Behind the picket line.

There are many occasions in life that find me enthusiastically screaming and shouting until my voice is hoarse. But only one that is done so naked. The others tend to involve me hurling various obscenities from a muddy sideline and/or pub stool, drunkenly caterwauling my way through some rock anthem whilst holding onto a confused stranger for dear life, or attempting to get the attention of a long-fantasised-over rock star amid a crowd of several thousand knickerless ladies who have all had the same idea. Quite frankly, I embarrassingly lose any remaining self respect or inhibitions and throw myself full force (l nearly wrote full frontal, a Freudian slip if ever there was one) into the moment.

You would think, then, that political marches, tree-top living, oil-tanker ambushes and the like would be right up my street. All that banner waving, chanting and general raucous behaviour should really appeal to someone of my  antagonistic nature. But it doesn't. Not in any way. In fact, whenever I happen to chance upon a march of any sort I hot foot it in the other direction. Apart from the time when I ended up heading a procession in Seville. In a car. In 35 degree heat. Police were banging on the windows, protesters were attempting to tie banners onto the wipers, and, I, fearing for my life and attempting to mime a wrong turn, ended up half suffocated by a map. Not my finest moment.

My general antipathy towards protests, however, does not prevent me from joining the masses when l feel it is required. I just avoid the chanting, refuse to wave a banner, and generally get through the whole ordeal with a flask of whisky. Marching against the Iraq War - TICK. Marching against the hike in University Fees - TICK. Marching against the changes to Teacher's Pensions - I remain undecided.

School is currently a political hotbed, with groups of teachers huddled on the corners of every corridor, rumours of strikes, tactical union membership changes, and the possibility of school closure fuelling every heated whispered debate. The militant protesters are on the hunt for new recruits, and are zealously evangelical about the horrors of the coalition government, placing hand drawn posters of the Education Minister as Satan with the Prime Minister as one of the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse in everyone's desk. One such vigilante appeared in my classroom with fire in his eyes as he spouted the Law According to NUT. He left a couple of minutes later with posters staple-gunned to his nipples. Much to my pupils' amusement.

I think it may be the hours of my childhood that were spent listening intently as a preacher after preacher proclaimed the Word of the Lord, Death to all Sinners, and How Tambourine Playing Saves Your Soul. It could be that I was forced to spend my Saturdays performing badly choreographed dance routines in the street to entice more foul-souled shoppers to redeem themselves the following Sunday morning. Perhaps it is the days spent memorising whole sections of the Bible ( I still know Psalm 1 by heart, should it ever appear on Who Wants to Be A Millionaire), or that I spent a weekend hiking in horizontal rain carrying a chicken that subsequently caught pneumonia and whose neck l had to then attempt to break with a log, or that l frequently got my mouth washed out with soap if l so much as tapped my foot to 'Like a Virgin'. Whatever the cause, try to convert me and you will find that I stand there with my fingers stuck in my ears, shouting 'Anarchy in the UK' approximately 0.5cm from your eardrum. And a leaflet staple-gunned to an intimate part of your anatomy.

Instead, l prefer to come to my own conclusions. I like to know all the information, and take a balanced approach. So l have read a lot this weekend, formulating arguments, and deciding what my plan of action will be for the week ahead. As l delved into the labyrinthine tunnels of information that the internet holds, l stumbled across all the Bills that Parliament are currently debating. There are the usual suspects - Education, Welfare Reform, Asylum Seekers, but there are some anomalies. Ones that have not reached the headlines, for reasons that will become apparent.

1.) That the Royal Mint should produce commemorative coins for the Olympics that weigh 1 Kilogram. Is this a subtle ploy to win the war against obesity, to succeed where Jamie Oliver has failed by filling the pockets of the nation with overweight coinage? Nonsense. They need to produce commemorative coins that can only be used when you have collected all five parts from your box of cereal, and stuck them altogether with super glue.

2.) That people who have removed or attempted to remove snow from public places are immune from prosecution. I am not sure how clearing snow could be construed as a criminal offence, unless you had access to a snow plough and destroyed several neighbour's gardens and flattened a pet llama in the process, and l am not sure what unfortunate event would have led to an M.P realising that the law still existed. However, I, for one, am in favour. I suspect that being arrested and convicted for clearing a snow drift would hold no kudos in the prison system.

3.) That local bowling greens should be protected from local redevelopment. Obviously put forward by someone who enjoys spending an evening bleaching and starching white trousers to within an inch of their lives, and then donning them to roll a few balls about on a small piece of grass that has been trimmed with nail scissors by a member of the local OCD help group. Build a house on it.  Look at the French, all they need is a bit of gravel and a bottle of red wine to enjoy their ball rolling.


So there we have it. One one hand, our government are sailing our pensions down the river, on the other, they are saving our bowling greens. I suppose we should be grateful for small mercies. Now, where is that picket line again?

Diamanté, tight leather trousers and excessive hair gel.

I apologise in advance for the Euro-centric theme to this post, specifically for those of you who hail from lands further away than, say, Azerbaijan (No idea if that is a real country? It IS. I know, l was surprised too. And had to Google the spelling.). However, l suggest you read on. It will be a cultural enlightenment for you. Honest.

One Saturday night every May sees me seated in front of a television screen for 4 hours solid, wearing a Union Jack leotard and cape ensemble, complete with tattoos of Our Royals on each butt cheek, waving a flag in one hand whilst sporadically cramming themed snacks into my slacked jawed mouth. Not, as l am sure you would naturally infer from my description, to watch a Royal wedding, nor to support our hard-working but ultimately trophy-phobic sports teams. No. It is SO much better. It is the Eurovision Song Contest.

It is the night when 25 out of 43 countries that come under the currently drooping umbrella of Europe send their best singers to compete in a song contest. One song, specially composed for the night, and voted for (hopefully) by the rest of the continent. Considering the hype, you may suppose that the prize is something breathtaking. Perhaps all the money the IMF has to offer. But no, they win the honour of hosting the event the following year. With all the expense it incurs. Although, on reflection, that may be why Greece put forward a duo of a  rapper whose speech seemed hindered by the fact that his tongue had grown into his cheek and a manboy who had a voice with emotive qualities of a horny peacock attempting to seduce a reluctant hen. Using a vuvuzela. Attached to a loud hailer.

But l digress. For those of you unfamiliar with this whole event, here follows a brief breakdown:

Two presenters - Usually ex-singers or presenters who have been dragged out of a cupboard somewhere. Fake-tanned, botox-ed, and hair dried to within an each of their lives, and told to 'be funny'. They aren't. Ever. They inevitably make you want to do what you did with your Barbie and Ken, ie., remove their limbs and replace them in the wrong holes, tie them together head to toe, and put them in a piping hot oven. Or was that just me?

Performers - A selection of Europe's finest musicians, apparently. Which may be why the charts are dominated by artists from the US of A. From guitar strumming, checked jacket wearing octogenarians, to teenagers bouncing across a laser-lit stage wearing enough diamanté and neon to blind an astronaut, to those 'alternative' kids who wear cheap leather and lots of angst ridden eye-liner but at the end of the night like nothing more than a cup of tea and a hug from their mum. Each of them giving their all on a stage with a backdrop of flashing lights, cheap graphics, and a crowd of flag waving, badly dressed (think sandals and socks) Europeans. They perform songs of the quality that make you feel like you are being aurally abused, whatever the genre they choose. The staging and costumes are the standard of your average infant school talent show - all glitter, glue, sugar paper and staple guns. They can be split into three categories. Either the countries are going for the straight female/gay vote by sending out their hunkiest young males wearing unrealistically tight trousers that will rip at the hint of a lunge and enough hair gel to rebuild Japan. On the other hand, the straight male/gay female vote is won by placing a selection of nubile young females on stage who wear dresses that, what they lack in material, make up for in adhesiveness. The third category is the nationalist vote, which can only be won by singers who had hits centuries ago, sing about 'the good ol' times' in their national language, and who, when the camera pans backstage, have their hand up the skirt of one of the afore mentioned young ladies.

Crowd - As described above. Oh, also, they can't dance. Or maybe that is unfair, perhaps moving two seconds behind the beat, one leg in the opposite direction of the other, whilst waving ones hands manically counts as dancing.

Commentator - An Irish comedian who bitches about outfits, presenters, performers, and crowd like xenophobia never existed. Basically, like the majority of the UK population, pretends disdain about the whole event whilst secretly obsessing about it, knowing all the statistics, and phone voting for Jedward to a loss of over £100. Don't judge me. I love the fact they can't even jump in time.

Representatives - After the performances have taken place each country nominates someone (usually a minor celebrity) to give the results of the votes in that particular country, They have one minute to do this. Without exception, each one attempts to catch the eye of a movie producer in that time. Women with hair the height of the Eiffel Tower, men with over-plucked eyebrows. This will be their one moment of fame. Literally. The next time they receive that much attention will be when they are trying to sell incontinence pads on the local shopping channel.

Add in some fireworks, and there you have it. This is what passes for entertainment in this eccentric continent.

You need it n your life.

But as a word of advice, stay away from the themed snacks. Apparently roast beef, Camembert and schnitzel pizza followed by Edam, paella and beetroot flavoured goulash does nothing for your digestive system. Who knew?

P.S - Azerbaijan won. That's how l know it exists.