Hello… testing… is this thing on… bloody f… oh hello, you’re there! Hacksaw calling from the Dusseldorf front-line. Those regular On-U jockeys might not have got their unaccredited old bones into the arena, but as their occasional floating social secretary I thought I’d better pop by and give you some of the gen that I’ve seen with my very own eye.
Many will have said it before, but it’s true – the hall is blimmin’ amazing. You get a breathtaking feel of the scale of the thing when you walk up the steps and see the top tier towering above you. It’s way cool empty – it’s going to be stunning full.
The much talked about stage is pretty interesting too. The actual performance space is quite small – at least for the acts that I’ve seen do far. Just a bunch of people tottering around on a plinth a shaped a bit like the potato mash mountain out of Close Encounters. Too much bouncy jumpy and some poor soul could roll down the side in a terribly unseemly manner.
I’ve only seen two acts in the flesh, mind, as our living arrangements made themselves unnecessarily complicated this morning, so there might be more active areas than we’ve yet seen – I’ll report back on that if it happens.
Of the glorious tunes so far, the muttering classes tell me that Poland was perfectly serviceable and unhateful, but that it’s one of those songs than no one can quite muster the beef to vote for; Norway was far better than anyone had feared (and to be honest, I never thought it really matters about having a naive voice for that kind of song); Albania was eye-burstingly stunning, but still a little creepy; and Armenia looked like having a good shot at the title with their curiously boxing themed stage show.
Of the two I’ve seen in the flesh, Turkey is a dreary plodder, but they do just enough with it to drag it through the qualifiers. That Serbian lass has got a heck of a voice mind. They were proper belting it out, even though she looks about nine. That Russian bird is warming up his tonsils as we speak – a proper glad racket. Is it just me, or does anyone else smell hints of Astley about his song?
Elsewhere, the press centre is pretty lush, based as it is in a massive indoor running arena. The free coffee has been well heralded, but there’s also a bunch of slightly creepily over-friendly girls pushing apples at anyone who passes as if they were glamorous crack dealers. When they found out where I was from they started squealing “Oh, I love your accent! Harry Potter!”
There’s nowt as queer as Germans.
Some news, if it happens.
Your slave,
Roy D Hacksaw