This concludes tonight’s 2013 Eurovision Song contest live blog. Goodnight Europe
11:50- there it is folks, this years winner- Denmark!
11:10- ‘SHE GONNA EAT ME IN MY SLEEP’- Screams BHT as Lena gives the points with perky jumpy aplomb
10:55- It’s not the winning r beating the UK that counts, it’s the shirtless men.
10:50- Azerbaijan looks like the Predator Alien.
10:45- GOOD FRIDAY AGREEMENT MY ASS. 800 YEARS.
10:42 Sweden’s judge looks like a character from Final Fantasy. Ireland got two points, ripple of ‘wooos’ spread through the room.
10:40 BHT is hugging her wine bottle, sobbing and singing along to winner takes it all
LIVEBLOG SUSPENDED because how on earth could you top that.
10:25- ‘Is this really funny or do I just really like Sweden?’ ‘You just really like Sweden. And you’re drunk.’ (Then the titties happened) SKIRT RIPPING
10:10- Maybe this is the wine talking, but BHT predicts A MILLION POINTS for Dreamboat Dolan tonight. Interval act is a medly by last year’s winner, wearing a dress that has crashed into a seagull on the way to the Arena. Sex Kitteh likes her hair, but is uncomfortable with the juxtaposition of ‘We got the power’ alongside white flag and military jumpsuits.
10:05- Georgia are really fuckin’ boring so instead we’re waiting for DREAMBOAT DOLAN to wrap up the show, and seeing what kind of riverdance knock off Sweden have planned for the interval
9:55- ‘FUCKIN’ DUBSTEP!’ BHT declares, spilling half her wine drunkenly as Danaerys Stormborn takes the stage for Norway.
9:50- Team BHT now wondering what happened to make Lena so fucking weird the year after she won Eurovision as Italy takes the stage. Fun fact- Italy were never regular attendants at Eurovision until recently, where they’ve performed… dreadfully. Italian singer having a bit of a wobble during his song.
9:40- The most homoerotic song of the night from Azerbaijan. Greece next with ‘Alcohol is Free (but trousers are expensive)’. Any song with a bazooki solo is fine by me. Sex Kitteh wants to vote for Greece, so Germany will have to pay for the party next year.
9:35- Denmark is tonight’s favorite to win doing a Sandie Shaw and singing barefoot. Sex Kitteh and bearded Avenger have named her Hermione Granger. ‘If there’s nothing but teardrops between you I’m sure you could sort it out with some vigorous sex.’ Thor representing Iceland now, which seems like unfair advantage to BHT. Then again, only other skilled singer from Iceland=Bjork, who is probably an Alien.
9:25- BHT’s brother would like it to be known he wants Hungary to do well because he did three weeks of chef training in Budapest.
9:20- ‘Thats just what Bonnie Tyler SOUNDS like!’ BHT snaps defensively to Sex Kitteh and Bearded Avenger.
9:15- Romania, otherwise known as the best fucking song of the entire fucking decade. BHT is excited, BHT sex kitteh is intrigued and BHT Beard Avenger asks ‘Is that the bad guy from Tekken?’ We will hear no bad words spoken about counter tenors. Second Dubstep breakdown of the evening.
9:05- Jesus up there currently. Armenia is so boring we muted them so we could listen to 2011’s winner, Lena. First glasses of wine cracked out. the Nethelands up next, dark horse entrants into the contest from last week. BHT hopes Adele is listening.
8:55- Eupoooooooooori- Whoops, sorry. We meant Gloooooorious. Germany standing atop the bare staircase of Austerity. Pretty symbolic.
8:55- Malta, home of Malteasers on stage now. Poor guy sounds like Bruno Mars with kidney stones. Worst instrument miming of the night goes jointly to the Acoustic Bass and ukulele mimers. Maltese Bruno Mars, following girls is not cool. Russian entry singer needs to reconsider the position of her parting as she continues the scourge of maxi dresses. Cascada up next for germany, prepare to relive MTV in 2006
8:40- Estonia has broken the Eurovision by switching off the colour. BHT sex Kitteh is dissapointed with the lack of skirt ripping so far. Maxi dresses and beach coverups dominate tonight’s wardrobe. Enough dry ice to smother the first five rows. Giant disco ball from which emerges slutty Taylor Swift singing for Belarus wearing a Gina G style sparkly dress.
8:30- Spain off key and boring. Awkward instrument miming all up in here. BHT co-host ‘sex kitteh’ asks ‘What are the chances some of Spain’s dress coming off?’ Wishful thinking, BHT SK. Are bagpipes native to Spain? Belgian performer is only 18 but still has the eyes of a serial killer (BHT Sex Kitteh thinks he’s sexy.) (no she doesn’t). BHT SK- That’s ‘the is it thrush?’ dance from the Belgians. FIRST DUBSTEP BREAKDOWN OF THE NIGHT
8:25- ‘Oh wait! There it goes!’ Skirt is growing. Resembling a volcano. As Finland takes the stage, Feminists everywhere gird their loins for the problematic lyrics. WIND MACHINE VEILS
8:20 First superfluous dancers of the night from Moldova AND a bloke miming the piano. BHT party currently arguing about Molodovan performers skirt. ‘Is it growing bigger? No thats just the lights on it’
8:20- Everyone in Lithuanian entry singing off key. Strobe lighting giving BHT and co-hosts a small seizure. Verdict- this really sucks.
8:15- BHT waiting patiently for the ABBA reunion interval show. Assuming Benny and Bjorn are backstage trying to squeeze into their stretched out jumpsuits. France first, a rather jazzy entry of the style which has left them bottom of the table in recent years. Entry looks like Ke$ha and Country Love crashed in midair.
8:10- Out Ireland comes in dead last. BHT hopes this is not an omen of things to come…..
8:00- Fuckin’ neon butterflies invading Malmo via the sea. If BHT was the olympic opening ceremony BHT would sue….
7:55- Fever pitch! Here’s our spotting guide and an awkward photo of Dana
1-Skirt ripping (or someone emerges from someone else’s skirt)
2-awkward attempts at humour from the host
4-completely superfluous dancers
5-Obviously mimed instruments
6- Graham Norton says something bitchy
7- Marty Whelan tries to sound like Terry Wogan and fails.
7:45- dreamboat junction in fifteen minutes
7:30- Prep underway. Hair blowdried and backcombed, leather pants applied. Wine uncorked.
11:30AM – Bank Holiday Tuesday will be liveblogging and tweeting the 58th Eurovision Grand Prix tonight from 8PM. Follow on twitter @Keofunkel and @BankHolidayTues for the proceedings which are sure to include alcohol, camp and shrieks of joy at the sight of the return of those leather pants to Irish eurovision hopes.
Niamh ‘BHT is back in business baby’ Keoghan
This weekend has been one of nostalgia, dear readers. Usually I am wont to tell nostalgia, politely as I can, to fuck right off. Nostalgia at it’s root means to long for something you can’t return to and I’m not down with that futile shit, yo. But now and again, nostalgia can be a pleasant, warm ride.
I’m not okaaaaaaa-aaaaaaa-aaaaa-*Cough*
Last Friday I was mildly surprised to hear that the band that haunted my adolescence more than any other was splitting up. This was strange for me, as I was under the impression that My Chemical Romance broke up in 2008. Alas no, they have plodded on since the early days of 2006, which is when the first contagion of the emo craze was spotted in secondary schools across Dublin. I was there, man. I remember it. Those little bug eyed cartoons drawn on schoolbags in sharpie marker. The elaborately decorated Nightmare Before Christmas wallets. And the music. Oh God, the music.
I think I am completely qualified to talk about the emo craze because not only was I there, I desperately wanted to be one of them. A younger BHT wanted so much to have a side fringe, a piercing in the cartilage of her ear and one of those chains you put your wallet on one end of and clip to your belt. I wanted the Chuck Taylor sneakers and the dyed black hair, the gloomy outlook of a misfit child happily counterpointed with impossibly hysterical, chirpy melodramatic music and an aesthetic picked up from a children’s animated musical made in 1993. But I didn’t manage to make the emo transformation for the following reasons:
1: I was too fat for skinny jeans.
2: My mam wouldn’t let me get piercings1
3: All of those accessories were so expensive
4: Razor blades make BHT so awfully nervous. Poor 14 year old BHT saw one set of earring studs shaped like razor blades and she was outta there.
But ultimately I never really ‘got’ how to be an emo. Young BHT did make a very ill advised decision to cut a side fringe over the Christmas of 2006 and spent the next eight months going around convinced it was the cat’s pyjamas. My Chemical Romance existed on the side fringe of my teenage years: I was never really a true fan, but they were everywhere around me. Slowly they soaked into my subconscious and made a damp little nest there. BHT for one will mourn their passing as a band. I will remember them fondly during my more melodramatic moments, where I am fond of screaming ‘I’m not okaaaaaaa-aaaaaa-aaaaaay’ in the style of Gerard Way.
I feel like the whole emo brand has come full circle on me. Last week, I bought my first ever pair of Skinny Jeans. Maybe there’s hope for me yet. But anyway the whole MCR breakup was in my head for a few weeks while I encountered other nostalgic fare.
Is nobody else still excited about the TGV except me?
I caught the last ten minutes of the 1996 boom fiesta Mission: Impossible on Friday night and it triggered yet another wave of nostalgia. The climax of MI is possibly the most 90s thing put to film along with that scene in Baz Lurhmans Romeo + Juliet where Leo DiCaprio sits on a beach in California looking meaningful and young while Radiohead play on the soundtrack. In Mission: Impossible, between product placement for the (at the time newly opened) TGV high speed train and Tom Cruise running away from things (as is his wont in every movie ever) we are treated to copious shots of mid 90s mobile phones, laptops and internet woes. Then a freaking helicopter gets dragged into the channel tunnel as the train rockets through the English countryside. Tom Cruise, why are you running everywhere? How is this CGI so hilariously dated? Tom Cruise, how did you survive that explosion? How are you not deaf?! Why does the English bad guy look like the current prime minister of Australia? Questions for the ages…
I felt a strange pang of nostalgia while watching this scene. I can just about remember 1997, back when a mother fucking high speed train that goes through a tunnel under the freaking sea was pretty much the best humanity had. The boundless optimism of the booming 90s, the clunky technology proudly flaunted as cutting edge. The pre twitter, pre-wifi pre smart phone world is a quaint one indeed but it’s also the one little BHT was convinced she would inhabit one day. I imagined myself sitting on my high speed train under the sea, tapping away on a ten pound slab of a laptop, while wearing a big hat.
I’m a Daphne in the street and a Roz Doyle in the Bed
The 90s were a good decade for Seattle- There was sleeping in Seattle, a little known music movement you might have heard of called ‘grunge’ which would eventually spawn the emo monolith discussed above, and then there was that spin off from Cheers set in the rainy north west city that nobody has given a shit about shit (literally nothing else has ever happened in Seattle except for Jimi Hendrix and Boeing).
There is something supremely comforting about the 1990s high-brow sitcom Frasier. Because the series focuses generally on the lives and problems of well educated, gainfully employed people of means, it’s a very safe show. Nobody is going to be left destitute, evicted or oppressed. That’s not to say it’s a bad show. A modern comedy of manners with what is to me a wonderfully welcome early 90s trip. The big hair, the baggy suits, the PHONES again, posh people bitching at each other and inevitably being zinged perfectly by the down to earth working class characters.
If given the chance then, would I wish myself back to the golden days of 1994? Or perhaps to 2006 to relive the emo glory days in the skinny jeans I could probably fit into now? I think not. Nostalgia is tempting but in the end, all one really remembers are the highlighted high points and moments of quality; with respect, if all I can remember of the emo craze are the ‘good parts’, I’m fine with staying here. As for the early 90s, I actually can’t imagine life anymore without constant remote access to twitter.
Niamh ‘That being said, I think I’d go back just for the big hats’ Keoghan
Column originally published on the StudentStandard.ie
Just this afternoon on her train, Bank Holiday Tuesday (BHT) noticed many “tweenage” girls in short shorts and brightly coloured baseball caps. I wondered if I had in fact fallen through a wormhole to 1993. No, these were just the final stragglers returning from staking out the Merrion Hotel where Justin Bieber was staying. Oh Bieber fever. When I was a girl it was Spice World and Boyzone – we were big into pandering the gender binary to little girls in my day and viewed the new wave of co-ed pop groups with suspicion. Liberty X and Hearsay and all that MIXING of the SEXES! It was too much for my little 9 year old head. Now we’re back to the nice binary system of boys in one group, girls in another. Now some don’t even NEED band mates: we have Taylor Swift and Justin Bieber to aspire to.
I drove past the point depot with my Ma last night and marveled at all the cars parked around- way more than you’d usually see waiting after a gig. When I heard it was Bieber I realised this must be an army of mums and dads waiting anxiously to pick up their darlings from the concert, possibly chaperoned by cool older sisters or younger aunties. There is something strangely cult like about Bieber. I think his hair has nanobots in it, controlling the little girls via electron pulses. That is the only way I can justify his alarmingly hysterical popularity. Maybe he’s a cult leader. I think Anonymous needs to get onto him, to be honest. He could be sacrificing virgins to Xenu for all we know.
But seriously, let us all be fair. Bieber is pretty easily avoidable in music fan terms. He doesn’t get that much radio play and he’s not on the music channels (yes this is how BHT experiences her music because it is still 2003 in her head…) and the level of hate he produces online is about equal to that of Osama bin Laden. People haaaaate this kid. BHT is not sure why. As far as pop crooners pandering to little girls go, he’s certainly not the worst. Often I hear people complaining that kids are listening to shit music these days. Eh, yeah, because that’s what kids do. You have to go through a stage where you listen to total twaddle before you catch five seconds of, say, Joni Mitchell’s Blue played by your mother at 3AM on a Sunday and you understand.
We need shitty pop music slopped out by the mainstream labels: if we didn’t we would have no way of obscuring our gems so they don’t get sucked in by the mainstream. Let the little girls work themselves into a state of weeping hysteria. Let them get it out of their systems now in one fearsome dose of fever: the Bieber fever. Bad music is, to BHT, a rite of passage we must all take. We don’t all have parents with extensive Rory Gallagher back catalogues or Uncles who lend you Talking heads ‘77 to help you in your education- some of us curate our tastes slowly, through accumulation. The first Album BHT owned was Avril Lavigne and a best of Britney Spears. Let those without sin cast the first hip hop style diss. Besides, little girls have always listened to inane crap. It’s how Donny Osmond and John Travolta made careers. There is NO POINT trying to play Ani DiFranco to your 3 year old cousin (BHT has tried).
So let it be said now: BHT is defending Bieber. She is defending Bieber because all little girls have to have their shitty music quota filled, so that when they are 24 and sipping ironic PBR at a party in a squat on Camden street wearing one of those absurd furry animal hats, she must still pause before passing judgement on another person’s music taste. It is an anchoring anti hipster force in the world, for no matter how hip and cool any of us will ever be,
There will always be a Bieber Fever scar on our heart.
Niamh ‘I’m about to lose my mind up in hurrr’ Keoghan
This column originally appeared in the Student Standard volume 1, issue 1 on the 12th February 2013. The Student Standard is NUI Maynooth’s independent new source and can be read online here
published here with kind permission of Keith Broni, editor of the Standard.
Bank Holiday Tuesday 12th February 2013
Another year, another Superbowl Sunday passed with me in bed early, not willing to stay up until 5AM watching the most excruciatingly boring sport known to man (Worse than Cricket, Curling and Lawn Bowls put together because AT LEAST those sports don’t stop for a little rest every every. single. Play) only for the faint promise of nine minutes of Beyonce that I could catch on YouTube the next day. No, I experienced the superbowl the way I also experienced the Late Late show’s debate on marriage equality last week- tucked up in bed with a hot chocolate, following the proceedings via twitter.
Twitter is a great medium for experiencing telly, a crowdsourced annotated commentary of whatever happens to be on. It’s basically watching highlights that are tailored to your own personal tastes- so in my case, the Superbowl coverage I saw was mostly ‘When’s Beyonce on?’ Then hysterical tweets when she actually did come on (SHE’S SO GOOD AT WALKING!) all about the dancing, the costume, the choice of song (‘Baby Boy?’ Really? That song was lame back in 2004. Come on Bey, do Bootilicious, come on-OH MY GOD THEY’RE DOING BOOTILICIOUS) and of course, the fact that Destiny’s child had ‘reunited.’ When really, all that happened was that Bey got her moderately famous backing singers back. I always liked Kelly Rowland. She reached a minor solo peak around 2003 when I first got into pop music. Sadface. Oh wait, now they’re doing single ladies- I have to do Single ladies on this deadly silent train now, excuse me.
The Bey halftime show was a bit of an experience for me, watching it on my phone on the train to Maynooth Monday Morning. It was when I finally sort of ‘got’ Beyonce. We’ve long had a complicated relationship because she just doesn’t really have a lot of songs I can groove to. Bootilicious and Single Ladies are aggressively good and that is Beyonce at her best. Telephone is an over produced masterpiece of pop excess. If I were a boy and her other break up jams always felt a bit flat to me. It never really captures the actual pain of a break-up- they’re more like revenge dreams. I’d theorise that ‘If I were a boy’ is really a dissing of the sort of casual misogyny that’s common in most hip hop and rap.
Beyonce isn’t particularly titillating. She’s too fucking scary to be titillating. Compare some of her earlier videos- writhing on a beach because Sean Paul is just too hot to comprehend (note- it was 2004 after all) in baby boy, to the aggressive dominance of the Single Ladies dance. Single Ladies is an aggressive, iconic song. It’s not sensual- it’s a war cry. She’s strong and she will fucking TRASH YOU in a song if you wrong her. She’s not pandering to sexism so much as sticking a sharp heel through it. Men do fancy her (note-I fancy her. everyone fancies her. don’t lie.) but she’s not for a moment subservient to any man. She consistently out-earns her husband. All you need do to set off any woman born between 1980 and 1993 is to go up to her and ask earnestly ‘Kelly, can you handle this?’. You will be treated to every woman in the vicinity shrieking the lyrics to ‘Bootilicious’ at the tops of their voices.
Which brings me to the title of her new tour- Mrs Carter. Using her husbands name on her solo tour has been a bit… confusing to people who have always seen Beyonce as a strong independent figure. Personally, I had actually forgotten Beyonce had a surname at all. ‘Knowles’ sort of became redundant after Sasha Fierce came out- She’s reached Cher levels of ‘first name only’ recognition. I had also forgotten Jay-Z had a surname either, in fact I just assumed they were monarchs and didn’t have a need for one, you know? Privately, Bey and Jay apparently both hyphenate their names, going as the ‘Knowles- Carter’ family. Bey has said publically that when she’s stressed, she likes to go make love to her husband to chill out. She is one of the most athletic and accomplished dancers of our generation- I’d argue her choreography will define the dance of our generation in the same way Michael Jackson defined the 80s. In the promo for this tour she’s dressed in a Louis the XIV style leotard and a fur cape. She’s Beyonce. LADS. She is Beyonce. Beyonce is allowed name her tour whatever she wants.
Niamh ‘I don’t think you’re ready for this Jelly’ Keoghan