And so with a shower of shiny confetti and applause, the saga that has been this year’s Britain’s Got Talent has ended. Of course the main news of the night is that Northern Scotland’s musical conundrum, Susan Boyle didn’t take the top prize but was in fact second overall, losing out to one of the two dance troupes, Diversity with saxophonist Julian Smith coming in third.
But enough about what actually happened – more importantly, such an evening highlights the fact that the true difference between the US and Britain lie not in any language, political or cultural dissimilarities but entirely in their television programming. As my flatmate Ann and I commentated the TV event, it quickly became clear that, forget tea parties, revolutions and democracy, when reality TV hit, our two great countries would have broken up anyway.
Now, I realise this show has made its way to America but I’m fairly certain the American version (which I haven’t seen) is no where near as, for lack of a better word, camp. Of course there were the breakout acts (Susan Boyle, Hollie Steel, Julian Smith, etc) that are truly talented but the range and, even more surprisingly, success of some of what would be considered the joke acts in the States was quite impressive. Both Ann and I watched, bemused, the Greek/Irish dancing father and son duo Stavros Flatley (“there must be something in the performance live we can’t see through the TV,” I offered. “Ha! They’re funny to watch,” from Ann). Together were gave our own critiques of 2 Grand, the lovely granddaughter-grandfather pair who were, again, in my opinion not quite finals material (“well, they’re not that bad, people seem to really like them,” was me. “Ha! They’re funny to watch. And don’t realise Simon’s completely taking the piss out of them!” Ann explained). Even singer Shaun Smith, a fairly talented act – but a bit of a poor man’s Kris Allen in my opinion, especially given his song choice – raised some questions as to how he ended up in the finals (“well, he’s not that bad, and he looks a bit like a 30’s gangster, that’s a cool look” was my effort. “Ha! He’s funny to watch, he looks constipated and like a thug.” Thanks Ann).
So, perhaps Americans want acts that they feel fit the bill of real talent, and solid evidence for why it is so as opposed to something that makes us laugh. And that keeps the likes of chubby half-naked men jumping around the stage, or even the horrendous DJ Talent out of the semifinals and finals of our shows. But the differences don’t end there. As soon as the competition ended, it was only an hour wait while votes were called in and tallied before they were announced on live TV – apparently a benefit of living in just one time zone. While we waited, the next topic of discussion was the prize. While I’m sure the 100 grand is certainly the main goal for many of the performers on the show, this part of the prize is very rarely mentioned. Instead, the network ITV has spent the whole season promoting the fact that the winner gets to perform at the Royal Variety Show in front of the Queen. In fact the £100,000 seemed so accessory that it was barely ever mentioned.
Now I’m sorry, but that just seems like a bit of a crap prize. I’m sure her Majesty the Queen is a lovely woman but to be voted the most talented act in Britain and be told that you’re off to perform in a variety show with a lot of other people who were chosen for reasons that had even less to do with talent in front of a Monarch who has to sit through such a show every year seems a bit of a let down. Ann carefully explained to me that this was not, in fact, the case for many of these performers for whom such an opportunity would be akin with say, the world’s biggest Harry Potter fan getting to read some of their fiction to JK Rowling (let’s put this in terms I can understand here).
Alright, so there’s a bit crap talent, a bit crap prize and a bit crap voting. In the US, while calls and votes for these kinds of shows are toll free from landlines and free from cells with free calling or texting, in the UK every single vote costs money, from a relatively inexpensive landline call to text message voting that can cost up to a £1. While this does act as a deterrent from ballot stuffing (no one is going to vote 100+ times if it costs them 40p a pop) it also really discourages casual voting – I never would have considered voting last night although had it been free, I might have given poor little Hollie Steel some support.
In the end, we’ve discovered that Americans take themselves, and their talent competitions, a bit too seriously and perhaps should lighten up while the British, while claiming across national TV that they have talent, might want to consider adding a question mark to the end of the show title.
But as Simon Cowell could tell us, that’s not news to anyone.
Sunday dawned bright and clear and the bovine inhabitants of Doolin gazed cheerfully around us as we prepared to leave the town. As the bus was getting ready to go, the owner of the hostel where we had stayed asked, quite seriously, if any of us wanted to stay behind as his current lodger and assistant at the hostel had just left. I had a seriously lengthy internal debate about how feasible it would be to actually take him up on his offer. To be honest, the only thing holding me back was my obligations and work at Spoonfed – otherwise I would have been off the bus in a minute, tour or no. Fortunately, before I could make any rash decisions, I was distracted by the arrival of one of the girls on our tour and her “date” for the “Rate my Date” game proposed by Kevin and forgotten by half the group. The poor guy was quite good natured about the whole thing and we offered him the rating of 11/10 due to his being the only point of comparison. On that note, we headed out of Doolin, leaving the hostel, the four pubs and the six streetlights behind.
Our first stop was Burren National Park although along the way we passed through the town of Lisdoonvarna, home of the Irish Matchmaking Festival. The Irish Matchmaking Festival, we were told, began with pure intentions of providing farmers and young women throughout Ireland with suitable matches but, since the advent of international tourism and desperate 30-somethings, the event has turned into a debauched orgy-like festival and is now a top destination for many singles around the world.
Perhaps the most polar opposite to such a lavish display of humanity was the Burren National Park. The Burren’s name comes from an Irish word “Boíreann” meaning a rocky place which is about the most apt description one could find. I had no idea such a landscape was in Europe, let alone Ireland. It was almost lunar and definitely a bit eerie. The Burren is an exposed platau of limestone rock that covers about 1500 hectares. It is windswept, desolate and, as one girl on our trip rightly put it, a bit like Mordor (I don’t know if it was the fonts on the signs and shop fronts or the landscape but Lord of the Rings was definitely continually brought to mind on my travels through Ireland).
We couldn’t stand the windchill for too long, however, and instead made our way towards the Poulnabrone portal tomb. This tomb, which stands almost unaltered from it’s original, is about 4500 years old and was said to be a portal to another world. Unfortunately it was roped off so I didn’t have a chance to explore, but it was certainly a moving moment, being in the presence of something so old, above the bodies of bronze age soldiers of ancient Ireland.
Another stretch of bus ride brought us to Clonmacnoise, a monastic settlement from 547 founded by one of the early Christian monks of Ireland. Of particular note were the unique stone crosses, the tops of which are enclosed in a circle, throughout the settlement. These, we were told, are thought to be an early way of incorporating pagan belief systems with new Christian ideas as the circle would have represented the sun worship of pagan traditions. Additionally, the settlement was home to a monastic tower and would have been a centre of learning, travel, trade and culture – that is before it was destroyed, multiple times, by various invading forces. What’s left, however, is another beautiful reminder of Ireland as it was hundreds of years before.
We were nearing the end of our tour and the final stop before we returned to Dublin was to be at a one of the world’s oldest whiskey distilleries for a tour and a taste-test. While the distillery itself was no longer actively making the spirit, it was still the holding place for the spirits as it matured over 5+ years into full Irish Whiskey (there were three brands associated with our distillery including Kilbeggan which we sampled). It was a good tour, and it was interesting to see the inside of a distillery that could still work today (and occasionally does) yet has been brewing spirits since 1757 – they’ve been getting drunk on whiskey there since before my country existed (and somewhat embarrassingly my country also put them out of business temporarily when supply dried up during the prohibition. They got back on their feet, though).
After what seemed like much too brief a three days, we were headed back into Dublin. While the tour group officially disbanded at 5:30 when we arrived back in the city, so many of us, including the tour guide Kevin, were staying in the city that night that, instead of heading off on our own, we decided to do a group dinner and hit the Dublin pubs for a final night of celebrating Ireland. Overall it was an amazing adventure – and I can’t recommend Shamrocker and Radical Tours enough as it was the great tour that made the trip so fantastic – and I really can’t wait to go back to Ireland.
On Saturday morning, I awoke to the sound of a torrential downpour loud enough to wake me before my alarm. This was especially unfortunate as our guide Kevin had specifically asked us all to pray for clear weather as Saturday was the day we were meant to drive along the south and south-west coastline of Ireland. Not to be daunted, however, we piled onto the bus and left Killarney headed towards the Dingle Peninsula.
The day before, Kevin had introduce a “game” for the duration of the trip called “Rate my Date,” which, somewhat unsurprisingly, involved the rest of the group rating any dates that should happen to be introduced while we were touring. The rules were simple: a date had to accompany you to the bus in the morning before we left to be rated by the group (he/she wouldn’t know what was going on, nor the score they received). Points were awarded based on overall looks but lost if the date was an animal (literally. Like a sheep or a cow.) or another member of the tour group. Suffice it to say, everyone was intrigued as to whether or not anyone would actually be brave enough to bring to, or be able to convince and local to visit, the bus in the morning. Despite some rather amorous local farmers the night before, our rainy morning brought with it no ratable dates but there was some speculation as to the (decidedly low) scores any of our new friends from the night before would have received.
This conversation carried us most of the way to Dingle and the Dingle Peninsula by which time the weather had not only cleared but had become gloriously sunny and the water sparkled in the light. We made a brief stop to Dingle to visit the statue of Fungie the Dolphin, erected in honor of the supposedly tame dolphin in the waters off of the peninsula, although no real dolphins were in sight. From there we drove all the way around the peninsula, making some choice photo stops along the gorgeous coastal drive.
Next, we stopped to take a quick walk to the edge of a rock face that we were told was the westernmost point of Europe (Iceland conveniently ignored because it’s technically on the North American tectonic plate, not the same one as the rest of Europe). The wind was tremendous and the water surrounded us on three sides – standing there on the end of the cliff truly felt like standing at the edge of the world.
From the Dingle Peninsula, we drove north towards the river Shannon. This river is the longest in the British Isles and the estuary on the west coast was so wide that we had to take a ferry across. The weather had become absolutely glorious and the 20 minute ferry ride definitely was not long enough as we all lazed in the sun enjoying the view from the deck towards either side of the river Shannon. It was a bit unfortunate that we all had to get back in the stuffy bus when the weather was so nice but we couldn’t waste any time once arriving on the other side of the river in County Clare in heading towards our next stop, the Cliffs of Moher.
The Cliffs were stunning but of particular interest to me was the fact, as shared by my dad, that the former owner of the property that included the Cliffs was named Fitzgerald (although unfortunately one that was very unlikely to be any relation to my family). The small castle at the top of the cliffs, we were told, was basically the secret lover’s hideaway of a local king and his many, many amorous conquests but I’ll admit that if an Irish king brought me to that location, I’d be willing to return the favour myself. The setting was indescribable and the sheer cliffs, over 600 feet high in some places, made for quite the impressive view.
We had a long chance to stretch our legs following the paths over the Cliffs of Moher and then it was only 15 minutes down the road to Doolin, our second night’s home. Doolin was described as a town with “four pubs and six street lights.” I thought I had roughly estimated the size of the town but when we arrived I realised that I was way off – six street lights didn’t refer to red, yellow, green stop lights, they referred to the actual lamp posts. Suffice it to say, Doolin certainly didn’t offer much by way of metropolitan entertainment.
What it did offer, however, was some incredible local ruins (before dinner I took a short hike up to the ruined church and cemetery, a slightly creepy location where numerous Spaniards had been hung to death by occupying British after the destruction of the Spanish Armada along the Irish coasts), delicious local seafood from the waters not 500 metres away, and traditional Irish music. Doolin is, in fact, considered the home of traditional Irish music and we were treated to a “session” or impromptu concert by whoever shows up with instruments, at one of the local pubs.
I spent the whole day in awe of the beauty around me – I’ve never thought of myself as a city person and every time I leave London, especially when I travel somewhere rural such as Wales, Scotland or now Ireland, it’s reconfirmed how much I enjoy being out in the country. I loved Doolin and standing on the edge of the Dingle Peninsula was certainly one of my top life moments. I could have stayed half the night chatting and listening to the music in Doolin but instead I turned in at a reasonable hour to rest up for my final full day in Ireland.
I’m less than five hours off the plan from Dublin and now facing the daunting task of recapping the last four days before I begin to forget all the wonderful details. Suffice it to say, my trip to Ireland was one of my favourites so far (although I find myself saying that every time I return from a new country!). I’ll try to do a thorough recap but one of the best parts of the trip was the great storytelling skills and knowledge of my tour guide, Kevin, and the Shamrockers tour in general which never comes across as well in retelling. All the same, I’ll give it my best effort and hopefully adequately represent my short time on the Emerald Isle.
I left after work on Thursday and raced across town to grab my bags before heading to the airport. As always, I spent nearly two hours panicking that I’d be late and miss my flight, only to arrive ridiculously early and sit around for ages before take off. I had picked a flight that would let me work a full day on Thursday (I was already taking Friday off) and so ended up landing in Dublin just before midnight. I had thought I knew where I was going – and managed to find my bus just fine, but missed my stop and ended up doing a bit of a midnight walking tour through Dublin on my way to my hostel. It was relatively busy, even for the hour, so I wasn’t too worried and as soon as I made it to the hostel I crashed immediately – good thing too, I had an early start the next day.
On Friday morning, I retraced my steps from the night before (it was much more enjoyable in the daylight even despite the rain that had started up while I was sleeping) to meet up with the Shamrocker Tours group. I had picked their bus tour as it was owned by the same parent company that owned Haggis Tours, and I had enjoyed my trip to Wales with them so much that I wanted to try another one of their programs. I was surprised to see that over 30 people would be on our bus and part of our group but was immediately impressed with our guide, Kevin, who launched into a humorous and detailed overview of the city of Dublin before we had even pulled out of the parking spot.
Dublin, however, was not actually part of the trips itinerary which was quite lengthy and didn’t leave much time for deviations. By 8:45am we were on our way and headed towards our first stop, the Rock of Cashel in County Tipperary. The Rock of Cashel, actually a castle on the top of a hill, is a historic site that served as the seat of Irish kings prior to Norman invasion. Some of the oldest buildings on the site were from c.1100.
We only made a quick photo stop – apparently the steep fee for entrance into the castle itself didn’t really show much more than we saw from the outside – before heading further south to the Mitchelstown Caves in County Cork. The caves are part of a huge network of underground limestone caverns and two of the particular claims to fame of these caves are primarily the amazing, million-year-old stalactites and stalagmites which form all sorts of columns, pillars and unique formations but secondly the amazing acoustics in the largest cavern. The acoustics are so impressive that in this cavern, Tir Na Nog, regularly hosts concerts, including a recent performance by the Irish tenors. While on our tour, the guide asked if any of us were brave enough to sing for the rest of the group. Not surprisingly, no one stepped forward when all of a sudden, our bus driver, a Romanian man who had been living in Ireland for the last 7 years, stepped forward as if he had expected it all along. The rest of us shuffled off the naturally formed stage, unsure of what to expect.
What we definitely weren’t expecting, however, was a powerful, almost operatic performance of Susan Boyle proportions. He first sang a song in Latin, then a traditional Irish song and the sound in the cavern was magical. I’m not sure if it’s a requirement for the Shamrocker drivers to be pitch singers in the Mitchelstown Caves or not but he certainly gave us a moving performance that showcased why the cave is so famous as a concert location.
After our spelunking and musical experience, we hopped back on the bus and made our way to the famous Blarney Castle and, of course, the Blarney Stone which, the story goes, gives the gift of gab to anyone who kisses it. I hadn’t seen any pictures of the stone before so had always imagined it as sitting in a throne-room style hall on a table or alter. No, in fact the Blarney stone is built into the wall of the castle – and not just any wall, an outcropping of the highest tower in the castle. What this means is that one needs to lie down, head sticking out over 100m of open air, bent over backwards in order to kiss the stone. Of course, I’ve heard stories about how disgusting the stone is after so many years of tourist action but you can’t go to the Blarney Castle and not kiss the stone! If the length of this blog post is any indication, clearly the gift of gab has been granted!
While at the Blarney Castle, I also had a chance to enact another superstition – that of the Wishing Steps. The story goes,
If you can walk down and back up these steps with your eyes closed – some demand that this be done walking backwards – and without stopping for one moment to think of anything other than a wish, then that wish will come true within a year.
I made it without any major injury so we’ll see how that works out!
Overall the Blarney Castle was amazing but I was most impressed by the gardens and wished I had had more time to wander but all too soon we were on our way again, this time headed towards Killarney where we would be staying the night. It was still light when we arrived so a couple of the other girls on the tour and I made a slight detour into the Killarney Park with a mind to find the mini cows – a breed of black cows that we were told were miniature. Unfortunately we couldn’t find the legendary herd so returned to the town for some traditional Irish stew (another somewhat unfortunate experience as the watery broth we received was not very satisfying – which the waiter came back to sheepishly admit was because the cook had forgotten to add potatoes to the stew) and a few pints of Guinness before calling it a night in anticipation of another busy day….
Just a quick update to say I’ll be somewhat MIA for the next few days as I scramble to get everything done at work and sorted before I leave for Ireland on Thursday night for a long weekend trip. I’ll be twittering in updates throughout my trip but until then, I’ll leave you with this charming anecdote.
TRAINS came to a halt on the Central Line this morning after a woman went into labour.
The service stopped at 8.34am when the woman started having contractions on a westbound train at St Paul’s station.
A TFL spokswoman said: “London Underground staff attended to her until London Ambulance Service personnel arrived on the scene.
“She was removed from the station to a waiting ambulance in a wheelchair.”
Service with delays was resumed on the line at 8.55am.
Lauren Brewster, 23 from Buckhurst Hill was waiting for the tube this morning when she heard the announcement.
She said: “The trains were delayed and there was an announcement saying a woman had given birth on the tube.
“It was quite funny and everyone was looking at each other, unsure if we had heard correctly.”
I have a confession to make. Yesterday I shot London.
And I wasn’t alone. I had four accomplices who all helped. We shot London in the face, in the legs, in the back of the head… and after three hours and nearly 150 shots, we all turned ourselves into the Tate Modern in hopes someone would give us a prize for it.
Before anyone gets particularly concerned for London’s safety, I should perhaps mention that the shots were taken not with a gun but with a Canon PowerShot A590 as part of Shoot London. Myself and my team which included Spoonfed’s arts and exhibitions editor Tom who was there to review the event for Spoonfed, armed ourselves with camera and creativity to take part in the event.
At the beginning of the day, the 100+ teams met at the Tate Modern where they were given four words or phrases from a pre-written story. From noon until 3pm we had to traverse London looking for the perfect shot. Back at Tate Modern in the afternoon, all the images were put together and the complete storyline revealed.
As a concept, Shoot London is brilliant and I had been looking forward to the day with some excitement. Throughout the morning, the excitement built as we received our phrases (“I love you,” “dangerous predators,” “their stepmother” and the surprisingly difficult “she gently stroked their hair”) and saw the immense crowd of over 530 participants – some of whom seemed to be complete amateur photographers like ourselves while others had equipment that would have made National Geographic proud. At noon, we were all released into London, ready to compose four photographic masterpieces.
We directed our course towards the Southbank and Soho, figuring that if there are any parts of London apt to deliver inspiration it would be these two trendy, crowded and diverse areas. We hit on an early brainwave of using a reflective surface as the basis of our phrase “I love you,” interpreting the phrase narcissisticly and so the day’s shoot began.
Final photo for the phrase "I Love You"
Three increasingly frantic hours later, with our four final photos chosen and saved on the memory card, we returned to the Tate to wait for the final product. Unfortunately this is where the event began to break down. Although they had scheduled two hours between 3pm (when we returned with our photos) and 5pm (when the final story was meant to be shown) – already quite a long time to be seated in the cavernous turbine hall of the Tate Modern – technical difficulties pushed the wait back an extra hour. Despite the free beers and orange juice provided, three hours was an exceptionally long wait and there was an ever increasing amount of fidgeting and grumbling as we were told again and again “we’re so sorry… just a few more minutes.” I felt particularly bad for the organisers who were quite clearly stressed by the situation and impossibilities of modern technology (there was some quite public bashing of Macs, which is of course why I am a PC).
Final photo for the phrase "Fierce Predators"
Finally, the final product was ready and the author of the story, which turned out to be a modern retelling of Hansel and Gretel, began to narrate as our photos filled the screen.
I have to admit, it was quite impressive. The creativity and skill of some of the groups was stunning and there were quite a few shots that caused the entire room of over 500 to burst into laughter or applause. Our first photo appeared relatively early in the story and to our great disappointment we realised that, despite following the directions for labeling and tagging photos, they had been put in the wrong place – and throughout the rest of the narrative we noticed a number of other oddly irrelevant photos that indicated that other groups had suffered the same misfortune. By the end, however, the applause was thunderous and despite our pictures not receiving the credit they clearly deserved, we had to call the story an overall success.
Final photo for the phrase "Their Stepmother"
By the end of the event, our feelings were mixed. The first half of the day had been brilliant – nice weather, intriguing clues, a purposeful wander around London and the somewhat deluded hope that we would be selected as the day’s winner. The second half put a damper on the day as we waited with increasing frustration for the final product. Excitement again when the show began and then the letdown of seeing our photos in the wrong places. As a concept we still felt that the Shoot project was genius and are considering the upcoming Shoot Portobello as a smaller, more manageable event at which to next try our hand at some creative photography.
Final photo for the phrase "She Gently Stroked Their Hair"
The photos above were the four shots we selected as our final submissions for the phrases provided. Here are a few of the other photos from the day that I felt were particularly strong:
In a dark warehouse in London Bridge, I cower before the heavily armed militia that s just burst through the door. Full SWAT gear adorns our attackers as they shove flashlights and machine guns in our faces. I, and the others in the warehouse, are interrogated...
Don t worry, opens Jace Everett. I will be playing that song. There s a laugh from the audience but also a sense of relief. That song is why there are so many Londoners in Bush Hall on a Wednesday night to see an up and coming American alternative coun...
Factory Theatre group increasingly pushes the boundaries of performance and production. In 2008 they brought us Hamlet with no costumes or props; in 2009, The Seagull with no script; and now, with Round 2 at The Electricity Showrooms, The Factory brings...
I ve been singing the praises of the collaborative creation of Courvoisier and jelly makers Bompas and Parr ever since I heard about plans to create a giant punch bowl so big one could row a boat across it. The idea of a bowl of punch where one could...
I ve been singing the praises of the collaborative creation of Courvoisier and jelly makers Bompas and Parr ever since I heard about plans to create a giant punch bowl so big one could row a boat across it. The idea of a bowl of punch where one could...
were the breakout acts (Susan Boyle, Hollie Steel, Julian Smith, etc) that are truly talented but the range and, even more surprisingly, success of some of what would be considered the joke acts in the States was quite impressive. Both Ann and I watched, bemused, the Greek/Irish dancing father and son duo Stavros Flatley (“there must be something in the performance live we can’t see through the TV,” I offered. “Ha! They’re funny to watch,” from Ann). Together were gave our own critiques of 2 Grand, the lovely granddaughter-grandfather pair who were, again, in my opinion not quite finals material (“well, they’re not that bad, people seem to really like them,” was me. “Ha! They’re funny to watch. And don’t realise Simon’s completely taking the piss out of them!” Ann explained). Even singer Shaun Smith, a fairly talented act – but a bit of a poor man’s Kris Allen in my opinion, especially given his song choice – raised some questions as to how he ended up in the finals (“well, he’s not that bad, and he looks a bit like a 30’s gangster, that’s a cool look” was my effort. “Ha! He’s funny to watch, he looks constipated and like a thug.” Thanks Ann).
