. It’s a bumpy 90 minute ride, requiring intensive mind-over-matter concentration in order to keep the stomach bile at bay.

We are staying at the Hotel Stroomi, which is a far cry from the Hotel Kämp. It is way out in the suburbs, surrounded by crumbling Soviet-era tower blocks, and is a simple, functional establishment. However, it is clean, cheap, and perfectly adequate for our requirements. I’ll be sharing a room with Chig, who has been here all week at the rehearsals, press conferences and parties. There is a huge mound of press packs and assorted promotional bumf on his bed – and on my bed, an official programme and a copy of the Lithuanian single, Happy You. Hurrah!

Quick showers all round, and we head straight off towards the city centre. Eventually, we leave the crumbling tower blocks behind. By stark contrast, the centre of Tallinn is as exquisitely beautiful as I had hoped. The most frequently heard comparison is “like Prague before it got spoilt.” We pick a rather classy looking restaurant, and walk in. Hmm – it’s even classier looking inside. There is a tell-tale pause from the waitress as we ask for a table; clearly, we don’t fit the usual demographic. Nevertheless, we are swiftly accommodated. The surroundings are atmospheric and charming (ornate lamps, draped chandeliers, crisp white linen, antique polished wood) and the meal is superb – several of us choosing the lightly smoked wild boar. It is all very authentic, very Estonian, and a great way to start the weekend.

Next stop is Tallinn’s one gay bar – the X Baar, down the inevitable obscure alleyway near the main square. Wow – it’s Eurovision Central in here. Packed out with visiting fans of the contest. We play “spot the Estonian”, but fail to spot very many at all. Wonder what this place is like on a normal Friday evening? Much, much quieter, I would guess.

Oh look – there’s Brandy, veteran doyenne of the Eurovision mailing lists, whom I last saw in Stockholm two years ago. We’ve loosely kept in touch via the occasional e-mail, and greet each other like old friends. The London skins are running into familiar faces all over the place – it seems like half the clientele of The Block (recently raided and shut down pending a court case) have been exiled to Tallinn for the weekend. Chig turns up, fresh from the penultimate dress rehearsal, and full to bursting with all the week’s Eurogossip. It’s all very jolly and sociable, and I’m getting into the proper Eurovision spirit now.

Next stop is The Ring Club. About a dozen of us climb into taxis, marshalled by R, who runs the Eurovision nights at the Retro Bar on London. Now, the Ring Club comes as something of a disappointment. I was expected a full on Eurovision disco party in a throbbing club. Instead, we descend into a cramped bar with no proper dancefloor, and fewer punters than there were in the X Baar. There are also other, darker areas of the club – but we won’t go into those. Oh no.

After a long wait, I finally gain access to the club’s Internet terminal, and update my blog as best as I can. My typing is now at a ratio of one correct keystroke to every two backspaces. Intense concentration is required. We are all now completely plastered, having successfully transcended the shabbiness of our surroundings. The night lurches unsteadily (and not uneventfully) towards its conclusion. Chig and I appear to be the last ones standing. We finally get to bed around 6am. That last Red Bull in the club was a stupid mistake, as I struggle to get to sleep, replaying the day’s more memorable events in my head.

Tomorrow will be show time. People have been telling me that there might just possibly be some tickets left for the Saturday afternoon dress rehearsal. It’s a long shot, but I’m going to give it a whirl…

Jump to next part.

Labels: eurovision, eurovision2002