Eurosong 4: Ooh (w)Eeh Ooh Aah
Johnny Logan in hidden agenda shock!

Since we knew from the start that Belle Perez would be winning this week, this episode was even duller than the ones we've had so far. Let's face it, even if Ms Perez got onstage and farted for three minutes, we'd still send her to Athens. But nothing can stop me from my weekly review, I have a reputation to uphold after all.

Did anyone else hear Bart Peeters introduce the professional jury as the "fuckjury"? No? Well, we did and it was the funniest thing all episode.

First up was Kaden, who was meant to be handsome. I may not know much about these things, but he looked pretty ordinary to me. The man kept being referred to as a "doctor" while he was some kind of technician in an eye-testing lab. Aren't there fines against that sort of thing? "I wish you'd take it half a tone up after the bridge" Duvelman murmured, in Johnny Logan style. "some justesse problems" the sweetie said, "it's shit" I added. Everything about this song was stolen: Vanessa Chinitor handmovements, Kaye Styles ethnicity, and "hold the line" bassline. Bart Peeters gave in to his inner bitch with the comment "I heard the word "Athens"! Unfortunately in the sense of "nothing for Athens", but still." Thank you, Bart.

Tom Van Landuyt needed a haircut, but then that was the point of Woest, and lo and behold, it was the return of Tommy, The Ostend fishmonger who turned down Novastar for "his own thing". Mister Van Landuyt was immediately going for the "I'm too good to be here, this is just for publicity, you can all kiss my arse"-attitude, which is always nice to see. The lyrics were incomprehensible, but apparently Andre had them translated backstage because he loved them. It was Xink, but then with thirty-year-olds.

At this point, the Sweetie had a revelation. Johnny Logan has a hidden agenda! It's not promotion, it's not even attention from the scantily clad ladies. We honestly believe he's in the jury to pick the worst song... and thus heighten Ireland's chances of another win. Clever, Johnny... but not clever enough for us! We're on to you!

Right, then it was time for Ali vs Laura, because "vs" is so much cooler than "and". Urgh. Laura has boobs. Big ones! And boy, did she show 'em off. Some kind of sexual ballet took place behind those boobs, with cunnilingus as one of the main attractions (oh yes, it was), which confused André to no end. Well, it would, wouldn't it. The song was utterly forgetful, apart from the fact that it had stolen its hook from Oxygene. Laura had a Jemini-moment when her earpiece probably malfunctioned and looked as if she wanted to disappear. Gladly, Laura, gladly.

Backstage Ella and Dorien were at their most annoying and about to get thumped by Tom van Landuyt, who was still very much in his "I'm tough"-persona.

Finally it was time for La Sakhra, the corniest pseudonymn anyone could have picked, and that's even taking in mind it was Petra. We were glad to see the woman didn't take herself too seriously and her love for the kitsch of Eurovision is something we share. She brought us Pall Oskar sofas, Good Shape Queers, a Croatian strip-act, a Xandee boobs-moment and unfortunately a crap song. Slow, fast, slow, fast... what the fuck? "Too many Eurovision clichés aren't good", I muttered. The stunned faces of my sofa companions were justified. Was I saying that? Had I been brainwashed?!

Triskel would bring many a Latvian a welcome toiletbreak. Duvelman kept predicting a "lift", which never came and our cats went mad. Johnny later remarked he'd hoped there'd be a keylift and Duvelman glowed with pride.

Onto the winner of the evening: Ms Perez' entourage immediately told us what we already knew: they were here to win. Fabulous. I've always prided myself that my Belle Perez-hate started way back in 1999 when she took part in the Eurovision preselections with the annoying "Hello World". Her going to Eurovision would be a massive conflict of interest for me, sure to trigger some kind of Multiple Personality Syndrome. She brought us a weaker version of her many summer hits, probably the song to which she does her costume change in her show. The jury lapped it up, but all I could think was "Spain won't watch the semi-finals, we're doomed".

Our last contestant of the evening was Eve Kempbell, who wanted to be a "rockbitch" (I doubt she knows exactly what she was asking for), she once pretended to be someone she wasn't, by singing a ballad, but now, finally she was herself: An overstyled pirate with Roxanes halfnaked lesbian background dancers. Fabulous! Johnny dissed his jury colleagues for saying she was "rapping" (well done, Johnny), Yasmine looked like she wanted to mud-wrestle the whole gang, but we just stared down our noses at Ms Eva.

By the end of the show the sweetie and I had to wake Duvelman from a coma. We thought we'd reached the lowest low possible, but no... Ella and Dorien brought us... Eddy Wally. For crying out loud... !

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Burn baby burn

Am I suffering from Burn Out-Light?
What's it called when you can't figure out which direction to take in your *professional* life?
"Unemployment", I hear you answer. Yes... possible. But it's a bit sad when after only two months you already can't find the energy to apply for jobs, or -even worse- wonder what the hell you go to job interviews for, because you either know you won't get the job, or you don't really want it. And you lack the proper faking mechanisms to convince the people on the other side to hire you. Meanwhile you hate being unemployed as well, so you're stuck between a rock and a hard place.
If I had money I'd go back to uni, to study something else that would never get me work (sociology... or philosophy... or ... languages or something), live a life of knowledge. Sitting in my little tower, surrounded by books and brains and enlighten the public with my amazingly intelligent wit now and again. -ahem-
Sometimes I think I'd better chuck all this social nonsense out of the window and apply for computer/desk jobs. Soemthing with low stress, decent pay, little secondguessing.
I mean, it must be pretty bad when I can hardly find any enthusiasm for Eurovision anymore. This is serious.

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poetry day

Since today is poetry day I feel it's only right to once again link to my beautiful Vogon-love poem here.

Or I could quote someone else:

When all the world is young, lad,
and all the trees are green;
And every goose a swan, lad,
and every lass a queen;
Then hey for boot and horse, lad,
and round the world away;
Young blood must have its course, lad,
and every dog his day.

When all the world is old, lad,
and all the trees are brown;
And all the sport is stale, lad,
and all the wheels run down;
Creep home and take your place there,
the spent and maimed among;
God grant you'll find a face there,
you loved when all was young.

Charles Kingsley (1819 - 1875), Young and Old.

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jesus!

I think I'm dead.
I just cycled for the first time in ... probably six months, perhaps more... what strange phenomenon caused every single road to be uphill these days? Or could it be that my legmuscles have withered and died?

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Eurosong part 3

Another Sunday night, another Eurovision preselection (this will go on for quite some time I'm afraid). Duvelman, mascot to many a gay man's gym, the very esteemed sweetie and myself were ready. After some bickering over who was to take notes, we got started with the first Important Fact of the night: André had a cold! We debated over who was to make him hot tea and tuck him into bed, but could not reach an agreement. Perhaps we should just ask The Man himself. We also wondered how much money Johnny Logan got paid for sitting in the Studio 100-studios, listening to average Flemish songs. Anyone an idea?

The introduction of a happily swimming Valerie Mouton awoke every one of our inner bitches: hydrotherapy for the handicapped, Princess Fiona singing "true love's first kiss" and Vickey Pollard were some of Duvelman's finest. The sweetie thought she was wearing an exhibitionist's coat and feared a striptease. However, the girl could sing and silenced even Duvelman who immediately wanted to book her for a jazzy concert at Wallemote Castle in I. Alas, yet again André didn't climax (well, you are feeling sick, dear), so much for Valerie.

The arrival of Kate Ryan on stage drew simultaneous "Oh my god"s from the sweetie and I, scaring Duvelman who hereby had proof we were only one step away from matching tracksuits. She reminded Duvelman of MC Hammer (the mind of the straight man is a strange place) and us of last year's Icelandic entry: Selma. Like Selma Kate was wearing ugly Aladdin pants and had a ridiculous choreography. Like Selma the song was upbeat, queer and Abba, but -like Selma- it won't do anything at Eurovision if there are two other songs like that. Knowing Eurovision, there'll be five other similar songs. The dance routine should be a vote-grabber in Eastern Europe though.

I doubt Kaye Styles ever saw half a second of Eurovision, but there he was, eliciting embarrassing comments from the Leyers Twins (forget everything I said after the first show, they suck) and Bart Peeters who was practically on his knees for him (speaking of which, what happened to Mister Peeters, is he fed up with Eurovision? It seems like it). The song was what experts (DM) would call "poofy R&B, not for Hedz" and proof of this was given when Johnny fell head over heels in love with it. Piglet & Merlina were more enthralled by the dancers' short skirts and wished they'd added bunny-tails and -ears to them. The positive comments of the jury only drew a tiny smile from Mister Styles, thus showing us his inner cool.
(On a more serious note, this may not be my style, but a huge black man with blingbling and a song like this would really stand out at Eurovision)

Axel Devries' wife had us in stitches ("he took me with animals and all") because we're quite simple and adolescent. It would've gotten us twelve points from Holland, but nothing more than that. In fact, the only reason I remember this song was because it was time for our first Peter Evrard-diss of the evening.

The Girlfriend has a huge crush on Laura D, so naturally I have to fancy her a little as well find something bitchy to say about her. She's not as cute as she was. Probably the influence of that boyfriend of her's. There. Once again the backing singers did it for us and more importantly their outfit: white, sleeveless tops, marcellekes. Goodie! The three of us spent the rest of the song fantasising about Laura wrestling with her background singers in a tub of the sweetie's home-made rice pudding. And the song was not so bad either.

Since the Girlfriend and I fell for Natalia's arse the first time we saw her shake it, we're naturally not that keen on Peter Evrard (now Peter Evraaar). His voice just doesn't appeal to me (the man is so nasal he makes me reach for my hanky), and neither does the rest of him. What the hell are you doing in Eurovision? It's camp, it's glitzy, it's commercial, it doesn't take itself seriously, what are you doing there?! For the second time that evening Johnny is blown (away), but everyone on the sofa would have preferred André doing a strip-tease to this horribly boring song.

"I can't believe the news today...", time for Poor Pim. "Poor Pim" because the boy has no talent and everyone keeps reminding him of that -... yet they have offered him jobs and even a record deal... hmz. Perhaps not so "poor" after all... - Anyway, he sucked so badly it was embarrassing to everyone and we suspected Johnny Logan had to have the lyrics translated. Pim reminded us of "Drawn Together"'s Xandir, the young superhero on a neverending quest to save his girlfriend boyfriend. Note the similarities in the picture.

Winner was Kate Ryan. Runners up Kaye Styles and... what struck us most that evening however was the mind-numbingly huge amount of points Peter Evraaaar got. We contemplated suicide, but decided it wasn't worth it. It's just a semi-final, it's not as if we're sending him to Athens, right? Right?

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I want my own house!

This morning I had to get up at 8.30 because our landlady and the hooligans next-door were coming at 9 to inspect a crack in the wall they'd produced with all their hammering and drilling and whatnot. (8.30's early for an unemployed person. In fact, after about one week of unemployment your bio-rythm settles happily back into SlobTime, meaning you go to bed at 1.30 and get up at 11. It's not healthy. Your energy deserts you and you need more and more chocolate to feel something close to happiness.) At 9.01 someone calls me to tell me they're going to be 45 minutes late. Que? Who the fuck are you? Ah yes, our neighbours-to-be. Great. 45 minutes with my landlady, how am I going to survive?! She'll most assuredly check if everything is clean, discover the cats and the damage they've done to her kitchen, find reasons to evict us. Everything! I really need to buy a house, so I can be as big a Slob as I want to be and not have to worry about anyone (apart from if I'll be able to pay the mortgage...)
My landlady's thankfully a bit of a sweetie, she's gone home and asked me to call her when they arrived. Thank god. Their lateness means my ordeal (the one that had me a nervous wreck since midnight) won't be over for another hour... bastards...

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Omdat ik het een jaar geleden beloofde aan bavada: De nieuwe UDN.

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Dates and dates

Because I won a poke fight with her Other Half Madscot got me a real, fabulous The Office calendar!
We must hang this one in the living room, not just for David Brent's magnificent charisma, but also to drive everyone we know mad with jealousy.
Looks like the Sweetie might also get her prize and we'll have to bring the Sexy Ladies into the bedroom... or the frontroom/hall... so that people have no doubt as to who lives here. Muha!

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Honesty

Is such a lonely (?) word...or whatever...
I suffered from severe honesty during my two job interviews today, thus blowing them both. In one I confessed to being a dyke (I just didn't have the presence of mind yet to beat around the bush when answering the "why your thesis subject and volunteer work with gay teens"-question) and in the other I said I "don't see myself as an expert and am no good at convincing people of my qualities", to which my interviewer said "actually those are two necessities for the job". Oops.

And why is that? The "trouble with convincing people"-thing? The needing to be loved and being scared to say things people don't want to hear? I really can't do it, even in role-playing (not that kind of role-playing, you perverts!) I choke on the words, I just can't say them. But then I don't have that problem with people I know and love, ask anyone..! I can stand up for myself. I can let my opinion be heard and tell someone I don't agree with what they're saying. To be honest, I can be a total bitch!

If I'll never be able to be assertive with clients, I'd best go looking for a different kind of work, because I'll be doomed.
So any ideas on how I can be an evil bitch to strangers would be most welcome...

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Eurosong 2. The Sequel

With a bad premonition the Girlfriend and I -and a Duvelman in bondage, lured with the promise of Madagascar and naked lady-calendars- sat down for the second leg of the Eurovision preselection extravaganza.

The show "kicked off" with Casa Creola, a near-naked teenager in a very unflattering scrap of fabric, bringing a song by the infamous Mr(misters?) Paelinck. The Sweetie and I immediately screamed our outrage. Twice in a row Flanders sent a "Paelinck" song to Eurovision and twice in a row it erm... didn't really work. Does no-one get the hint here? Mr Paelinck told us that "if everything goes as normal, he had high hopes". Darling, if everything goes as normal, we're expecting a disaster. It was a song we've already heard 50 times at Eurovision (and that was only last year) with an even worse act. The girl reminded me of Piero who sang for Switzerland in 2004 and was so out of breath by the second verse that he slammed his microphone into his face. Even though these moments are some of the reasons I love Eurovision, it's not so funny when it's my country. So no, thank you. "Easy Esta Nothing" said the eloquent Duvelman, "3rd Rate Ibiza crap" was the girlfriend's verdict, and André "I'm not stuck up" Vermeulen took the opportunity to once again tell us how he's a big Barbara Dex fan and was pissed off at Pealinck for producing the song that went to Eurovsion two years ago, thus beating Babs. I knew it would not be the last time he said that.

Off to song number two, "Staah Academy" runner up Afi -she of the big nose and the long legs. And they're nice, those legs. I was very distracted by her Boobs however, they just sprang out of that vest (that she even unbuttoned at the end of her act, as if we hadn't seen enough flesh yet) and kept wiggling at me. They honestly did. The heterosexual cameramen then provided us with a shot of her arse in and out of those tiny hotpants. All very flattering and very sexy, but it made me fear that every contestant was going to be more naked than the one before them. What was next? Barbara Dex in Janet Jackson style nipple-clips, as the sweetie feared? Put on some clothes people, it's winter! Of course Johnny Logan didn't get much further in his commentary than "erm, you look really nice". The song? I really don't remember... there were boobies, and arse.

Tommy apparently has a lot of success with elderly ladies and poofs. Aah. Well, he is called Tommy after all. He pretended not to be into styling and to have put no thought whatsoever in his outfit. Lying little queen! He made Duvelman think of a pirate, me of a person with a tic disorder and André of a Little Drummer Boy. I won't delve into the mind of André Vermeulen... I'm afraid I'll be stuck there forever.

And then it was time for Barbara Dex, she of the "worst clothing award" who has grown balls and a fashion sense since her last Eurovision adventure. The woman can sing, I'll give her that. And although country ("cuntry" according to the sweetie because of Babs' continuous shaking with that part of her anatomy) is not my thing by far, it could do something (I don't know what exactly, but something) in Eurovision because it'll very likely be the only song in that genre. Babs sounded like she'd been on a diet of whiskey and fags and I was just impossibly glad she was wearing clothes. André positively glowed, as we expected him to.

Beatoxic were a group of teenagers who "beatboxed", handy if you're still a student and can't afford instruments. They did their best, wore meaningful t-shirts and were bitchy about the point of Eurovision. Tsk. A very sexy dyke yo yo-ing torches came onstage, they were young and did their best, but the best part of their performance was the trouble Johnny Logan had to not want to hurt their feelings by saying how much he hated their song.

Oh, and there was Els, De -fucking- Schepper. A firm mask of arrogance in place, promotalks for her theatre show (now playing in the Arendbergschouwburg), a hairdresser that seemed to have come straight out of "In de Gloria" ("she said, Pierre, I'm in for an experiment... and we went for it"), a clown's hairdo, lots of vocalising and an alltogether not bad song. Yasmine called it plagiarism and Johnny Logan called her Linda Martin on acid. Coming from Johnny I'm not sure if it's a compliment or not. As Els said "tsk, you don't honestly think I want to take part in Eurovision do you, I'm so much better than that", I just kept shouting "get the fuck off my telly!".

Finally, Roxane, one of the many women Duvelman professed he'd like to shag, as long as she kept her mouth shut... And I can see why, not much intelligent came out. Roxane was very scantily dressed (but then we're used to that) and performed something faux-lesbian. The lyrics were so unsubtle it made me blush, but I did enjoy her crawling over the stage. Shame she couldn't keep tune. Johnny complained the lesbianism didn't look real enough, and I for one agree. Faux Lesbians, phuh. Stealing jobs from real lesbians...

For those curious about all the promised naked flesh: here's some photos.

Ah, once again a very meagre show... I'm slowly giving up hope for Eurovision. What if it's me and I've gone off Eurovision? What if I don't find myself living for May anymore? Will I join the herds of politically correct-musiclovers and denounce Eurovision forever? Or will I find my love for Eurovision back? Next week? Oh please...
I'm too old for identity crises, dammit!!

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Some advice please

As it was my birthday some time ago (my 21st. Ahem) it is customary to receive gifts. And some of those gifts make you think that the giver's been waiting his whole life to get to know a birthday-dyke so he could buy this particular gift.
Now what is the best place to hang a rather erotic -though tasteful- calendar of lovely ladies in skimpy underwear or less....?
The girlfriend wants it in the living room, but I don't think our ladies are for just everybody. The kitchen doesn't seem fitting either and who the hell needs a calendar in the bedroom?

Suggestions are most welcome.
(No, Duvelman, we won't be hanging it in the guest room.)

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Lose my breath

I've now got the second cold since I became unemployed. That's two colds in less than a month. Waking the girlfriend up coughing, boozing on syrup, overdosing on hankies, spreading germs all over the place and being pretty disgusting all around. It's a full-time job really.
If I were more of an Els De Schepper I'd assume that these colds were my body's way of ridding itself of the toxic atmosphere that hung in my old workplace. And as Piglet Wildebeest I think there's possibly some truth in that, though I'd cover it up with talk about stress and lowered immune system and crap like that. The pragmatic side of me just wants this to be the fuck over so I can walk around carefree-ishly without havingto de-puff my eyes and soothe my painful nostrils. I need a clear head to discuss the horrors of Eurosong after all. And I've got my first two job interviews next week.
I can't seem to decide which of those is the more important reason to be fit...

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Eurosong 2006: Pathos!

"Eurosong" is Flanders' two-yearly ritual sacrifice to find a suitable candidate for the Great Eurovision Song Contest. Glitzy, Glammy, with a bitchy jury to appeal to the Flemish viewers, and it takes over a month.
This year, our host told us, they were going further than before. The artists had to be even better (when I say "even better" it might be considered ironic looking at the results of Flemish entries in Eurovision...), the show now had two semi-finals AND a final (meaning we hear their songs three times), and the artists had the chance to change their song between their first round and the finals. The Dutch model then? Where the jurycomments take longer than the songs did and you hear the songs so many bloody times you don't have a clue what will score with people who only hear the song once. -Because that is the key, ladies and gentlemen. Europeans hear your song one time, twice if you have to make it through the semi-final, but no more than that. If you didn't like the songs the first time, well, then they're buggered. Next please!-
You might have guessed La Pigleta doesn't quite agree with this "new and improved" version of "Eurosong". And let's face it, the first show yesterday didn't give me much to change my mind. What a load of utter bollocks and crap. The winner was a very very average song with a very very bad performance: Katherine (of Star Academy fame, and we know how well those do outside the borders...). Guts? Sex appeal? Attitude? None. The girl is terrified of the cameras and dances... about as well as I do. Which is nowhere near good enough. If they intend to send this to Eurovision, I'm changing my nationality to Bosnian, yet again.
A more detailed review of yesterday's abomination can be found on the Sweetie's blog. I just don't have the stamina to undergo the experience again.

And another thing. If people don't want to go to Eurovision, or don't really care about it, then fuck off out of preselections for it! Some of us actually take this (kinda) seriously, you know. Nitwits! You just wait till I take part, just wait...

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Something's going on.

The Girlfriend insists on going to the supermarket, even though we went yesterday already. I have to join her in the car (she's suddenly scared of driving alone) but I can't go in the shop with her. I'm meant to freeze to death waiting for her to come back. On top of that, I've been told to disappear for an hour or so this afternoon. Nice.
I don't trust this one little bit. I have my suspicions as to what is going on, and I am terrified.
I also seem to have cought my second throat infection/bloated eyes thing of the season in less than a month's time. Charming. I hope that doesn't relate to the girlfriend's "plan" or I'll be reporting her to the police for torture.

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Ah yes, because there's employment in that

You scored as Sociology. You should be a Sociology major! Sociology 100% Psychology 92% Linguistics 75% Anthropology 75% Biology 75% Philosophy 67% English 58% Journalism 58% Engineering 58% Theater 58% Dance 50% Mathematics 50% Chemistry 33% Art 17% What is your Perfect Major? created with QuizFarm.com

through Pinguthegreek

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Want mijn lief, altijd heb ik je lief

Despite draconian efforts by the Sweetie and other individuals, I have to say that turning 25 is a pretty depressing thing. As Andy (or Lou) would say: "I don't like it". It's too old (the sweetest text message I got in that respect said "don't forget, no matter how old you get, I'll always be older"... that's much better than the "happy quarter of a century" some sadists sent me. Tsk!). The numbers just don't sound right, they come with a whole batch of expectations about who you're meant to be, maturity, security, job, money, house, car, fuck it... I've got none of those, but I do have a Sweetie. A fabulous one.
It'll get better in a few days time, but right now I've got a "get me some prozac and let me wash em down with scotch" moment. Aargh fuck it. Birthdays don't mean a thing.

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Oops

I almost forgot

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Typically

Typically, since we spent the whole week stressing over our guest room, getting it ready, cleaning it numerous time, no-one slept in it tonight. Bietje chickened out at the last moment (too many promises to duvelman that he'd have the night of his life) and hitched a ride back to Ghent with Baloo and Stud. That left poor ickle Duvelman all alone. We did the only fair thing and invited the man to sleep in our bedroom as well.
Poor Bietje... what a missed opportunity!



(Dear god, I'm old tomorrow... Someone kill me now please so I can be young and kinda pretty forever... )

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Revenge

The cats were none too happy with our little new year's celebration yesterday. At one point as much as eight "strangers" invaded their precious territory. Sitting on their sofa and comfy chairs, preparing food in their kitchen... basically getting in the way of the necessary rest and relaxation. No chance to curl up on the tv blanket with two humans underneath, no chance to harrass the christmas tree, hardly anywhere to sit. Thankfully they had their subtle revenge: leaving cat hairs -immune to repeated vacuuming- on most of the chairs so everyone took a bit of cat home with them.
This morning noon I woke up to a huge (and I do mean huge) pile of cat vomit in the kitchen. A small piece of Mars wrapping was embedded in it. Pre- or post-vomit, I don't know. If it were the cause of the vomiting, the culprit is most likely Soes. She enjoys snacking on plastic. However, we must take into account that Kiwi ate -yes, ate- a piece of plastic string tied around a present in the early afternoon yesterday. That could be the cause of stomache upset, but there was no string present in the vomit. On the other hand, Zena is an easily stressed cat and seemed to suffer the most under the invasion yesterday. Did it get too much for her?
Fuck Morse, The Messiah, Derrick, CSI and SVU, this is a far more interesting case of whodunit...

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