Eastern Europe-vision

Cheesy tunes, camp costumes and a host who gently pokes fun at it all. That’s right, folks – it’s Eurovision time.

Eurovision, an annual song contest where European countries compete for pop glory, used to be fun night of friendly competition. But recently things have turned sour.

Host Terry Wogan has said he fears Britain may never win the contest again. Why? Because “an iron curtain has descended over Eurovision.” In other words, the Eastern European countries aren’t playing fair.

Allow me to explain. You can't vote for your own country in the Eurovision Song Contest, which means that most countries vote for their closest neighbours. The Scandinavian countries vote for each other, the Mediterranean countries vote for each other, and the Eastern European countries vote for each other. The Eastern European countries pose a particular problem simply because there are so many of them. Serbia’s winning song in 2007 was awarded 12 points (the highest amount) by all five former Yugoslav countries. Coincidence? Me thinks not.

It may have become a European popularity contest, but Eurovision still makes for great television. I love how the songs get increasingly ridiculous each year. I love how Finland always does some sort of goth/heavy metal act (what exactly are Finnish people so angry about, anyway?). And I love how Eurovision always exposes me to a country I’d never heard of before. This year it was Azerbaijan.

Azerbaijan is a small country that's bordered by Russia, Georgia, Armenia and Iran. This is their first year in the Eurovision Song Contest and their entry has it all: a guy in huge angel wings, gyrating girls in leather dresses and ear-splitting falsetto.



I'd love to support Britain is Saturday's final, but there's no way they can top this.

The World's Worst Poet

When I heard about William Topaz McGonagall [1825-1902], a Scottish writer who’s widely regarded as “the world’s worst poet,” I couldn’t wait to read his work.

It’s easy to be a bad poet (most of us are), but being the world’s worst poet is a whole other thing entirely. It requires not only a complete lack of talent, but an unwavering belief in your greatness despite all evidence to the contrary. McGonagall was regularly mocked by his peers and pelted with food during his readings, but nothing could convince him that his poems were anything but literary gems. You’ve got to almost admire his determination.

McGonagall’s poems were the 19th century equivalent of the Macerena or Big Brother – people hated them, but they loved to hate them. They're so bad that they're good. Okay, maybe not good, exactly. But definitely entertaining.

Don't just take my word for it - check out his homage to Glasgow:

Glasgow

Beautiful city of Glasgow, with your streets so neat and clean,
Your stateley mansions, and beautiful Green!
Likewise your beautiful bridges across the River Clyde,
And on your bonnie banks I would like to reside.

Chorus --
Then away to the west -- to the beautiful west!
To the fair city of Glasgow that I like the best,
Where the River Clyde rolls on to the sea,
And the lark and the blackbird whistle with glee.

'Tis beautiful to see the ships passing to and fro,
Laden with goods for the high and the low;
So let the beautiful city of Glasgow flourish,
And may the inhabitants always find food their bodies to nourish.

Chorus

The statue of the Prince of Orange is very grand,
Looking terror to the foe, with a truncheon in his hand,
And well mounted on a noble steed, which stands in the Trongate,
And holding up its foreleg, I'm sure it looks first-rate.

Chorus

Then there's the Duke of Wellington's statue in Royal Exchange Square --
It is a beautiful statue I without fear declare,
Besides inspiring and most magnificent to view,
Because he made the French fly at the battle of Waterloo.

Chorus

And as for the statue of Sir Walter Scott that stands in George Square,
It is a handsome statue -- few with it can compare,
And most elegant to be seen,
And close beside it stands the statue of Her Majesty the Queen.

Chorus

And then there's the statue of Robert Burns in George Square,
And the treatment he received when living was very unfair;
Now, when he's dead, Scotland's sons for him do mourn,
But, alas! unto them he can never return.

Chorus

Then as for Kelvin Grove, it is most lovely to be seen
With its beautiful flowers and trees so green,
And a magnificent water-fountain spouting up very high,
Where the people can quench their thirst when they feel dry.

Chorus

Beautiful city of Glasgow, I now conclude my muse,
And to write in praise of thee my pen does not refuse;
And, without fear of contradiction, I will venture to say
You are the second grandest city in Scotland at the present day!

Chorus

You're Well-Fired!

I was sitting in the living room last night when I heard Adrian groan in the kitchen.

“What’s wrong?” I asked.

“I accidentally bought a well-fired loaf,” he said.

I went in to look at it. Sure enough, the bread he’d bought from Peckham’s Deli was completely black on top.

Well-fired rolls are relatively popular in the west of Scotland. When I burn a roll, I throw it away. When Glaswegians burn a roll, they slap some sausage on it and eat it for breakfast. Up until yesterday, I wasn’t aware that you could get well-fired breadstuffs in loaf form.


Hungry, anyone?

Intentionally burnt bread is just one of those Scottish things that I’ll never quite understand, no matter how long I live here. Kind of like Irn-Bru. And The Slosh. And why football is so very, very important.

Speaking of football, some of you may know that the Glasgow Rangers are playing in the UEFA Cup Final in Manchester tomorrow. My comedian friends over at Talking Pish promise extensive coverage of the game (or, as Fraser calls it, “the festival of Glasgow bammery”). Check it out - they're sure to have some good stories of drunken Glaswegian madness.

I'm going to miss the match because it’s on at the same time as The Apprentice. I considered skipping the show to watch this historic Glasgow event, but there’s no way I could miss an evening of Sir Alan’s hilarious swearing.

"Fair? The only fair you're going to get is the bloody train fare home."

I Heart Chocolate Glasgow

If you're visiting Scotland and want a taste of Scottish culture, try to attend the highland games.

The highland games are like Scotland on overload. Imagine highland dancers in kilts, bagpipers in kilts and big men tossing around heavy objects…in kilts. It's the only time you'll ever see this many kilts in one place, unless you find yourself in Glasgow during a Scotland football match.

Today I went to the highland games in Gourock, a small town in Inverclyde that’s distinctive only because its Gaelic name, Guireag, means “pimple shaped.” The sun was shining, the bagpipes were playing (non-stop for over four hours, which seemed a bit excessive, even for a Scotsophile like myself), and the sports were sufficiently manly.


Tosser


Another tosser (who was probably glad he was wearing something under his kilt)

Still, the best part of my day was finding these:


I discovered a stand that was selling chocolates with pictures on them, and couldn’t resist buying these two Glasgow-themed bars.


I try not to buy too much candy, but a chocolate bar with a picture of the Clyde on it is a rare find indeed. I almost don’t want to eat it. (Who am I kidding? It's chocolate. Of course I want to eat it.)

The stand was also selling “I love Girvan” chocolates, and I had to wonder: does anyone really love Girvan? Lots of people love Glasgow. Lots of people also hate Glasgow – it’s the kind of city that people tend to feel strongly about. But Girvan? I can’t imagine too many people care about it one way or the other.

Poor Girvan. I should have bought one of its chocolates.

Spring has Sprung

I did something very exciting and possibly a bit foolish the other night – I packed away my winter clothes.

Inspired by the recent spell of warm weather, I chucked all my woolly jumpers into a suitcase and filled my closet with tank tops, lightweight skirts and short sleeve blouses. The stuff of spring.

Perhaps I’ve been a bit hasty – it’s only been about 22ºC (71ºF). And, having lived in Scotland for several years, I know that these “heatwaves” never last. Still, as I left the house without a jacket for the fourth day in a row, I couldn’t help but think, this year is going to be different. This year I’ll be able to wear shorts on the weekends. This year I'll get a tan (or, more likely, a sunburn). This year I won’t have to turn my heat back on in June.

It's easy to be optimistic on a sunny Glasgow day. Strangers in shops smile at you and say, “Nice weather we’ve been ‘aving, eh?” People flock to outdoor cafes and beer gardens. Even the normally dingy-looking River Clyde seems almost inviting in the sun.

Glasgow during a “heatwave” is, as the locals say, the bollocks.

It's Always Better on Holiday

Things I like to do when I go on holiday abroad:

1. Eat


Sure, I love the cultural aspects of travelling – architecture, museums, cathedrals, castles – but mostly I love to stuff my face with European pastries. I’m hungry in Hungary! Get it? Get it?

2. Soak up the sun


The good news: it was sunny almost the entire time we were in Budapest.

The bad news: after several years of living in Scotland, my skin has almost no tolerance for sunshine. Even wearing SPF 50 didn't stop me from getting a sunburn.

3. Take pictures of bizarre signs


I tried to come up with a clever caption for this sign, but I had to stop because looking at it was making me nauseous.


Don’t drop flowers on the steps while wearing a bowler?


I put this phrase into two online Hungarian to English translators, and they came up with “the palace territory your dog only on leashes muzzle it could lead to” and “the palace may keep a dog on a lead with a muzzle simply on his area.” None of this makes any sense or explains what the small, square-ish dog is doing on there.

But the best part about going on holiday is exploring new, beautiful places with someone who shares my passion for travel, foreign food and funny signs.


Thanks for a great trip, Adrian. I can't wait for our next adventure.

Hungarian Holiday

Adrian and I were so excited after our trip to the Slate Islands that we wanted to plan our next holiday right away. We decided to go somewhere over this upcoming Bank Holiday weekend. Our original plan was to spend a night in St Andrews then take a ferry to the Isle of May the next day. This would have been a short, affordable and very reasonable holiday. Somehow, and I’m not quite sure how, a night in St Andrews became five days in Budapest.

This is not the first time that Adrian and I have made somewhat inexplicable travel plans. Back in 2005, we took a holiday to Luxembourg. In JANUARY. You know what Luxembourg is like in January? Cold.

I’m very excited for our Hungarian holiday. I will walk through the world-famous Castle District. I will visit the thermal baths and wish I owned a bathing suit. I will try, and probably fail, to speak some Hungarian. And I will eat a lot of fried cheese, as this is likely to be one of the few vegetarian options.

Viszontlátásra! (That’s Hungarian for goodbye.)

Én nem látok egyetlen halat sem! (That’s Hungarian for I can’t see a single fish. I don’t know how that’s relevant, but it made me smile.)