A tide of moderate disappointment is about to sweep through the country's Eurovision fans as I can exclusively reveal that Andy Abraham has withdrawn from his most important singing engagement this year. Yes, his pre-Eurovision performance in May at Birmingham's Nightingale club, which had already been advertised, has been called off because he has pulled out.

It brings the Nightingale's fantastic support for our Eurovision entrants to an end (or it's just a blip until next year). At least the last six UK entrants have performed at the club just prior to going away to the contest. Scooch, Daz Sampson, Javine, James Fox, Jemini and Jessica Garlick have all contributed to what had become a very welcome tradition.

(If anyone can tell me if Lindsay D did it too in 2001, then this possibly stretches to eight consecutive years, because I'm fairly sure Nicki French did it too in 2000.)

Labels: Andy Abraham, Eurovision 2008, Nightingale

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Occasionally in life, one has to make sacrifices in order to help a friend in need. So on Friday, when I received a call from my friend at The Nightingale Club, saying that they needed someone to come and photograph some real life firefighters who would be wrestling in oil on stage on Saturday night, I selflessly shelved my plans for the night, which involved a pizza and my television, and agreed to help them out. It was a tough job, but someone had to do it, and it was for charity. While I was there, we decided I might as well photograph their Wet'n'Wild competition afterwards, which is basically an amateur strip competition with the added gimmick of a shower on stage (with real, wet water). It's a cross I was prepared to bear.

So, last night, I forced myself to take 971 photos, of scenes like this:



And then this. He won the Wet'n'Wild competition (easily and deservedly):



Later on, some of the punters forced themselves in front of my camera lens, snatched a business card off me and made me put their number into my mobile. Like him:



More of the photos will be coming soon to a magazine near you (if you live in the Midlands) and The Nightingale's website. This photography thing is a tough gig, but I'm learning to cope with it.

Labels: firefighters, Nightingale, Wet'n'Wild

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17:30 It's Birmingham Pride today, reduced to a one day event this year instead of the usual three day drinkfest, and it's a washout. The weather gods have frowned on Birmingham, just like last year, when only one of the three days was a decent day. Not only is it raining here, but it's also cold. I've just popped home after following the parade through the city centre in the rain, then huddling with the gently steaming masses in the Loft Lounge. I need to get some dry clothes on before going back later. It's miserable on the streets, with hardly anyone out. When we walked past the main stage about an hour ago, there was no one on and no one waiting for anything to come on either. I'll just go back for Scooch and Bjorn Again before tonight's main event; the Duckie club night, which should bring some much-needed enjoyment.

We did get Liberty X last night though at the Nightingale, just a few days after they announced that they are going their separate ways later this Summer. It was a bit of a coup in that respect; they were drafted in at the last minute to replace Right Said Fred, who decided they'd rather do a TV show in Germany. I wasn't complaining though. Liberty X did a great performance of all their hits, with live vocals for nearly all the songs (which I always like to point out as so many acts mime their whole PAs). They were thoroughly enjoying themselves and it really transmitted itself to the audience. I only got to speak to one of them afterwards, but it was Kevin, so that's another thing to tick off the list! I told him they were much better than Right Said Fred would have been.

Labels: Birmingham Pride, Liberty X, Nightingale

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From the stage at the Nightingale, I announce the top ten in reverse order after the club's voting:

10th Russia, 40 points
9th Serbia, 43 points
8th Germany, 44 points
(No 7th)
= 6th Belarus and Slovenia, 47 points each
(No 5th)
= 4th Latvia and Spain, 57 points each
3rd Sweden, 61 points
2nd Greece, 91 points
1st United Kingdom, 120 points

There is a sense of inevitability about the winner, as I haven’t barred people from voting for the UK, specifically to see how popular Scooch would be if we give people the chance to vote for them. In fact, fourteen of the fifteen voters have given them points, more than any other country. The UK have received seven 12s and two 10s, but there are 1s, 2s, 3s and 5s as well. I say, “So the real winner is Greece. Enjoy the rest of the evening!” and scuttle off the stage.

People are watching the voting fairly attentively on several different screens around the room. I spend the rest of the voting moving around the room, watching it and seeing how people are reacting. It’s not that lively, simply because we aren’t getting any points and both the UK and Ireland have slipped to the bottom of the scoreboard from very early on. I go back on the mic to tell everyone that the UK will be the fortieth of the forty-two countries to give their points, so we’ll have to wait quite a while for the lovely Fearne Cotton.

I strike up a few conversations with people along the way and find myself explaining the Big 4 issue a couple of times; why people in other countries don’t have any reason to vote for those four countries as they’re already in next year’s final. I bump into a couple of friends and end up watching with them. As Ireland are about to give their votes, I say that if we don’t get any here, we might as well give up. There is a massive cheer as the seven points appear on the screen, but there is more excitement to come! As soon as the 12 points from Malta are revealed, there is just one thought on my mind; this is down to the Schlagerboys. Oh. My. God. Oh. My. God. Unfortunately, both of their numbers have dissappeared from my new phone (because they were in the phone memory of the old one, not the SIM card) or I would be phoning them in Helsinki right now! They must have realised. I wonder what they’re thinking? Oh my god, two friends of mine are national saviours! So I do the next best thing and text our mutual friend, Bryan, saying that the Schlagerboys “are responsible for the twelve from Malta – seriously!”

He replies, “Just said the same thing to [them]. They’re definitely on for another medal.”

So, what’s the reason for this jubilation? Well, the Schlagerboys had been relentlessly supporting Olivia Lewis’s Maltese entry on their website for weeks. This hadn’t gone unnoticed in Malta. They had also interviewed the songwriter and Olivia herself and addressed important issues such as what dress she should wear in the qualifier. Of course, they had also now met her in person in Helsinki. Earlier in the week, as I reported, I had popped round to see Schlagerboy A as he spent a couple of days back here and I had seen the box of promotional DVDs which Olivia’s people had sent them from Malta. He told me that they had been invited to appear on a Maltese TV programme called Xarabank on Friday, the day after the qualifier, as Olivia’s English fans. We contemplated how awful this would be if she failed to get through on Thursday night, and of course that’s what happened. She didn’t make it to the final. But the programme happened, and there are comments on the Schlagerboys' blog from Maltese people saying that they are national heroes, how Malta loves them and how Malta will surely give points to the UK on Saturday to thank them for their support. Lo and behold, we get the twelve! I am incredulous.

Now, in case you think this is just a fluke or coincidence, let’s remember that there are only 402,000 people in Malta, equivalent to 40% of Birmingham’s population. It’s not difficult to get a message out to the people in 24 hours. Malta takes Eurovision very seriously and Xarabank is apparently a very popular programme. On Friday, Malta was angry that the televote hadn’t delivered a place in the final for Olivia, and there was talk of boycotting the phone vote on Saturday night as a protest – a futile protest if you ask me, but it was being discussed. If the net result of that was that many people decided not to vote, and those who did decided to give a thank you vote to the Schlagerboys, then our twelve points were down to them. To be honest, I can’t think of any other explanation. Malta’s votes were so out of step with everyone else’s that it must be down to the boys. The BBC should be giving the Schlagerboys an official reception, for saving the nation from humiliation again. Boys, I am proud to call you my friends.

So, back in the club, much whooping and cheering. I can’t explain any of this to anyone as it would take too long, but for a while this becomes far more significant than who’s winning. After being really surprised that the UK 12 went to Turkey (for the first time ever), it’s all over and I look gleefully at the top three countries, Serbia, Ukraine and Russia, which were all amongst the five each way bets that I placed. I text Bryan again; “I’m in the money! Top three! Who cares about Latvia and Sweden?”

We don’t get to see the reprise, so I still have that joy to come. The club is pretty full by this point so the DJ starts the music – with a new mix of Scooch which the remixer has just delivered, of course. Then I suddenly have an idea. It hasn’t occurred to me beforehand, but I have the English dance mix of the Serbian winner on my PC at home. Damn! Why didn’t I bring it in? Then, remembering my taxi dash home and back earlier in the space of twenty minutes, I realise I have 45 minutes before I need to meet Katrina at the front door, so I tell the DJ how good the dance mix is and ask if I should go home and get it. He agrees, so I catch my fifth taxi of the evening, go home and burn three versions of the Serbian song onto a CD while I phone Mike and burble excitedly about the Schlagerboys. By amazing good fortune, the taxi driver who picks me up outside the club lives around the corner from me, so he pops home, and ten minutes later we’re on our way back to the club, where I deliver the CD to the DJ. I can’t wait to hear the reaction when it’s played and people realise they’re dancing to the Eurovision winner already, but despite all my efforts and me asking a couple of times later, he didn’t play it at all. What an opportunity missed. It really is a brilliant dance track, and it sounds ‘right’ in its English version too, not like a bad translation (although it’s nowhere near as depressing as the Serbian lyric).

Miss M and I then have to work out a strategy to get Katrina in through a fire exit when the taxi drops her off, which all works out fine. I (re)introduce myself and lead her and her partner to the dressing room. (We’ve chatted before, once in the dressing rooms at G-A-Y and once at the Retro bar, but these meetings were nine and two years ago respectively, so I hardly expect her to remember.)

Four of us chat until 1am and partake of her champagne. (No demands for Smarties with the red ones taken out. Champagne is her only rider request.) I take the backing track CD down to the DJ and explain which ones Katrina is doing. When I leave the room for Katrina to change, I cheekily ask if she’s putting the green shirt on and she tells me that it (the ‘winning shirt’ from Dublin 1997) is in the Belgian Eurovision museum. So now you know.

We all troop downstairs, Miss M introduces Katrina onto the stage to a rapturous reception and she sings four songs brilliantly, singing live and chatting about Eurovision in the middle. She ends with Love Shine A Light and Walking On Sunshine, of course. I take photos from the side of the stage and go a bit misty-eyed when I think ‘that thing we were watching tonight – she WON it! She’ll probably be our reigning champion for ever!’ The crowd love it, especially when Katrina dedicates a song to Scooch and says something unrepeatable about the voters of Europe(!)

Afterwards, we go back to the dressing room, where Miss M and I then engage in drinking and conversation with the other two and various visitors for what turns into nearly three hours, until 4.20am. The time just flies by. We’re having a real laugh. When they get up to go, Katrina says that would normally have disappeared earlier, but they were having a good time talking to us two, which is very kind of her. I shall treasure that. My new career: artist liaison. I can get drunk with the best of them!

And that, my dear reader, if you’ve lasted this far, is the story of Chig’s unusual Eurovision night this year. I got home about 5.15am, in my sixth taxi of the night, clutching my VCR and my newly autographed copy of the ten year old Love Shine A Light single. It had been a thoroughly enjoyable night, once my blood pressure had returned to normal about an hour in. I would do it again, but next year Belgrade beckons. I’m not missing being at Eurovision again! I hope your Eurovision night was a little more relaxed and just as much fun. Here’s to next year!

Labels: Eurovision 2007, Nightingale

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(Part one is below.)

I haven’t been able to take any notice of the opening act. Before the songs start, I speak to a guy standing near the bar, who I think I’ve met before. We establish it must have been at the Nightingale’s comedy night, over a year ago. Funny how some people stick in your mind, isn’t it? Probably because he’s lovely. Sunderland accent. I could speak to him all night. In fact, I often do, as he knows all the songs, so he is my reference point for the evening.

The opening song from Bosnia-Herzegovina passes me by completely. Must have been chatting. I hardly see anything of Spain. Just enough to drool a bit over Basty and think how sexy all of D’Nash look in white. The first one I actually stop faffing around for and watch properly is Belarus, which has people quite captivated by the whole act, wondering how those people are floating in the air. It does look brilliant on TV, but I cannot contemplate a Belarussian win. How can we go to the last dictatorship in Europe, where homosexuality isn’t tolerated? Shudder.

Next up is Ireland, and even in this club, with the booming sound, it’s obvious that this isn’t the performance we expected from Dervish. They were picked by RTE because they have years of live experience, continuing the move, which they initiated last year with Bryan Kennedy, away from talent show wannabes. How ironic and awful then, to hear the singer sounding nervous and out of tune. This is such a shock and a disappointment. The Irish blood running through my veins goes cold at this point and I am reminded how it can go horribly wrong for anyone.

I force people to concentrate when Slovenia comes on at song 7 and tell a certain DJ/producer before it starts that he should get his hands on this track. He agrees with me when he’s heard it. In fact, I won’t be surprised if an unofficial remix appears.

I’m chatting to people way too much and giving out scoresheets to late arrivals. I’ve already realised that I’ll have to watch this Eurovision another time. Tonight is not the night. Because we’ve moved downstairs to the main dancefloor, I seek an assurance from the duty manager that we are going to stick with this until the end, with the sound on for all of the voting. The whole reason we didn’t plan to be on the main floor is that ‘other’ people would be coming in, expecting the DJ to be on, from about nine. My worst fear is that this will end in vision only, watching votes flying in to a soundtrack of the Freemasons and Kylie. It’s okay though. The duty manager is telling everyone who wants dancing to go upstairs, where the DJ will be on from 10pm. He tells one group of young people that Eurovision is on and one of them says. ‘What’s Eurovision?’ He replies, ‘It’s been going for over fifty years. Surely you’ve heard of it.’ Blank looks all round.

London boy Sarbel looks to be shaking it okay for Greece, but by this time the sound is starting to be drowned out by the growing crowd, so I can’t tell if he’s in tune or not. (I understand now that it was a bit dodgy.) I’m so concerned I’ll forget about the Scooch-related goodies when the time comes that I decide to give them out earlier, rather than wait until the UK is on, so I don’t miss the performance. I spend most of Sopho and The Ark’s performances going round the club with a tray of lollies and little bags of peanuts, saying ‘Salty nuts sir?’ and ‘Something to suck on madam?’ to punters, to reactions varying from bemusement to people who totally get what I’m doing. (I didn’t explain to anyone.)

Goodness only knows what happens when France are on. I don’t remember seeing them, but Latvia sound superb and I begin mentally counting my money from my 25-1 each way bet. One of them’s very sexy as well, although it in no way makes up for the others.

I’m keen to see Russia, so I watch them quite attentively. I think the whole performance is superb, as is the lighting of the stage. Yay! More money. Roger Cicero next seems excellent as well, as I also watch the cute German bar boy for his reaction. He's too busy. Then I pop over to the bar and alert some lesbians to the fact that it’s Serbia next and they might want to watch the screens. I go back to watch another excellent performance from Marija. At the end, a bloke shouts over, ‘The lesbian vote is in – they said that was shit.’ Honestly, some people. I then remember what I wrote during the afternoon about UK people not getting Balkan ballads, but I smile to myself, think ‘you’re all wrong’ and think about PaddyPower again, which makes me feel all warm inside. Or is that the two glasses of champagne?

When Ukraine comes on, people are transfixed. Of course, I haven’t seen this before either, just photos and the video of the Ukrainian national final, and it seems much more obvious right now just how little song there is in this performance. By this point I am standing at the bar, because it’s funny to watch people’s reactions, but I am also singing along, perhaps a little too loudly, shouting ‘EIN, ZWEI, DREI’ and holding the appropriate number of fingers in the air on each note. Some people probably think I’ve gone mad, but I find the whole thing very entertaining, even the bit where Verka hobbles around in those boots and pinches the bum of one of her team.

Scooch next, so I’m paying attention again. As the intro plays, Wogan is still burbling on right up to the point where Russ does his spoken intro and I’m screaming, ‘He’s starting! Shut the fuck up! Oh my god, he even spoke over the UK’s vocals.’ There is much tutting going on in the club. The man’s an idiot. I can’t believe he’s still being allowed to ruin this show. From what I could hear, Scooch sounded good, and the whole routine is bright and colourful. I’m still wondering if we can get any points from anywhere, but they seem to have done their best. What more could we hope for?

I must have been chatting over Romania. Bulgaria was fantastic, as I kept insisting to people around me who thought it was awful, then Turkey, then the bog roll tree of Armenia. “We try to get the loo rolls out of the trees in Balsall Heath”, I quip to some nearby bloke. I miss Natalia from Moldova as I’m speaking to Miss M about what we’re going to do next. Did she show her crotch again? Natalia, I mean, not Miss M.

Miss M announces that people should give their scoresheets to me, so they do. I miss the whole interval act, as I’m standing behind the bar adding up the points. It’s easier than I’d feared though and I can do all 24 sums in my head as there are only seventeen scoresheets and two of them have to be ignored. It’s a higher percentage of spoilt papers than even a Scottish election, but one of them has votes for fifteen countries and one has fewer than the required ten. I’m vaguely aware that the interval act seems to be nothing but two run-throughs of the reprise, but I’m not looking. Was that it? Those shirtless Latvian boys whipping themselves with twigs in 2003 have never really been challenged as best interval ever, have they? (Please don’t say Riverdance, thank you kindly.)

The voting starts before I’ve finished doing the sums, but I keep one ear on it, knowing that it will go on for several weeks and Fearne Cotton won’t be giving the UK points until slot 40 of the 42. I notice that the points are going to the expected countries right from the start and I’m happy. I decide to go on the mic and announce the club’s top ten from the stage, before it all hots up. So I get the DJ to turn down the TV sound and I stand on the main stage and sing ‘This is my moment…’

No, I didn’t. I made up that bit. But as soon as the sound went down, I said to the assembled throng, which was quite a lot of people at this stage, that I would be quick and only announce the club’s top ten and they could still watch the Eurovision voting on the screens. Despite this, I sensed that my appearance was about as popular as a pig in a synagogue, so I rattled through the top ten really quickly.

And the Nightingale’s points went where?

I think it’s time for a break (and a day at work after eleven days off!)

Part three tonight.

Labels: Eurovision 2007, Nightingale

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Saturday night then. Blimey, it seems like a long time ago.

So, I taxi to the Nightingale for 18:00, complete with camera, scoresheets, salty nuts and lollipops. Miss Maxi’s there already, slumped against the outside wall, waiting for them to open up. It’s only the second time I’ve seen him in man drag. It’s a lovely evening. I'm excited.

We go upstairs and switch on the mixing desk and plasma screen. Test the mics, put more chairs out and wipe down the furniture as there’s still dust caused by the refurb which is still being finished downstairs. Have a word with the technical people. Put up the easel and flipchart that we’re going to use later to display the Nightingale’s Eurovision vote.

All fine so far, but after about twenty minutes, the picture on the screen starts scrolling and flickering horribly. This is the main one above the little stage. There’s a plasma screen working perfectly in a smaller corner, but that is coming from a different feed and apparently has no sound.

I know that, a week before, they hadn’t sorted out the TV, but I’d been in on Friday and been told it was all sorted, and indeed it was, until the picture started going funny. A group of techies and staff all appear and fiddle around with the Freeview box and the aerial, but no joy. From 19:00, people start coming in. Instead of greeting them, as planned, I ignore them and try not to give away that I am panicking inside. I think the words ‘No Signal’ which keep appearing on screen may be giving the game away though. Miss M misses most of this, as obviously she has a transformation to do backstage.

The manager, a friend of mine for fifteen years or more, had said to ring him in Gran Canaria if there were any problems, so I do. He suggests trying to view the TV through a VCR instead of the Freeview box. Good idea, but I ask the staff and there’s no VCR in the building. Why would there be? Can we just move the whole evening downstairs to the main dancefloor? No, because the electrics haven’t all been finished after the refurb. We can’t get any TV signal on the screens down there. Only one thing for it, so I check with the techies that a VCR would definitely work and run downstairs to call a taxi. I ignore the growing number of punters and phone Miss M backstage saying ‘Can you look after everybody?’ It’s 19:40 when I hop in the cab, heart pounding, to drive back to my house and grab my VCR. I’m fuming that we’re probably going to miss the beginning of Eurovision and the whole opening act. The Te Deum on CD, the funny routine I had worked out, the explanation of the scoresheets, everything we had planned has gone down the pan. Apart from that, we may have a riot on our hands if there’s no picture by 20:00. So, one very understanding taxi driver. One sprint into my house as the taxi driver turns the car around. One mad Chig, pulling all the leads out the back of the telly and plug sockets at home, while thinking, 'I just set this two hours ago to record the bloody show – what am I going to do now? Sprinting out of the house past neighbours in the avenue, with a VCR, trailing electrical leads behind me. Back in the taxi, apologising for looking like a burglar. Miraculously, back to the club at 19:56. I bound up the stairs, two at a time. Miss M looks serene behind the mixing desk. Only half a dozen punters, looking astonishingly calm. No sign of frazzled technicians. They’ve managed to move it downstairs after all. Some customers have followed. Others have no idea what’s going on. The techies are just checking it works. I run downstairs. BBC One is on the screens. Joseph has ended. We’re seconds away. Can we bring people down? Yes. Run back upstairs and Miss Maxi announces on the mic that we’re moving downstairs. Oh, and there’s nowhere to sit. People move. I grab the scoresheets and hide my VCR, which is now completely redundant and not even recording the show for me. Eurovision starts as I run down the stairs onto the dancefloor again. The punters are amazingly calm and nice. I try to be calm while explaining what’s happened to the ones who ask. They’re all very understanding but my heart is pounding and I’m sweating rather too much to appear cool.

Some people gather round one of the screens which doesn’t have any sound coming from it directly. The others lean on the bar and watch the big new video wall, where you can see a big picture, three times in fact, but broken up across six and nine screens. It’ll have to do. The bar staff perform miracles, setting up a bar which wasn’t supposed to be open, in the space of a few minutes. Eurovision has started, but thank god for long Eurovision intros and I’m also thinking ‘it’s only Bosnia’ if I miss the first song. I give out the scoresheets. Only a few people don’t want them. They’re generally well received (and I know my sheets are also being used at parties in Bristol, Buckinghamshire and Israel at the same time, which feels good). People tend to take one for each group, which makes my life much easier later on. One man says he can fill it in now if I like. I’m relieved. There are fans here! Then I shudder at the thought of how much worse it could have been with no picture on the TV.

After all that, it takes about an hour for my heart rate to return to normal and for me to feel relatively calm, aided by some champagne that someone has brought in. I’ve been almost off alcohol since September due to a liver problem, which may or may not have cleared up, but by this point I’m past caring. Because the TV sound is coming through a club’s PA system, we can hear the music okay, but hardly a word of what Wogan is saying. Result! I can’t think of a better way to watch Eurovision.

Part two tomorrow!

Labels: Eurovision 2007, Nightingale

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Someone didn't waste any time! Here's cameraphone footage of Scooch's Nightingale performance from early yesterday morning, already on YouTube. If the camera had moved just a tiny bit more to the right, you would have seen me on the stage level, taking photos, including those below.

Labels: Eurovision 2007, Nightingale, Scooch

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My first birthday present today was getting to meet Simon Webbe (formerly of Blue) in the early hours, backstage after he sang at the Nightingale. My second present was watching my sister meet him as he gave her a big hug while we took photos. She's rather keen on him!

Labels: birthday, Nightingale, Simon Webbe

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Scooch, last night, The Nightingale, Birmingham:

Camptastic performance, lovely people.



We're flying the flag...



..for you.



Scooch reveal the secret fifth member.

Labels: Eurovision 2007, Nightingale, Scooch

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Today's the day that the Eurovision artists started rehearsing on the stage in Helsinki. It's also the tenth anniversary of the UK's last win, so it seems a good time to reveal what I'll be doing on the night of the Eurovision final.

On Saturday 12 May, Chig will be co-hosting Eurovision night at Birmingham's Nightingale Club, with the fabulous Miss Maxi and a performance from a certain Katrina Leskanich, celebrating her win of ten years ago today. Maxi and I will be your compères for an evening of watching the contest on the plasma screen upstairs, followed by Katrina performing later on in the massively improved downstairs, which reopened last Friday. The manager and the deputy manager are both away at a Nightingale venture in Gran Canaria (with Dana International and Buck's Fizz, no less), so Maxi and I have been asked to look after Katrina in their absence.


L: Chig at The Nightingale: Two Eurovision shows in two weekends.
C: Miss Maxi at last week's Nightingale reopening
R: Katrina

I'm not going to overplay our rôle. Basically it's three and a quarter hours of watching telly. Wogan does the commentary, not us, but get there well before the start at 20:00 and we will be whooping you up into a frenzy, ready for the Te Deum. There will also be, for the first time at the Nightingale, scoresheets! Yay! During the interval, we will tot up the scores and then reveal the Nightingale jury's vote. Fantastique!

The screening is in the B5 bar on the first floor. The Nightingale has already sold about 20 advance tickets, which I'm told (by the club today) is pretty unusual with over a week to go. I can't wait. I've never actually been 'out' on Eurovision night before. I've either watched it at home, first with family, then with friends, including Mike, or I've been at the event itself (seven times in the last nine years). I am very excited. If you're anywhere near Birmingham, why not come and join us? My sister's coming...

Tickets are available here.

In the meantime, here's a reminder of Katrina's winning performance in Dublin, ten years ago tonight:

Labels: Birmingham, Eurovision 2007, Katrina, Nightingale

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