Setting things straight

I'll never forget my first Pride. Cut adrift from the rest of my group, who'd travelled from York to London in a rented coach that stank of Gaultier Le Male and lemon-flavoured Hooch, I found myself wandering around one of the capital's bewilderingly massive parks, with no idea of where to go or what to do. Bright eyed, but decidedly flaccid of tail, I was a nineteen year-old virgin surrounded by debauchery, leather and water-based lubricant - like Shirley Temple trying to find her way out of an abattoir.

In the years that followed, I soon learned what to expect from my annual pilgrimage to the biggest day in the gay calendar. I also realised that, for all its attempts to make a political statement about equal rights, it was really just an excuse for people to get off their tits and cop a feel in the bushes (the bears in these woods weren't remotely interested in picnics), as enterprising businesses milked the 'community' like a three-handed dairy farmer.

Much has changed since those early amyl-scented days. It was a big surprise in the summer of 1997, for example, to march past Downing Street with a rousing cheer, rather than the customary boos that used to announce our arrival at the home of the Prime Minister.

But as the laws have relaxed, and rights have gradually been granted to afford the LGBT community almost equal status, a small but vocal group of opponents have continued to raise objections. Perhaps put off by the sight of one too many pairs of exposed buttocks waving from a slow-moving float, these critics have managed to convince themselves that those troublesome gays have been granted too many rights, at the expense of regular heterosexuals.

Having fixated about having an unfamiliar lifestyle rammed (repeatedly) down their throats, their over-stretched gag reflex has resulted in the erroneous opinion that they are the new underdogs. Occasionally, one of them pipes up to say "What about Straight Pride?" And although such outbursts are usually met with little more than a derisory snort, in São Paulo, they may just be getting their wish.

Despite arguing that it was not an anti-gay gesture, Councilperson Carlos Apolinario explained that the proposal for 'Straight Pride Day' was his way of speaking out at the "excesses and privileges" enjoyed by Brazil's gay population, not least the LGBT parade that takes place in the city's Paulista Avenue. If it gets ratified by Gilberto Kassab, the city's mayor, Straight Pride will be held on the third Sunday of every December and added to the city's municipal calendar.

No doubt Richard Littlejohn is already packing his jorts for a week in sunny Brazil. But if the event is a big success, he could soon be lugging his 'Adam and Eve Not Adam and Steve' banner all the way from Marble Arch to Trafalgar Square.

The thing is, I'm not entirely sure what a Straight Pride event would entail. Since gay pride has always offered up a multicoloured celebration of all the kinks and permutations that define the lifestyle, it's hard to see how that might translate into an extravagant display of conformity and convention. After all, "We're here, we're not queer, and the wife's going shopping while we stand outside Curry's and watch the football scores" doesn't have quite the same ring to it.

Pride traditionally offers up themed spaces for various subcategories - leather, sleaze, transgender etc - so presumably they'll need to work on a similar principle. Maybe they can turn the car park into a dogging area, with a specially cordoned off zone for seagulling enthusiasts sponsored by Autoglass. The main tent will need to be a monogamy space, full of couples staring fixedly at the floor to avoid getting into trouble for a spot of eye-wandering. And the kids can join in on all the fun, with specially printed T-shirts that read "Mummy and Daddy may hate each other, but they're staying together for me".

Someone will also need to think about booking some headline music acts too. And since we usually get stuck with a piss-poor line-up of clichés and stereotypes, that template will need to be followed in order to create an authentic Pride experience. If we're going to treated to Lisa Scott-Lee and whatever passes for the current line-up of Bucks Fizz, you can have a Genesis tribute act and someone who used to play bass in Status Quo. But don't worry, you'll be so pissed on over-priced, lukewarm beer, you won't be able to hear them anyway. 

Eurovision Impaired

Democracy is dead. How else would you explain the fact that the BBC has unilaterally decided on the song and the performer to represent the UK in Dusseldorf next month? They could have just used that mysterious blank box on the census - prime real estate for canvassing public opinion on the matter.

Scoff all you like. Despite its cheesy reputation, Eurovision is still a big deal on the continent. This year 43 countries will be battling it out to win the hearts of that 125 million-strong audience, even if half of those viewers actually spend most of the broadcast saying “Are you sure there’s nothing else on?”

Whatever the reasons for the BBC’s change of format, at least we’ve been spared the indignities of a weekly phone vote to select how best to embarrass ourselves on an international stage. Instead, we get four hour-long instalments following Blue’s preparations for the big day when they take to the Eurovision stage.

Along the way, we’re treated to a bunch of interview snippets with people who seem to have been selected purely according to their availability on the day. OK, Lulu and Cliff Richard have some Eurovision relevance (as much as Lulu could ever be considered 'relevant') having both performed for the UK, but Kara Tointon and Sheridan Smith? Was Vanessa Feltz busy?

Guiding us through a potted history of everyone’s favourite music contest is Graham Norton, who inherited Sir Terry’s role as ‘voice of the nation’ when the elder statesman of jaded commentaries resigned in protest at the politicisation of Eurovision. The students of Tiananmen Square have nothing on Wogan.

As much as the programme might feign interest in the boys from Blue, as they attempt to resurrect their collective career from cryogenic suspension, it was really just a chance to wallow in some nostalgic memories of Eurovisions gone by. All the usual suspects were present and correct – the Bucks Fizz striptease, Brotherhood of Man’s chirpy ode to paedophilia, and mad old Sonia, acting like she’d been hiding her medication in the pillowcase. 

But strangely, for a show like this, there was actually some detail in amongst the fluff. Even the occasional glimmer of insight, courtesy of Scott Mills, who rightly took the UK to task for underestimating the tastes of European voters. In fact, our misperceptions of what a ‘good’ Eurovision song sounds like are largely as a consequence of clip shows like this. Lazy compilations designed to encourage us to laugh at our funny continental cousins and their hurdy gurdy languages. So we vote for any old shit, figuring if it’s bad enough, the Europeans will lap it up.

Don’t get me wrong – there’s enough surrealism in recent Eurovision history to give Dali a nosebleed. In a section called ‘make it memorable’, we were reminded of past performances that included a guest appearance from Dita Von Teese, zombie bass players, giant wheels, gladiators, contortionists and pantomime pirates. Not forgetting Ukraine’s Ani Lorak, performing Shady Lady in front of four vertical tanning booths, one of which she may well have fallen asleep in. It’s enough to make you long for the pared-down simplicity of Lady Gaga.

However, the main focus of ‘Your Country Needs Blue’ was the boys’ attempts to rekindle their long-dormant spark. Not easy when they can’t even remember the words to their biggest hits. We also got to see them swotting up on previous Eurovision triumphs, helpfully regaling each other with a Wikipedia page full of statistics for each performance, like QVC presenters demonstrating their knowledge of how a trouser press works.

The boys spent half the show’s running time waxing lyrical about the epic chorus and ‘big sound’ that Blue was known for, but we just kept hearing Lee randomly chirping “Get back up again”, like a Tourettes sufferer stuck in falsetto. There were also plenty of shots of them striking the standard boyband in-studio pose. You know the one - left hand cupped over the ear, right hand used to point out the note in mid-air. 

So what of the song itself? Well, imagine cramming Westlife, Boyzone and The Wanted into a blender. Not because that’s what it sounds like, just because it’s a nice image. 'I Can' is actually a distinctly unmemorable R&B-lite ballad, with a chorus that ends with the refrain "I can, I will, get back up again." Just give me ten minutes for the pill to kick in. 

It could be a lot worse. After their big joke backfired when they picked a rubber turkey with a fist up its arse in 2008, the people of Ireland are taking a different tack this year. They’ve decided to send the two psychos from Michael Haneke's Funny Games (AKA Jedward) to Dusseldorf. It’s probably a wise move – their economy's in enough trouble as it is, without the added financial burden of hosting the competition in 2012.

Whether this will be the year we turn our fortunes around is anyone’s guess. But it’s odd that the show seemed so confident in declaring the six simple steps for Eurovision domination. If it was that easy, wouldn’t we have done it already?

Coming full circle

Well this is a first - a band reunion taking place while the band still actually exists. Except that this time, the reunion will involve the original line-up rather than the three increasingly random artistes who comprise the band's current line-up.

The Sugababes have rarely been out of the news recently, with more fall-outs, fights and fake kidnappings than an omnibus edition of Hollyoaks. Events finally reached a head four weeks ago when Keisha Buchanan, the final founding member of the group was unceremoniously dumped by the record label and replaced by Jade Ewen.

Fans were quick to argue that with all three members replaced, the band (as it was originally conceived) no longer existed. And although they would continue to support the girls, it was felt that they really ought to rename the group.

Writing in The Guardian, Johnny Dee argued that it's simply a case of 'one lineup change too many' and that the band is now a laughing stock, especially since its signature sound of smart, soulful pop has now been replaced with a soulless electronic R&B sound bearing no resemblance to the band's original brilliance.

Someone's obviously been listening to the fan chatter, since it seems that Mutya Buena is now keen to turn back the clock and reform the Sugababes. Having patched up her differences with original band-member Siobhan Donaghy recently, Mutya believes that the band could be big again, and that this time they'll be mature enough to handle the pressures of fame without turning on each other.

To some, the idea of two competing Sugababes acts may sound like the most exciting thing to happen in pop music since Benny and Bjorn encouraged their band leader to dress as Napoleon. To others, it may feel more like a temporal paradox waiting to happen, like Marty McFly encountering his future self in Back To The Future Part Two. Let's not forget, it has happened before - and things got pretty ugly.

Although I wouldn't normally invoke the name of David Van Day unless I was attempting to open a hellmouth, it's worth remembering that the world once found itself faced with the prospect of not one, but two versions of Bucks Fizz. Ever the opportunist, the tight-faced egomaniac established an anti-Fizz that to compete with Bobby G's more authentic incarnation of the group. Long-winded legal wrangles aside, holiday camps up and down the country were suddenly beseiged by over-bleached middle-aged performers whipping each other's clothes off, like Gloria Hunniford performing a strip-tease.

By the time Mutya, Keisha and Siobhan get their house in order, it's likely that the world will have moved on. Nonetheless, there's every likelihood that David Van Day will be waiting in the wings with a nose-ring and a weave, ready to unveil his own unique take on Britain's favourite girl band.