Memories of Nen...Or Neen...

It's the kind of thing old people say. Especially when giving directions. 'Turn left where the Co-op used to be, straight down to the bottom and then right by the old cinema.' Old people's memories are full of the previous uses of buildings. And now it's starting for me. 

Look, I stand by my previous blogs. Forty is not ancient. Whilst technically it might be classed as middle-aged, it feels a hundred - no a THOUSAND - mental years away from that. Yet this week something happened that'll probably happen more and more as I get older. That's how time works. This week, I read that a place I used to frequent and indeed used to live, is closing. 

Nene College was my first choice of University place. This is because they only wanted two Cs for a combined degree in two of the most oversubscribed subjects at the time. I couldn't be faffed with Liverpool and their demand for Bs, so I was happy to take the lower offer and enjoy my A Level experience with reduced academic stress. When I got to Northampton (because that's where Nene was) I realised I should have put more thought in to it. First off, nobody could decide how to pronounce 'Nene'. Some tutors said 'Nen' whereas others said 'Neen'. Apparently it depended on the part of the river to which you referred. This confusion continued over my time there. Then the year I graduated it became University College, Northampton. These days, it's the University of Northampton. Like Dr Who, it regenerates.

Where the magic happened. Flat 3, Room 2.

My first year at Nene was spent living on Park Campus. This was located about three miles away from town and could be described as leafy and woodlandy. At least in parts. It also housed the Students' Union and umpteen halls of residence so it wasn't always the calm, rural scene it implied from the brochure. But it was my first address after leaving home so it had charm. It was also where I hand-washed all my clothes (including jeans!) in the sink in my room, where I first saw Silence of the Lambs and where I spent the only time in my life living exclusively with women. Like a religious community, except not religious in the slightest. 

In my room on Park Campus.
I'd shown the hairdresser
pictures of Kyle MacLachlan,
so that's what that's about.

Park Campus is tied up with a ton of my memories. I remember the Assignment Handling Office - the tiny portacabin where paper copies of hand-written assignments were handed in centrally, complete with duplicate cover sheet. This is beyond comprehension to people that ping every essay off in an email. I remember being one of sixty residents of John Clare Hall, queuing for one of the two pay phones as soon as six o'clock hit. The cheaper phone rate along with the reliance on payphones is once again, something that the iPhone-carrying-unlimited-calls students of today have no reason to consider. I also remember the boredom. No TV, no money, and just the odd assignment thrown in every few weeks or so. It was like series one of Big Brother. 

This week I read that Park Campus is closing - at least partially for now - and a brand spanking new campus has been built somewhere nearer town. Well hurrah. That's marvellous for the new students who'll have lovely facilities from September. Good luck to them. But I can't help feeling the rural charm will be lost. Where else can you spew up outside the Union, then watch a squirrel scurry past? Park Campus will always be my go-to image of University, whatever the context. It's where my mind went when I wrote the 1996 chapters for Carry the Beautiful. It's where I watched the 1997 General Election, the first one I ever voted in. It's where I made life-long friends. 

The sun sets on Park Campus.
(Fortuitously, I have a sunset photo
of the carpark from 1996. Clearly
I knew I'd be writing this one day.)

So next time I'm in Northampton and someone asks me for directions, no matter how much pep and youth I'm externally channelling, my old-person knowledge will seep through and blow my cover. 'Go down Boughton Green Road, past the old campus and left at the bottom past the Safeway.' On second thoughts, my lack of youth will be obvious as soon as I mention Safeway. Oh well. Happy memories.

Have a lovely week, folks.

Eurovision and Pastel De Natas ...

Forgive me for not rambling much this week - cue simultaneous explosion of party poppers - but my editing schedule has gone up the wall. Plus, I've run out of clean knickers. I'm sure Alan Whicker and Judith Chalmers had the same problem. Anyway, while I sort all that out, I'll leave you with some pictures. Here's my eye-witness, first-hand account of my Eurovision 2018 experience. 

I'd planned to capture the true nature of the event and bring a personal insight that the BBC just can't manage. But I tended to take photos when I'd had a drink so the results were 'haphazard'. Also, I kept forgetting. Hey ho, enjoy the pictures that did make it. Needless to say, the whole shebang was off-the-charts epic and I was quite the giddy goat from start to finish.

Pre-Match Build-Up

It started at the airport taxi queue. Sail-like banners announcing the 'All Aboard' theme of the event. It did not make the queue go any faster but it was lovely to see.

Spotted amongst the guide books in the hotel. Mostly full of adverts, but still. Gamely representing what the majority of Lisbon visitors were concerned with, last week.

Beautiful Lisbon. But squint through the arch, and what have you got?

That's right! It's the Eurovision village! An enclosed area with a stage/screen for live events and broadcasts. Beer, food and merchandise also available. 

The merchandise queue was lengthy.

But I made it! 'That'll be a United Kingdom scarf - By the way, I don't want Brexit - a fridge magnet and a wrist band please.'

I saw a bit of the Orchestra of Lisbon, and Voces Caelestes Choir. They were good!

Hoardings were covered up by previous winners and host countries.

And another one! I took photos of all my favourite years (I'm looking at you, 1992) but you get the drift. Let's move on.

You can't tell, but I'm sitting in my favourite restaurant in Lisbon - Grapes and Bites. 

You can't tell, but minutes after this photo was taken, Israeli Eurovision winner, Netta (and entourage) walked in to eat. She was lovely, even though we all gawped a lot because we were in the midst of celebrity. (I imagine it was the energy of my subtle yet consistent gaze that spurred her on to win three nights later.)

You can't tell, but I hoovered this plate up, no mess.

The Big Game

The queue to get in to the Altice Arena for the 2nd semi final. 

Waiting for it to begin. I think they're supposed to be waves.

Scott Mills is in one of those commentary boxes. I know! The glamour!

I was in touching distance of Jon Ola Sand! Well I would have been if there weren't security guards in my way. He was in deep concentration throughout the voting. It. Is. A. Serious. Business.

Post-Match Analysis

Reality hits. Back to a dreary tarmac and not a pastel de nata in sight. 

A paused screen from BBC4. It's like Where's Wally - can you spot me? Quote from my brother-in-law - 'You look so happy, Nicky' Quote from my brother - 'Like a kid in a sweet shop.'

Yeah, so it turns out I managed to buy an Icelandic scarf rather than an UK one. (I already owned the red one.) Hmmm.

I mean, it IS pretty similar I suppose. Here I am trying to style it out with a face like an emoji. I'm not sure which emoji. But definitely an emoji.

I could go on and on, posting photos to depict the aftermath of my favourite week of the year. But it's over. I need to let the adrenaline slump kick in and get back to sorting out my washing. All that is left to say is, twenty years since Dana International won in Birmingham, congrats to Netta and Israel. Here's to next year! 

Have a lovely week, folks.

SaveSave

SaveSave

Heading to the Portuguese Front...

Happy Bank Holiday Monday, everyone! By the time this 'drops' I'll be sitting on a jammed A-road attempting to leave Wales, along with vast swathes of roof-racked, luggage-laden families. It's a legal requirement after the shenanigans of a UK mini-break. Hey ho, I'll hopefully get home soon.

2009's themed Eurovision buffet.
I particularly like the bowl
of sauerkraut gamely
representing Germany.

Indeed, I need a prompt return from my hols. In two days time, I'm gallivanting again. I know, who the frig do I think I am? What kind of international event could be taking place that means I up sticks so soon after a weekend of family fun? What on earth is going on? I think everyone of good conscience knows the score. The date's been in our diaries for months. I don't even need to say it, do I? After three, let's shout it together. One, two, three... IT'S EUROVISION!!!!!!!!!!!!

 2011. The BBC's party
pack was utilised
that year. Big time.

It's been four years since I attended the Eurovision Song Contest. Copenhagen 2014. I can say (and without a hint of sarcasm) that it was the best night of my life. I'm not joking. It was utterly epic. After decades of watching the contest at home, I was actually there. Surrounded by like-minded, lovely strangers, all happy to dance, wave their flags and cheer the night away. Despite being six hundred miles from home and sitting in a revamped Danish shipyard, everything felt reassuringly recognisable. Charpentier's Te Deum opened proceedings as usual. It gives me giddy goosebumps when I'm on my sofa with my score pad, so hearing it at the actual contest was beyond words. Then Kasper Juul from Borgen rocked up as one of the hosts. Seeing his face was like spotting someone you vaguely remember from school. It was strangely familiar but took a moment to place. And then there was Graham Norton.* In his commentary booth, looking down on us all, like a lovely uncle overseeing proceedings. Everything would be OK as long as Graham was in the house. The winner that year was Conchita Wurst with Rise Like a Phoenix**. It would have been my all time favourite Eurovision winner had I been in my lounge at home - it was a cracking song regardless - but watching her win in the flesh, was spectacular. 

The message I sent to the family
WhatsApp group on 5th May 2014.
Reminiscent in style (but not so much tone)
of telegrams from the Western Front.

I have the best memories of the whole event. It was an amazing night in the middle of a great holiday, but one I've never tried to replicate. I know that as experiences go, it can't be beaten. It was unique. From the host city, to the eventual winner, to my disposable income, to the fact I'd been bingeing The Bridge and Borgen in the months leading up to it - the happy set of circumstances all aligned for Copenhagen 2014. I've positively reminisced ever since, whilst staying firmly at home. My Eurovision routine is set. I have themed-snacks, a variety of European spirits and a night of live tweeting to attend to. I've no time to leave the country this days.

I feel like Charlie Bucket
with a golden ticket.
(Mine's on Tesco economy
printer paper, though.)

Until now. Yeah, you heard. Until now! One of my 40th birthday presents was a ticket to the second semi-final! Having thought I'd only ever cheer along in front of my TV, I'm going to be in Lisbon to soak up the Eurovision week atmosphere. I cannot wait. If it's anything like Copenhagen, it'll be reminiscent of when the Olympics hit town. A lively mix of people from everywhere, all converging on one place to have the ultimate party. And I get to be there! What is particularly lovely is that I'll see the Thursday evening semi-final, and be back in my gaff for the Saturday night main event. My live-tweeting action will not be compromised. My Polish vodka will not be undrunk. My well-established routine for my favourite night of the year, remains in place. I'll just have some cracking first hand knowledge of the Portuguese vibe while I watch.

I drink a shot
whenever Poland
performs. Stocks
are low.

But for now, I'm still trying to get back from Wales. Will I ever make it from behind this camper van with the bikes attached? Will I ever see the Runcorn bridge again? Check back next week where I hope I'm awash with Eurovision afterglow.

Have a lovely week, folks.


*I've added a link for Graham just incase his show isn't broadcast in some of the far flung locations whose bots click my blog. But it feels daft. Without giving it much thought before, I listen to him significantly more than I do members of my own family. Between Friday night TV, Saturday morning radio, and the fact he commentates on my favourite night of the year, his presence, like breathing, needs no explanation.

**I was sitting on the left of the stage for that performance. Electrifying doesn't come near to describing the atmosphere in the arena when Conchita sang that.