Gertsamtkunstwerk

My spectacularly bad photos of the Classical Brits

Well, a few of them, anyway.

It was nice and comfy being in a box, but, ultimately it was too far away to get more than blurred, grainy photos. No worry; it will be on TV on Tuesday - well, brief excerpts, probably cutting the best bits and retaining the dross.

Plácido and Barbie

Mylene, a knight, a dame and a duchess

The Red Carpet at the Crossover Brits

A story of bad timing, missed opportunities and time-wasted!

I called the Albert Hall to find out what time the Red Carpet was happening and was told - 6pm, although it was well under way by 5.45.  In actual fact, I had made sure I got there a bit before that. I suppose if I was determined, I would have got there early afternoon with my sarnies and thermos and just hung around watching. But even though I wasn't working, Jimmy was. We met up and went for dinner at Carluccio's. Carluccio's is a wonderful inexpensive restaurant that serves fresh food - although they are clever at persuading you into side dishes where the price starts to add up. Unfortunately, despite it being delicious, I couldn't enjoy it, because of a ludicrous irrational and sustained anxiety attack. About what? Ultimately that my hopes would not be realised.

Well, my hopes were not realised, and my dreams most certainly weren't. But you know, that's life, I lived, it didn't mar my enjoyment of the evening as a whole. For a while I hung around outside the Stage Door. Aled Jones was around; Mylene Klass was flitting around with her curlers in. She seemed open and friendly but asked not to have her photo taken until her hair was done; fair enough!

I took two photos of the loveliest person there (Jimmy), just to test the camera settings, but other than that, I just took one at the Stage Door.

This is a Royal Scots Dragoon Guard. I assumed there would be loads of them, he was the solitary one taking a fag break. He turned out later to be the lone piper playing Amazing Grace. (I only like bagpipes either in the Albert Hall or playing Amazing Grace, so this was, obviously, a Bagpipe Win)!

Jimmy went to return some tickets to the Box Office and I asked someone hanging around whether anyone interesting had been seen. I was told that Plácido Domingo and José Carreras had already emerged from the Stage Door, and that people were waiting for Katherine Jenkins.

So I walked round to the front and positioned myself in exactly the same place as I had done three years ago from where one could watch the 'Reverse Angle' of the Red Carpet. Three years ago only one celebrity had actually spotted us (and blew us a kiss - Plácido,  of course), so it was a bit of fun to see how other celebrities reacted.

I don't think many of them were particularly aware of the growing group of people peering in, so it's unfair to deduce anything from their failure to see us. I expect they are being talked at from three or four directions, maybe anxious about the photos that have just been taken, trying to work out what to do next. And so on.  But I did get a couple of almost passable photos of Jonas.

One celebrity only passed the test! David Suchet, who saw me, smiled and waved. I pressed the button on my camera, at which point my battery gave out. Aaaagh! I enjoy watching Poirot, but although I like him, I've never considered myself a fan. He is now on my list of Genuinely Nice Celebrities.

The doors were opened to admit the dining guests who weren't doing the red carpet, so I went round the other side. I was surprised that I didn't have to wait long to get myself a place on the rail, and I watched as all sorts of people arrived.

I took photos. God knows why, they all pretty turned out pretty dismal. In any case, however decent my photos might have turned out, the official paps' photos will always be better. Furthermore, the subject matter on the whole was not that exciting.

Some bloke was walking round being all charm in some ludicrous jacket. I didn't have a clue who he was but I overheard someone say he was Jonathan Ansell. Still didn't mean anything to me.

Then four blokes got out of a car, all looking like cardboard cut-outs. I guessed they were some boy band, but as I don't know my McFly from my I don't know what, I wouldn't have known who they were but for someone saying they were "Blake". I had some vague memory of some anaemic crooning on the Festival of Remembrance.

They walked round the perimeter posing for photos. I had my camera round my neck, quite possibly on, with the nose sticking out. They looked at me expectantly, assuming that I wanted their photos, and at least one of them looked quite crestfallen at what I guess was my evident lack of interest.

Hayley Westenra and Faryl Smith also came near; they both seemed unassuming,  conscientious and polite, although, like all these other pop singers, I wasn't sure of their purpose at something purportedly about classical music.

Having seen Jonas, I was only interested in Plácido and José, but they didn't do the red carpet. Why I don't know. My speculation - and I could be way off beam here - is that José refused to do it (too big a superstar?) and Plácido out of loyalty declined to upstage him!

The Red Carpet was over, so it was time to go inside and kill time. I had had half a bottle of wine with dinner. Too early in the day and too much drunk before my stomach was full, it managed to hit me towards the end of the red carpet and I was slightly squiffy for a while longer. Nicely relaxed in that 'able to follow one's instincts without fear' way. Aled Jones walked past. I exclaimed to Jimmy "That's Aled Jones!" He turned round and impulsively, I asked to shake his hand. "Of course!" he replied and held his hand out, beaming a warm smile. Just a fleeting encounter, but one more to add to the Genuinely Nice Celebrities! Of course, by the next day, I was recounting the tale in terms of 'drunkenly accosting Aled Jones'!

Afterwards I went to the Stage Door. Neutrally, I asked someone 'if anyone important has come out yet'. I was told 'Katherine Jenkins, but she wouldn't let the likes of us near her'. I was asked for whom I was waiting. Cautiously, I said "Jonas Kaufmann and Plácido Domingo". That was clearly the right answer.

Various people came out and I took a few photos rather optimistically. I also realised that I am an idiot to myself. A few times people said "Excuse me" and I instinctively let them through, until I realised that what they actually meant was "Can I get in front of you and shove you out of the way." Eventually, I just turned to some big blokes, and just said "Do you mind not pushing?" They hadn't just pushed me out of the way but were shoving other people who were in their way. None of the names were lingering; perhaps unsurprising because there was drizzle and dampness in the air. I got two shots of the back of José Carreras's head.

I did get to speak to Jonas Kaufmann, rubbed his arm (yeah, that was a bit embarrassing), and said I was looking forward to Don Carlo. I loved his reaction, it was if he was thinking 'ah, someone who is enough of a fan to know already about my career'. He smiled and said that he was, too (looking forward to it). I asked him to pose for a photo, and he asked whether it was okay. It wasn't; I'd managed to do camera shake, but seeing that he was rather anxious to get away, I didn't want to be the irritating person who goes 'just one more, no, oops, let me get it right this time, sorry for delaying you Herr Kaufmann'. I would have missed him but for Jimmy noticing him come out of another door.

Not much later Lang Lang and Herbie Hancock also emerged from that door, but they were definitely straight into the car, no hanging about.

I hung round a bit longer; there were several of the 'usual suspects' I see often at The Royal Opera House. The big question was - where was Plácido? We all have had experience of waiting a long time for Plácido to emerge, but know that the wait is worth it. Someone said that someone inside had said that Plácido had left much earlier. We didn't know whether that was actually so, but some of us were conscious we had work the next day. Jimmy was getting restless, so I decided to call it a day. I wouldn't be surprised to learn that Plácido had emerged from the Stage Door moments after I got into a cab, because that would have summed up my cleb spotting for the day!

I'll stick the least worst of my photos up as and when, but don't hold your breath waiting for them, they're not worth it.

Recent Tweets

• 11:35 wailing and gnashing my teeth as I try to decide what to wear this evening
• 13:47 withdrawing my desire to audit MPs' expenses: I'm not a qualified fraud investigator and thus unsuitable for the post
• 13:53 Someone I know has two free tickets for Crossover Brits. If you want them and know me, let me know by 3pm. FCFS
• 15:16 OMFG! The sun is coming out!
• 17:36 I'm messing up. Missed Placi and Josep at Stage Door. Saddos await Barbie.
• 17:37 My anxiety attacks are getting beyond a joke.
• 17:40 Jonas is here
• 17:45 Jonas you just failed in fan appreciation
• 17:45 Jose is on the red carpet.
• 17:51 The Priests. And Charles Mackerras
• 17:54 My camera batteries are playing silly buggers
• 17:56 Lang lang. God this is boring
• 17:58 David Suchet. I missed photo.
• 18:00 David Suchet. I missed photo. No I didn't.
• 18:01 David Suchet. I missed photo. No I didn't. Lovely wave. Lovely man. Gert camera fail
• 18:04 Mylene klass looks better without her curlers
• 18:07 Lawrence llewellyn bowen fail
• 18:11 Some peroxide tart
• 18:18 Blake look more boring and bland than they sound.
• 18:27 What a bunch of nobodies pretending to be important.
• 18:44 Faryl smith - another talentless nobody
• 18:48 Too much wine. I need to pee
• 18:57 Well the feeling of being slightly tipsy has diminished the panic attacks. But where is he?
• 19:46 I've just shaken Aled 's hand. I'm not a fan as such but he is lovely genuine nice guy.
• 20:01 Placi is only doing that crap duet with Barbie. Jonas puccini and Verdi. My man:-)
• 20:18 Placi is only doing that crap duet with Barbie. Jonas puccini and Verdi. My man:-)i
• 20:20 You ought to be ashamed of yourself Senor Domingo. That was disgraceful.
• 20:32 Faryl will be good in 20 years. Except she will destroy her voice first. Alison bolson is good. I hate David Mellor hypocrite.
• 20:37 The Priests amateurish woodeness put Placi and Barbie's professional crapness into perspective
• 21:07 It is fair to say that Sir is looking gorgeous and youthful. Yay for the beard.
• 21:10 Barbie is due to sing Una Voce Poca. Should be good for a laugh
• 21:34 Lang lang and Herbie Hancock. Rhapsody in Blue. Suddenly the night comes alive with real music.
• 21:39 Alison Balsom's dress. Oh dear.
• 21:45 Oh Jonas! A lesson in how to sing. OMG I'm in love. He's the man!
• 21:59 I just boo-ed a singer. Barbie gave an off pitch embarrassingly amateur botch up. Who the fuck does she think she is.
• 22:03 The scots guards have won the pop record award. Poor Barbie. That's what she lives for.
• 22:18 Camilla, Kiri and Placi
• 22:20 Camilla, Kiri and Placi have presented the lifetime award to Josep. Placi said he'll be supporting Barcelona against United:-(

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My take on Gross and Bland

I have mixed feelings. I don't trust the Daily Mail and their agenda. On the other hand, I think that Jonathan Ross is a talentless overpaid tosser. And at least now I know what Russell Brand is. Apparently he's a comedian. I remember when a definition of a comedian included humour.

I'm really not frightfully bothered about the substance of what happened. I think obscene phone calls are illegal. I think nuisance calls are illegal. I also think there are laws against recording telephone calls and replaying them without permission. I doubt that what they did breached any of those laws. And I think people who are in the public eye have to accept that, almost by definition, they surrender at least some of the privacy rights that the rest of us value.

I have to say I am flummoxed that there appears to be a whole set of people, not just Gross and Bland, who think that what they did was amusing or entertaining. I don't mean that particularly in a disapproving way. Children get amusement by ringing people up and saying swear words, but I doubt this was intended as children's entertainment. I've got a bit bored reading about Jonathan Ross being 'cutting edge'. I thought at Live 8 he was dated and irrelevant with his homophobic remarks, and reprehensible for his cynical attempt to cash in. I understand subsequently he has engaged in sexual innuendo. I'm struggling to think what's innovative or cutting edge about that. Edginess requires an element of original thought.

A large part of me is wondering what all the fuss is about, but an even larger part is salivating at the schadenfreude what is sort of hitting this waste of space. He gets paid more in a day than many people get in a year, and I can't work out why. He hosts a chat show that gets its audience from people wanting to see the famous guest. He hosts a film programme which is researched and written by other people. I'm not saying that anybody can do it, but Charlotte Church and Mark Kermode seem to manage okay, probably for a lot less money.

You kind of feel that certain parts of the BBC are like certain parts of the City: staffed by people who are clones of each other, appointed because of who they know or because they can work for free for six months, and totally oblivious to what happens outside their small circle-jerks, so divorced from reality that they actually think that playground nastiness is not only entertaining but funny.

Pop stars - where are they now

Sometimes, when I see nobody-wannabes getting feted by the tabloid - and not so tabloid - press, I wonder where they will be in two years time.

I imagine, if you're young, and get paid a massive amount for doing nothing, it is natural to believe you're set up for life, either because the sums - actually barely enough to buy a house - seem like a fortune or because they assume that being a Model-Actor-Whatever is a guarantee of a long and rewarding career.

There are stories of Bros, at their peak, partying and larging it up in the lap of luxury, little knowing that they were being charged for their extravagant lifestyle which they naively believed was subbed by the record company. It is said that David van Day from Dollar has a hot-dog stand on the road to Brighton. I was briefly acquainted with a guy who joined a chart-topping band after they had topped the chart. He lives mainly on benefit, interspersed with an occasional nostalgia tour, and he seems incapable of having a conversation that does not refer to the past glories of his erstwhile colleagues.

In reality, I know that many pop stars whose pop careers don't endure, rejoin the human race and do the range of jobs that normal people do, often using the proceeds of their short-lived fame to set up a business.  I have known for some time that Kim Wilde does landscape gardening, and Richard Coles from the Communards is a vicar. This week I I learnt that D:Ream's keyboard player Brian Cox is now an experimental physicist, and that Bruce Dickinson of Iron Maiden is a pilot (and also an international fencer). I'm sure there must be many more out there.

Feet of clay?

Review: Rudolf Nureyev by Julie Kavanagh

The review is not a pleasant read, heaven only knows what the book is like.

I find it disappointing when posthumously biographies are written to reveal that a genius is a terribly flawed human being. I think we all know that no one is perfect, and that having superhuman skills is not equivalent to being a super human. I'm not much of a ballet fan, and I have no regrets at not having seen Nureyev live. From I see on the TV he was something special, and I don't think an exposé of his personality and of his private life can change my feelings about his dancing.

And yet, simply in writing this blog post, in reading the review, I am proving my insatiable thirst for salacious gossip. the more scandalous the behaviour, the more interesting the read.

Diana Day

Ten years ago, I remember it well. Which in itself is quite an achievement, considering how much I had had to drink, although clearly nothing like as much as Diana's chauffeur that night. I was out with my strictly-platonic friend Roy and after the pub shut he came back to my place and we sat talking until about 3 am, before he left.

Before I had t'internet, I wondered vaguely whether I should check out the news headlines on Ceefax but couldn't be arsed, going instead to bed, to rise at about midday. I nipped to the newsagent, more concerned with getting a Lottery ticket as an 'extra' to slip into my sister's birthday card. I then went to the counter and saw all these papers, with the front page being variously Diana Dead or Diana Seriously Injured. I turned to Jay the newsagent and said "It's terrible what rubbish these tabloids print." No, it's true, he said, she's dead.

Unconvinced I thought I would check out Ceefax at home, and was pleased that I happened to turn the TV on during the news, so it was true. I then realised the news was going on all day. The TV schedules were carefully culled to prevent any offence - only they missed the godslot, the only interesting telly that day, the late great Nigel Hawthorne narrating the history of how Christianity came to England, with the immortal - pre-recorded - line "And you never knew what fate would befall tourists in France in those days..." Great TV blunder! My friend Helen thought Coronation Street was weird, the Rovers being the only pub in Britain not discussing the Death of Diana.

I found the media coverage and public hysteria quite unbelievable, although Brycchan put it into context by describing the scenes of the crowds that gathered to mourn Nelson and to line his funeral route.

I found the attitude of some of my colleagues fairly horrendous. On the Thursday we had an end-of-audit meal, co-hosted in a Greek restaurant by myself and another Senior Auditor (we were the most senior present). People were going on-and-on with their media inspired mourning. I pointed out that our manager had lost his father the previous week, and I asked how many had even offered their condolences let offered the hand and ear of friendship to someone who was clearly very upset. One colleague was going "she was such a devoted mother"; I suggested that that was rubbish, said colleague was a far better mother, who wouldn't have dreamed of going on holiday without her children*, and certainly not sending them away for weeks on end to some boarding school*. Said colleague had deferred her University entrance until her 30s, having been bringing up her children, then went to University part time, and then was conscientious in her juggling an onerous job (and professional study) with the everyday responsibilities of getting the children off to school, supervising homework etc.

At the time I was working in an office on Buckingham Palace Road, and finally decided to go down to the Mall to see what all the fuss was about. Despite my cynicism, my compassion fatigue and my anathema at the hysteria, it was a memorable occasion.

What did not come over on the TV was the scent. An overwhelming scent of fresh flowers mixed with gently burning candlewax. I kept falling into conversation with people with the same views as me, what a load of hysteria but I've come out of curiosity, and it's quite extraordinary. What also lingers was the sense of peace and tranquillity, with the Mall being closed to traffic, allowing people to reclaim the street in safety, away from the incessant roar and smell of motor vehicles.

I wasn't going to watch the funeral, of course, then someone rang me to say that Martin** was playing the organ, so suddenly, it became compulsory viewing. (And didn't he play it well...I have the CD, but only for Martin's organ-playing and he doesn't even get a namecheck). Well, my 11 am appointment to get my legs waxed had to be cancelled, to my annoyance and that of the beautician. Eventually I rearranged it for the next Saturday, going there from breakfast with David in town. I bought a train ticket from Victoria to Streatham Hill, then walked down the High Road to the beauticians, before getting the bus outside WH Smith and inadvertently fare-dodging, which ended me up in Camberwell Green magistrates court, pleading guilty in my absence. So, my current hassle is all the fault of the bloody Royal Family and that stupid bitch being too arrogant to wear a seatbelt. Perhaps I should have done what some high-powered businessman did in high-powered negotiations with the Lambeth Chief Exec - breakdown in tears and say he was very upset at Diana's death; Heather was not sure whether the waterworks were genuine or a clever negotiating tactic.

* okay, I know people have their reasons, and it's not my place to question or criticise valid reasons, but I didn't like this idea that somehow Diana, as well as being a saint, was also a role model parent

** the one great love of my scholdays

Celebrities, dontcha luv em

So, Britney gets even more classy; first the marriage that didn't last long, then the one that everyone knew would be short-lived, and now she's pregnant again, but doesn't know who the father is.

Then Lindsay Lohan, apparently she's been in films, but none that I've seen, goes sunbathing in Malibu* but keeps her dress round her ankles to hide her tag she's picked up for drink driving. Then gets in a car and drives, and gets arrested. What is it with these people completely addicted to cars? Can't they, like, walk? Or with - presumably - her money, couldn't she have called a minicab?

But Celebrities of the Week must go to Jordan and Peter in their naming of their new daughter (have you noticed how these plastic clebs all breed like rabbits?)

We've put an accent over the first A to make it more exotic and two Is at the end just to make it look a bit different

. And her first name is 'Princess'! Ooh, nothing like damaging a child for life. Doubt she'll be getting GCSEs with a name like that! I remember that Wayne and Waynetta Slob called their child Spudulike because it was exo'ic! Classy!

* I thought that was a drink

Davy goes to Hollywood

Beckham agrees to LA Galaxy move

On the face of it, it makes no sense whatsoever. Certainly not in footballing terms, playing for a team in a country that doesn't get football as an adult male game.

There was a sort of explanation on BBC News 24 that said that it gives him full access to the income from his advertising, half of which currently goes to his club - and by implication that is the same for other footballers.

The way I see it, he could move to many Premiership or equivalent clubs in Europe and, being David Beckham, get a contractual clause to ensure that all his advertising revenue goes to him. So I don't buy that one.

No doubt, everyone's thinking what we're thinking: Madam Useless wants to break into Hollywood. If you're a young MAW, you move physically to Hollywood and you wait tables until the big break comes. But she's 33 this year and she's had three children. So she's way past it for thin decorative types. She's been around long enough that if some film director was really interested in signing her, they would have done so by now. They would have come to her. I assume her lip-synching days are over, her most recent records laughed out of town.

So why Hollywood?

My theory is that they're about to become full-time space cadets with the Scientologists. She's a desperately unhappy woman with no interests but in need of a crutch. Kabballah didn't work, and the rumours have been rife for a while that she's messing with Scientology - it's a bit more fashionable than Kabballah which is last year's fad. They attended the Tom Cruise-Katie Holmes wedding, further proof of their Thetan-like status.

And David gave an in-depth interview to BBC News where he kept referring to himself as 34. Which is strikingly bizarre for somebody who was born in 1975, and therefore, is currently 31 and will be 32 when this transfer happens. There seems no advantage in a sportsman and model raising his age, and if he's 34, that makes Victoria 35, and well past it for Hollywood starlet.

Mark my words, they are already being programmed by the Scientologists. Poor old David is so stupid in a likeable way but the Spice Woman is thibk in a dangerous way. Mark my words, Beckham Brat #4 will be a silent birth, with the placenta served up for David to eat, and before we know it, Posh will be lecturing us all about the evil of psychiatry or whatever in that unendearing stupid attitude of superiority she adopts.

I don't suppose the bank balance will be quite so healthy once the Scientologists have their hands on it.

I sometimes feel...

...that my past is catching up on me.

First I read that Daniel Ortega has been elected President of Nicaragua, then I discover that Jason Donovan will be on I'm a Celebrity Get Me Out of Here*.

And I'm ambivalent about both facts.

In the 1980s I identified in solidarity with the Sandanistas in Nicaragua. My support ranged from attending the marvellous Puerto Cabezas Festival in Manchester - twin cities, natch - to buying and displaying t-shirts and mugs with variations on the theme of "Nicaragua No Paseran!". I kind of regret that I was never adventurous enough to actually go to Nicaragua.

But I read How I woke up and smelt the coffee, which left a bitter taste in my mouth.

Reportedly, Bush was going to impose sanctions on Nicaragua if Ortega was elected, which seems all too reminiscent of the 1980s: we were in solidarity with Nicaragua not because we necessarily thought it was a socialist nirvana, but because we were angry at the overt and covert action by a corrupt US Government determined to destroy a democracy that was of the 'wrong' hue. Just like they are determined to destroy the popularly elected and socialist Hugo Chavez in Venezuela. Maybe one day Bush will learn the awkward truth that people are perfectly entitled to vote other than the way he and his bullying cronies want them to...

...Democrats seize control of House, Virginia key to US Senate control...

And I'm not sure that I can bring myself to watch the awfulness that is reality TV. I did try to watch Lee Sharpe on Celebrity Love Island, but I never made it past the first commercial break. I can understand why the celebs do it - easy money and an upturn in name-recognition. But it doesn't mean I am obliged ot watch it, or to acknowledge its existence, or care about what happens, or accord it any importance, even in the relative squalor of low-rent telly. But as a former member of the Jason Donovan Fan Club, as well as the Lee Sharpe Fan Club, it seems a betrayal.

I've heard Donald Rumsfeld has some time on his hands. Maybe he fancies a spot on a celebrity reality TV show. Probably be better if he turned prison visitor, though, go and cheer up his old mate Saddam.

* impressed or what - what other blogger do you know who could write an almost cogent blogpost linking Daniel Ortega and Jason Donovan?

Celeb spot spot

I saw someone incredibly famous yesterday but I'm not sure who it was.

Outside the building, I spotted a police motorbike on a blue light, stop at the junction near our building, and I heard the telltale sound of whistles. "Ooh," I thought, "a VVIP". The last one I had seen was senior German government minister; prior to that Tony Blair. Outriders, police cars. Wow I thought, this is VVVIP, more police than the Prime Minister. Who can that be?" An enormous Rolls Royce glided by, looking very like this one with a badge on the front to signify the presence of VVVIP, not merely the chauffeur. In the back I could see two figures, one of them definitely a woman.

Excrutiating celebrity couples

Conversation at work today about a hotel and specifically the bedroom with a pulpit in it. I said I couldn't possibly have a dirty weekend there, notwith my catholic upbringing giving me a guilty conscience.

R. said - there's guest book and lots of famous people have been there. I said,it would be all right if it was someone you really liked, but imagine if it was, say, Jimmy Tarbuck.

M. said Or Judith Chalmers.

And I had this thought of Jimmy Tarbuck and Judith Chalmers having a night of pasison in a Gothic rectory.

But I'm sure you could think of something worse...

The comments box is open...

Classical Brits, Stage Door

Would it be too surprising to read that with two members of SOSSLED on the rampage, there was a post-Crossover Brits session at the Royal Albert Hall Stage Door?

Stage Doors, what fun! Iit can be a right bitchfest hanging round a Stage Door, especially when there's a lot of fans. You take everyone in, soon find out who your allies are, work out who are the pushy ones or the ones who will try and grab a Star's Attention with brown nosing or "It's all about me, me, me, me..." At least we - they - were spared the scarf-knitters and cake-bakers...!

Of course, my main objective was to meet Plácido. Well, strictly speaking my dream was to swoon into his arms, but I'm nothing if not realistic...that was not going to happen! However, I was also looking forward to meeting Rolando, too. And I was interested in anybody else interesting who might appear. Some got away, others were photographed, but I'm falling behind with my photo-editing!

Nicky Spence. He had not come over as being a bad singer but of the four tenors on display he was undoubtedly the least impressive by a long way. Still, he seemed a personable enough chap, despite a dodgy sartorial selection: red-on-black pinstripe kilt suit.

Lesley Garratt teetered out and was roundly ignored. Perhaps one person sought Hayley Westenra's attention. Darcy Bussell got away far too quickly, or else we would most certainly have grabbed her. Karl Jenkins was again pleasant and approachable but was engrossed in conversation in Welsh with a chap playing the role of Long Suffering Husband to the Domingo Groupie next to me*.

John Rutter emerged and looked like a fox caught in the headlights. Although it would have been nice to engage him in conversation, it was clear he was ill at ease and just wanted to get away.

Vittorio Grigolo bounced out. Oh, we like him! We had been warned that he's like an over-excited puppy, and I think that's true! He was very bubbly with the fans, obviously high on adrenaline, and he finished off his Stage Door appearance by standing with his back to the crowd and tossing his bouquet over his head to be caught by a random person in a mad scramble. I think it is fair to say that there is an addition to my List of Tenors!

Then Tony Pappano emerged, accompanied of course by the lovely Mrs Tony. We were all over him, gushing about Gotterdammerung, as one does after a Crossover award ceremony! Of course offering our congratulations for the T&I award!

Then Madam I Am flounced out in That Dress clearly intent on making a grandstanding appearance. She wasn't exactly knocked over in the scrum of enthusiasm, although a few people did extend their programmes in hope of autograph. She was greeted by a sotto voce chorus of "I'm a Barbie Girl in my Barbie World" from the representatives of SOSSLED. To emphasise what a star she was she grandly announced with a flourish and a wiggle, "That's all folks, I'm sorry," although, in fairness, when the woman next to me pointed out that there was a man behind us in a wheelchair who wanted to meet her, she did go over to him. He, BTW, was graciously minding Faye's coat. You see, it's all about team work! This woman next to me, who surely qualifies for SOSSLED membership, muttered something to the effect of "Now get out of the way you talentless young singer, we're waiting for a talented old singer," only more succinctly and eloquently.

She was followed out by an enormous packing case. "Ooh, look Katherine Jenkins' make-up bag!" exclaimed Faye to not inconsiderable chortles from around.

I then got a 'battery low' warning on my camera, and immediately went into panic mode, hurling the contents of my handbag to the ground in an increasingly desperate attempt to locate my spare battery. Finally, I found it, and had just replaced it in camera when Faye said "Here he is...". "Who?" I asked. "Plácido," she said (do you see a pattern emerging here?)

And there he was, and again I went into trembly mode. It was at this point of course that amnesia set in and much as I would like to remember every little detail of the time I spent with Plácido, I was so bowled over by being so close to him and so mesmerised by being in his aura that my memories are not as clear as they should be, and I lack the words to articulate exactly what I was feeling. I will say that of course, he did no grandstanding, no "I'm a big star" but did suggest that we moved away from the Stage Door because other people want to get out.

He was mobbed, there is no doubt about that, and, really, it would have been a bit of reality check to Barbie if she had witnessed it. I spent a lot of time just gazing at him, especially into his eyes. I will say that I am disappointed that he is currently sporting a beard, although I do understand that it's for Cyrano de Bergerac, because I don't like beards; that having been said, I prefer him with a beard to any other man, but I prefer him clean shaven. I summoned up the courage to ask him for a kiss. "Of course," he said. I later told Faye that we had snogged full-on, tongues and all, but whether that is the truth is for her and you to guess, and for him and me to know.

Faye did not witness my kiss with Plácido (at some point I would love to ask him for Un bacio. . .ancora un bacio). She had spotted Rolando Villazón and was adding him to il catalogo. Someone was giving him a good ticking off, saying that it wasn't fair that he and Plácido emerged at the same time, splitting us up. Rolando was being really bubbly; someone asked him how he felt about having sung a duet with Plácido and he was fulsome in his excitement, saying that it was a dream come true and of all the singers he could sing with there was no one he wanted to song with more than Plácido. It may be just my imagination, but when we had seen them beforehand, I thought he was almost as starstruck as we were! That's what I call "Living the Dream..."!

I said "Rolando, can I have a picture of you for my website?" and he suddenly recognised me, and greeted me warmly, and pulled a funny face. I shall not publish that photo but I shall treasure it for ever. He's lovely!

I did have a terrible thought when we were stood outside the Stage Door. There were lots of er, elderly, ladies waiting to stalk Plácido who have probably been fans of his almost as long as I've been alive. I remarked to Faye that in thirty years time we'll be the little old ladies waiting to stalk Rolando when he's coming to the end of his career.

The evening finished with Faye blatantly going over to Plácido, flinging herself at him and almost causing a situation as she tried to follow him into his car, in a desperate bid (from her) for a kiss and (from him) to escape this mad predatory stalker** Faye also asked Plácido for a kiss, and her request was granted.

We hobbled down to the Tube high on emotion at a bloody wonderful evening.

* Special tribute ought to be paid to Long Suffering Husbands/Fiancés/Boyfriends of Domingo Groupies who know they will always be only second in the affections of their Wives/Fiancées/Girlfriends ;-)

** Get your own blog if you want to present your version of history...

Classical Brits, the show

I won't go through the running order in tedious detail, and to some extent I am not sure I really have a great deal to say about the actual musical performances. There's plenty of other reporting already online, and I'm inclined to agree with comments about the poor quality sound system and the rather anaemic sound of the otherwise excellent English Chamber Orchestra. I don't particularly want to hear my favourite opera singers through dodgy amplication, when they are perfectly capable of filling the Albert Hall with a glorious unamplified sound. Just because Barbie and the thankfully absent Bocelli need amplification doesn't mean that real singers do.

The reason for me getting the ticket was to see my lovely Plácido and I shall devote a whole separate entry to him...which might not be this evening, because I have a hot date tonight with the real love of my life*.

However, there were some other highlights. I have adored Kiri te Kanawa's voice for almost as long as I have been crazy about Pláci, and she features in a couple of my favourite DVDs, supporting the tenor, of course. But I have never previously heard her live and I doubt I will again. I can't I say I cared much for the In Paradisium, but when she sang O mio babbino caro, I just loved it. I had hoped, but, to be honest, not expected, to be able to greet her at the Stage Door.

I was not sure to expect of Vittorio Grigolo. I had been very sceptical of this Italian tenor who hit the top of the album charts with a pop album. "The new Bocelli" I had assumed disparagingly. But a look at his CV showed that he has played some serious roles in serious operas in serious opera houses. He sang one song and one aria that I love: Maria, and Una furtiva lagrima. Not the best choice with which to impress me, considering the company he was keeping. I can't get enough of Plácido singing Maria, and whisper it quietly the very best version in my entire collection of tenors singing Una furtiva is Rolando. But you know, even with the odds so stacked against him, he most definitely won my approval. The women either side of me were, like me, present to hear Plácido and were delighted at Rolando's presence as an added bonus. After Vittorio had finished we turned to each other and excitedly agreed "He's the real thing!"

I was well impressed by Alison Balsom on the trumpet, especially in the Rachmaninov Vocalise. I do believe she was the only non-singing soloist, which scuse my cynicism, hardly makes this the full deal in regard to classical music.

I couldn't really disagree with any of the awards given (well, with one exception...). Congratulations to all the winners. It was great seeing various celebrities trooping on. Tom Conti earned a big coo and gasp, certainly in my part of the hall. I hissed when David Mellor was announced - well, it was election day - but I actually cheered him when he expressed his opinion that Tony Pappano is the best thing to happen to Royal Opera House in a long time. In case you hadn't realised I am a great admirer of the lovely Tony.

One of the award presenters was Katherine Kent. I do not believe that most people around me had the slightest idea who she was, but me as an avid Royal Watcher knew she is the former Duchess of Kent. I have to admire her as someone who, post divorce, hasn't gone insisting on retaining her royal-title-by-marriage and I know from my reading of the music press does a great deal of work for charity that doesn't scrape the radar of the mainstream media. So three cheers for Katherine Kent!

I was singularly unimpressed by Katherine Jenkins winning the album of the year for Living a Nightmare. I had voted for Bryn (under orders) although I was secretly hoping Nicola Benedetti would win. If you happen to watch it on the TV and hear a woman screaming when Bryn's nomination was announced, that wasn't me...but I know who it was! Myself and my immediate neighbours were not impressed by her constant prancing and preening in the arena, and the way she made sure she got her make-up touched up by some flunkey, even though it was a complete surprise she had won...yeah, right she would have turned up, in an obscene £375,000 chav dress if she wasn't going to get the limelight. As she concluded her speech, thanking the cat and whatever, I found myself sticking my fingers in my mouth in a vomiting simulation, which isn't habitual with me and yet was entirely involuntary.

Unfortunately, although my box and the one immediately to my right had Pláci fans at the front, behind us were Katherine Jenkins fans who chattered away intermittently, especially during the quiet bits, and horror of horrors, during the introduction to Rolando's aria.

But thankfully, she didn't attempt to sing. That would have been a nightmare too far.

But, Plácido aside, the major highlight of the evening for me was Rolando Villazón. Believe you me, if I hadn't already got a ticket because of Plácido, I would most certainly have done so for him. To hear him sing Recondita Armonia from Tosca was a thrill and a treat; and he looked great against a spectacular backdrop of a hundred candles (the standard candelabra looked dangerously precarious but thankfully didn't fall over). I owuld have loved him to have sung Com'e gentil from Don Pasquale; Faye would have liked Kuda...Kuda (she asked him whether he would be singing it at Faenol; he said probably not).

UK residents, and perhaps also some of Western Europe will be able to see the highlights on ITV1 at 4.45pm tomorrow and repeated a week on Sunday in the late evening. No doubt they'll cut all the bits I have highlighted here and devote half an hour to Barbie's dress...!

Photos - I haven't completed editing my photos yet, so it's definitely work-in-progress...!

* Just in case anybody has any doubts, the most wonderful way of passing the time is going for a meal to a good restaurant with Jimmy, the only man for me.

How the professionals photographed the Red Carpet

Wire Image has various pictures from the Crossover Brits Red Carpet. I can't work out how to permalink to that site but is a fantastic resource for photos, with a functioning search; with free registration you get decent sized, albeit watermarked pictures. It is possible to pay and get non-watermarked ones, but I'm too much of a skinflint.

Classical Brits, the Red Carpet

We realised that our boys, and Warbling Barbie, were about to do the Red Carpet, so we dashed round to the front of the Albert Hall. A phalanx of photographers and not a few camera-wielding fans were lining the route and we didn't really get anything like a good enough view. This was the point where I started stirring trouble. Some woman came over to me and asked "Who's that woman over there?"

Sweet innocent me said "Oh it's that ghastly Warbling Barbie who can't sing, what's her name, Katherine someone or other, Jenkins, isn't it...?" So this woman looked at me with total hatred and said "I know who she is, but the one in the white." "Oh that's Alison Balsom...". This woman had no idea of whom I was talking, so I explained "The trumpeter..."

We realised we were going to see nothing whatsoever of the red carpet parade so it was time to launch Plan B, the Cunning Plan, that involved rushing round to the glass doors on the other side of what counts as a grand vestibule at RAH. I say rushing, by this point we had remembered that the first tightless/sockless day of the summer creates murder for the feet, and let's just say we were not wearing the sensible shoes. And we got really lucky, because as we pressed our noses against the glass, peering in yearningly like the kids not invited to the party, Plácido blew us a kiss. He is just so unbelievably cool! Faye exclaimed "I never realised he was such a flirt..." Oh yes!

We watched a veritable list of celebrities roll up and be photographed. Some of them interested us more than others - for example, it was fab to see Darcy Bussell. I was utterly delighted when the wonderful Tony Pappano arrived and I sussed immediately that Tristan und Isolde had won the Critics Award. I was more pleased than I would ever imagined possible (ie pleased) to see Aled Jones. Vittorio Grigolo - at that point we were reserving judgement on him; Hayley Westenra; some geezer in a pin stripe kilt who we assumed was probably from one of these ghastly boy bands but turned out to be Nicky Spence; Lesley Garratt falling out of her dress; and then Faye exclaimed, "There's Jilly Cooper...!" For a moment I thought she was winding me up but no, it really was Jilly Cooper. As you know I am an unreserved admirer of this very great novelist...!

But the star of the red carpet was undoubtedly Warbling Barbie. Or do I sound like Hello Magazine? She preened and posed and then someone pointed out to her the growing crowd of peasants peering in from the far side, so she flounced over and struck a provocative pose, demonstrating to us how she was not too big a star to condescend to spend some time with us the little people. Just a shame we had already seen a proper star, who'll still be selling out opera houses when her boring voice is shot to shreds, who without ostentation or pose had already made our day. Ah well, she's living the dream...

We were then recruited by a Market Research Company on behalf of the Albert Hall, who will contact us to arrange face-to-face interviews in order to find out our opinions about the show. I am so looking forward to that...! The woman who signed us up was getting all dreamy eyed about Plácido and his Latin charm, so we said he had blown us a kiss, and she was so jealous...

Photos

Footballers in the News of the World

My site referral statistics are telling me some names....

Will Young
Matt Taylor
Jermaine Jenas
Cristiano Ronaldo
Alan Smith

Actually, those last two names have featured frequently in my site stats for a couple of weeks now...

Update: Incidentally, double standards alert having got all those search requests I felt the urge to click to the NOTW story. I'm neither linking or copying it; by next Sunday it will have disappeared out of cyberspace.

I happen to think that it's an example of tabloid journalism at its worst. Assuming the story to be true, and regardless of who the names may or may not be, it is absolutely not in the public interest to publish it - just because the public is, clealy and inevitably interested, I cannot find any justification for publishing what some young men happen to do in private. Indeed, it seems to me that it is an invasion of their privacy, with no justification.

There is a public interest to be served in outing politicians, journalists, religious people etc who preach homophobia in public and practice homosexuality in private. But a bunch of footballers and a pop star, who, if it is that one, we all know to be gay anyway, and to my knowledge has never demonstrated any hypocrisy about it. The footballers, whether they are genuinely bisexual or just bi-curious, experimenting, or whatever, so what. What is the problem?

Actually, the problem lies with many of those who are desperate to know the identities. Although we live in a society which (often grudgingly) accepts that some showbiz people and politicians are gay, we haven't been able to accept that sportsmen are (and we're a bit unsure about sportswomen, too).

It must be extremely difficult for a footballer who is young, who operates in that macho neanderthal largely homophobic world one moment and then goes to the trendiest nightspots in eg Manchester and discovers lots of other young men who are out gay, or relaxed about their bisexuality, or just totally metrosexual. Probably some of those footballers have non-footballing friends who are gay, but then a footballer or two gets 'found out' and they're up against the retarded views of the News of the World, when suddenly, it's quite a different deal from the designer bars of Canal Street.

In my ideal parallel universe I would love the News of the World to explainwhy this story matters. It is only printed to sell copies. Naturally, I didn't buy a copy, but my interest was stimulated. If their sex life interferes with their performance on the pitch, well, that's another matter, but one that could never be proved, and is likely to occur whether the sex is gay or straight, casual or in a committed relationship.

A Man For All Seasons

You know, I really hate that celebrity worship thing when people book a theatre ticket just to see a star name.

In other news, I have just rung up the Theatre Royal Haymarket to book a couple of tickets for Robert Bolt's fascinating play about Sir Thomas More.

"May I have two tickets for..." I said

"Sure," said the woman. I felt a frisson of delight, thinking she had said...oh, never mind...

Idolatory

Hello, let me introduce myself. I am not a young man, but I don't think of myself as old. I am aged 40-55.

I might as well mention now, because it will come out sooner rather than later. I am an Agnetha Fältskog fan.

Well, I say 'a fan'. Her number one fan.

I have been for about thirty years now.

I think about her every day. I feel obliged to, because I know she thinks about me. I worry about her. I worry about the people round her. We only want to be together but *those people* have poisoned her mind, telling her that I'm dangerous.

Me, dangerous? I adore Agnetha. Come to my bedsit. The walls are adorned with pictures of her. All along the table I position my Agnetha Falkstag dolls. I say table, but it only has three legs. The other corner is supported by copies of the Guinness Book of Hit Singles from the 1980s I bought at a Jumble Sale. I took the Abba pages out and had them laminated in Rymans, then I stuck them up in the kitchen with Blu-Tack. I wanted to use the Pink version, but they don't sell it nowadays.

Every week I go to the library and ask if they have got any new books in on Agnetha Falkstag, or if any other library has, so I can get them on inter-library loan. There was a woman there today, she asked me if I was interested in the Cyber-cafe.

I didn't know what a Cyber-Cafe was, but she showed me how to switch on a computer and use the internet, how to use this thing called Google. I had heard about the internet, but I thought it was just for lonely perverts. Not me, I've got Agnetha.

The library lady suggested that I typed something into this google, perhaps the name of an actor, footballer or pop star I liked. Trembling, I typed in "Agnetha Fältskog."

Now, I can talk to her without those evil people who keep her away from me. She has a thing called a website. I can leave her messages there, and she'll find them, like if I left them under the broken paving stone outside her front gate.

It's our secret. Mine and Agnetha's.

Celebrity gossip

The A-List

Probably vulnerable to lots of legal action.

And in some ways quite cruel. Personally, I am not especially interested if someone is a closet gay as long as they don't make a big deal out of being publicly heterosexual in order to con money or votes out of the unsuspecting public.

But this is also really rather hilariously funny. A lot of the stuff you kind of know already, and more of the stuff you know the rumours and have seen the arguments that attempt to disprove them. I can't say, reading through it, it has shattered any illusions.

It's tacky; it's entertaining. Hey, they're celebs, they want our approval.

Hygiencially challenged seems to be the most common description of these people. Eu, yuck..

Other phrases I especially liked include:

• Has a torture chamber in her house
• So enamored of himself he probably masturbates while holding up his own facial shot
• Isn't as nice as she seems
• had to get hormone shots to impregnate his wife
• Most likely riddled with every sexually-transmitted disease so far discovered
• Does not use deodorant
• Hypocritical moralist; Bill Clinton without the brains. Funded a girlfriend's abortion. At odds with his wife over how to treat his daughters' alcoholism
• Has a staff member remove her tampons during concerts
• Requires a penis pump to function with women
• Shouts his own name in bed
• Reportedly enjoyed amputees
• once made her assistant shave her armpits for her
• Repugnant, contemptible man.
• Has been stalking Tiger Woods. She's also stalked Kevin Costner, JFK, Jr. and George Clooney
• the most despicable human being yet born
• The nicest man you could ever hope to meet
• The most expensive courtesan since Mme de Pompadour. Vain, arrogant, unpleasant woman
• Obsessively searching for drugs to enhance and increase her orgasms
• Likes to cut herself before sex. Linked with her own brother
• Cheated on his pregnant wife and wouldn't see his son until six months after he was born
• There's a bright light shining here--through both her ears, unimpeded by grey matter
• Possibly mildly retarded
• has started throwing feces at people
• Nice guy, when not surrounded by handlers. The years have deflated his once massive ego
• Rumored to be able to pleasure himself orally, and willing to do so at parties
• Very gracious to his fans and the staff and functions he attends
• Big cokehead, but is afraid that it will damage her vocal chords and so has her assistant blow it into her anally
• Brought up as a girl for the first twelve years of his life
• All-around nice guy
• Has inverted nipples
• Exceptionally nice. The most charming, humble, wonderful man in showbiz.
• Dignified man; too cool for words
• Wasn't just a Pope; was also a Queen
• Homophobe and racist. Rapist
• Wanna Ride Her? Rumored to enjoy pleasuring herself far more than she enjoys or is capable of being pleased by her boyfriends
• Wife-beater and necrophiliac
• Egotistical and unpleasant (although reportedly quite good at oral sex)
• Bisexual but only when coked up.
• Reported to be either a hermaphrodite or a very well-made up transvestite