“Su brazalete demostró que era un rojo, Torres, Torres”

My first foray into gambling proved a fortuitous one, and I think it’s only fair that I take full credit for ending 44 years of hurt (or dolor if you will).

Had I been born and bred in Spain, I couldn’t be happier for this team than I am tonight. Knowing how much it means to someone so important to me, seeing players I love week in and week out at Liverpool triumph, it’s quite a heady mix. Ok, so I was watching with one eye half closed and the volume low to appease my aching head, but when ‘Nando scored what turned out to be the winner, I couldn’t help but scream (apologies to the neighbours, they won’t know what’s hit them once the season starts).

This Euro 2008 malarkey has restored my faith in football. Much has been made of the rebirth of attacking football, the Spanish and the Dutch in particular showing us what we miss when we watch the hoof, hit, then smother approach of teams like Chelsea. The drama of Turkey’s progress and last-gasp winners, almost doing the same to the Germans; the renaissance of teams like Russia who everyone wrote off after their first 90 minutes. Watching British broadcasting without cringing through the pathetic excuses made for the Home Nations – though special mention to ITV’s Clive Tyldesley for mentioning Man U and Cristiano Ronaldo approximately once every ten minutes, whether Portugal were playing or not.

Motty has retired from tournament commentary! I suppose with the Beeb losing pretty much all their football coverage, it was inevitable. I’ll miss his bumbling, stat-filled style – enough pointless asides to pass even the most boring of 0-0 draws. He made a couple of relevant points tonight as well, firstly: ha! Michael Ballack! worra final jinx; and also that this age of globalised football with overpriced foreign imports has its benefits for these tournaments. You’re rooting on your club players out of habit, but leaving aside most of the nasty baggage that has started countless pub fights. London will quieten slightly, no more enclaves coming alive in a sea of flags and beeping horns to let you know who’s playing tonight and who’s won. We’ll fill the gap with a thousand other events, from Canada Day to Pride, I’m sure.

I’ve surprised myself by enjoying this tournament, watching much more of it than I thought I would. Though if the universe had a conscience, I could have spent this evening with my dearest Spanish bud, a couple of bottles of Rioja and a giant television. It was okay as it was, but there are times that you really hate life for getting in the way.

I’ll leave you with this thought, courtesy of Nike:

Su brazalete demostró que era un rojo, Torres, Torres,
Nunca caminarás solo dice, Torres, Torres,
Compramos al chico en la España
Él coge el balón, marca otra vez
Fernando Torres, el número 9 del Liverpool…!!

Foto: © Prisacom S.A. – Ribera del Sena, S/N

Sergio Ramos wraps himself in his Andalucian roots and pays tribute to the late Antonio Puerta. (WP is mucking up my captions, soz)

“if you were queer, I’d still be here”

Miracles do still happen, I got the Saturday off for London Pride.  Anyone who has known me over the past few years might be surprised that a) I’m planning to go, or b) that I’ve even noticed when it is. 

There’s been a shift, especially in the last year or so.  In terms of struggles with my sexuality, I know I had a fairly easy time in comparison.  Such is my non-affiliatory nature (oh God, I was given a Union membership form the other day!) that I’ve always been loath to define myself by my sexuality.  That ship has sailed though, most areas of my life are affected by being a lesbian, I’m out at work and to my family, I am quite proud in a low-key sort of way.  It won’t make the haters hate us any less, but instead of getting uptight I’ve decided to go to two of the biggest and best parties of the year with my dearest friends and just have a freakin’ good time.   I may not be changing exactly, but I am evolving.  I’ll still have to grit my teeth when presented with Stonewall’s latest superficial cause, but I’m never going to be militant and that I can live with.

 

Not to mention that Brighton Pride falls during my scheduled long weekend.  FTW!

“something so right has got no chance to live”

It’s taken me a frighteningly long time to get around to watching Dreamgirls.  Before I can even begin to review it, can I simply state that I completely freakin’ LOVE Loretta Devine, and you should too!

So why the delay, Lola?  It’s a musical, it’s a film, and people were actually going to see it because there were big names in the cast.  Surely ample reason to be swept along in the cinema-going tides?  Well, for whatever reason, I didn’t.  But I do have a lovely friend R, obsessed with it and determined that I should be too.  Little did R know that I have the original soundtrack with Jennifer Holliday and the aforementioned Loretta “bloody fabulous” Devine, so I at least had an idea what to expect.  I just didn’t know if I could be bothered, or if I could resist the urge to slap Beyoncé for two whole hours. 

Turns out I could.  It was in fact possible to forget that Beyoncé was Beyoncé for much of the film, proving that she must have been doing some real proper acting.  Or perhaps it was the case that when Jennifer Hudson is on screen, why would you waste your time looking at or listening to anyone else?  It’s such a shame that Lorrell is the weakest of the three parts, because Anika Noni Rose is the very definition of a tour de force.  Yes, I’m a theatrical snob who thinks paying your dues by treading the boards makes you a better actor, and by extension a better person, but if you listen to the Caroline, or Change soundtrack a couple of dozen times you’ll be smitten too.   Hell, if the woman can even get noticed when you consider my unquenchable love and respect for Chandra Wilson, she must have been doing something right (and the Tony judges agree with me!).

Eddie Murphy was (surprisingly) perfect in the role of Jimmy Thunders, I suppose it needed an OTT personality, but he didn’t turn it into a comedic role, which had to at least be tempting for him.  Jamie Foxx is sort of okay, but I find him almost devoid of charisma.  Not what you want in a leading man really, even when the character is supposed to be a megalomaniac ass. 

The direction is wonderful for the most part, maintaining the slight breathlessness that gives the feeling of a live performance.  A dazzling vibrancy in the colours, full cinematic treatment of the score and enough retro kitsch to keep me happy.  If you can watch it and not spend the evening singing “One Night Only”, well then, you’re a better woman than me. 

There’s a rawness to the performances, particularly Jennifer Hudson’s superlative-inducing assault on the mother of all ‘end of act one’ numbers – And I Am Telling You.  It’s the sort of song that you can easily stick Whitney Houston-esque pyrotechnics on, but without the pain it’s pointless.  A song that’s basically grovelling on your knees to the man who’s leaving you, all the while trying to hold on to the dignity you’d die to keep.  That bleeding into the orchestra pit level of pure emotion isn’t easy to come by, but the collective goosebumps of the viewing audience seem to suggest that Ms Hudson nailed it.

Not necessarily the ultimate classic, and it’s not bumping Funny Girl from the top of my musical list, but it deserves its place on there at the very least. 

Fernando Torres, el numero nueve de Liverpool

I’m still not over it, I freakin’ love and adore this advert. Sure, it’s the corporate bastardisation of a new terrace song, but it’s ‘Nando and Spanish and Scouse and it makes me so happy I squeal. Now I just need to learn the Spanish lyrics and I’m sorted for the home games next season

The Euros are making me feel giddy and swept along in a neutral fashion, it’s sort of relaxing to just watch games without the distraction of boardroom squabbles, bantering with the opposing fans or worried if you’ll get your head kicked in on the way home (though that was possible with Greece going out, and if Turkey lose the quarter final, those are my main neighbours in this patch of North London).

Is it really still so long until the season starts? Come July I’m going to be in proper withdrawal.

“labels or love”

People can change.

To wit: I’ve hated peach for years. The colour, the fruit, the taste, the very idea of anything peach. Yet in Superdrug on Monday I willingly bought a conditioner with peach in it because I thought it smelled lovely. I loathe Mamma Mia with a fierce and deadly passion, believing as I do that it’s a threat to new musicals and total gems written by Sondheim and his ilk. Not to mention, pulling a shit musical out of a tribute act is just lazy. But damn those fuckers at whatever-studio-it-is, put Meryl Streep, Julie Walters and Pierce Brosnan in a film and you know I need to see it. From the trailer, it seems the campy/pantomimey bits might be less bland and annoying in the close-ups of cinema than they were in the hallowed space of the Prince of Wales.

Last night I ate a hotdog, and I never, ever eat hotdogs. Mostly because they give you yucky burps (well they do!) and probably because I’m conscious that 90% of them has never even been introduced to a piece of meat.

Speaking of pieces of meat, the hotdog eating occasion was going to see the Sex and the City film. I wouldn’t say I was a huge fan, though I did buy the ’shoebox’ boxset when I saw it on sale. I’ve been angered by the nasty press about Sarah Jessica Parker, there’s no need to get stuck in about her looks. Ok, she may not be conventionally attractive, but just don’t look at her if she offends your retinas so much. I love Cynthia Nixon, not just because of her new ‘out and proud’ status, and agree that it would have been a disaster if they hadn’t sorted things out to include Kim Cattrall.

Only two jarring bits: poo jokes? Really? And everything Harry said came out as if he was on a particularly high dose of lithium. I wasn’t expecting Shakespearean levels of craft, but anvillicious moments like “doesn’t she look like a princess?” made me gag a little.

If I have a particular brand of feminism, this is probably closest to it. I could give a crap about shoes, but substitute Manolos for Nikes and we could probably get along. I’m not one for ‘forgive and forget’ either, but if Joanna Gleason (she’s Canadian?!) shows up as a marriage counsellor it glosses over everything. Most of all I like that Samantha’s lifestyle can still be celebrated in amongst all the wedding and baby blah blah. As Kaite said on leaving the cinema last night, how many films celebrate the 50th birthday of a female lead?

The script won’t be winning any Oscars, and the ninety bajillion product placements were a little irritating, but if we can sit through 4-5 ‘Knocked Up’ boycoms every summer, I’m just glad that someone is standing up for the tastes of a large percentage of women.

Speaking of which, oh my dear God when is The Women being released? I need to see this film so much I could squeal. The women who brought us Murphy Brown (Diane English, writing and directing, plus CANDY B!) are making a whole film.

“bound to catch the heavens if they fall”

Shock, and indeed horror.   It seems that the Democratic primary system is once again throwing out a winner who can’t win the general election.   The election is close between these two, it’s not like Obama is the runaway winner, and yet Tomasky is still whining that we didn’t just pack up and go home after Iowa, basically.  I could like Obama, and any Democrat winning is the ideal outcome.  But in a year like this it should be impossible for the Republicans.  I honestly don’t think you can blame the protracted primary battle, if anything it’s increased Obama’s strength as a candidate.  All the same issues would have arisen, but at least Hillary pulled her punches on a lot of it, something the Republcians would feel no obligation to do.

While I’m here, referring to her campaign as ‘the Clintons’ is sexist.  I’m like, the definition of a non-feminist and I can call it as misogyny, so what does that tell you?  Oh, and Obama basically walks out of his church of twenty years, throwing every one connected with it under the proverbial bus.  So why is that just reported as fact and nobody is calling him on it?  Shouldn’t there be discussion over why he didn’t consider this at the start of the campaign?  Or why he’s changed position on this issue pretty much every time it’s been raised?  What is the influence of the church on his thinking and his policies, does it matter to him or not?  Not vital, but certainly important.  It’s just sort of sliding through as a non-event, but I’d like to see what would have happened if Hillary had the same problem with, I dunno, a rabid band of man-hating Methodists.

Ach, never mind.  At least she won Puerto Rico.  Vamos a hangear!!