Bravo Les Mamans, a very exciting performance. Could the baguettes now be thrown to the Klingons to keep them busy for a while?
NO! A baguette in the hands of a Klingon would be a weapon. (Just as they are with the average Breton,)
Eek! My mistake 😬, sorry!
Helena rushes in, white-faced:
Alors, je n’arrive pas a trouver l’Italie! Ou sont les Klingons? Et les baguettes? Eek! [So, I can’t find Italy! Where are the Klingons? And the baguettes? Eek!] 😯
There is muttering from the Italian group. There are grumbles about the French nicking the food theme and the fiddle player is having to work very hard to stop the woodwind section trying to whack the French contingent with their instruments.
The backing musicians for the Irish entry are assembling backstage. The circulating plastic bottle is now almost empty. A certain circulation of outfits also seems to have taken place, with some of the a Loyal Sons in the cassocks spray-painted with flames favoured by the Inquisitors, who in turn are sporting peaked caps at jaunty angles, and very approximately buttoned frogged jackets.
The Klingons want to dip baguettes into prune and piledriver drinks. They've also been told about cheese, and want to get some.
They enjoyed the French number greatly. They want to know if they can immigrate there, it's close to Lichtenstein, and bigger. Do the French also have alpenhorns?
In the meantime viewers in more urban areas have been receiving home deliveries of fresh baguettes. Source unknown. As is the source of the jugs of prune juice materializing in kitchens. The authorities are investigating
Thierry: And now another word from our sponsors
Sponsors: Buy more of our stuff. Try our new range of baguettes pre soaked with prune juice. The food of warriors
At least that’ll make them too soft for fighting with!
Will this all lead to shops and supermarkets with bare shelves where baguettes and prune juice should be?
Practice: I think there is a problem with next act. I am not sure who is next. Where is that director when we need him? I understand it is difficult to get a video link to the Klingon home work, you should have e thought of that already.
Talking of wrinkled prunes, the Antarctican musicians have found their polar parkas too hot for the green room, so have discarded them and everything else and are lounging in what is left of the green room naked except for their socks.
'Hey! We're on! Who has the feckin' video from Bord Fáilte?'
'I've got footage on my phone of The Twelth'
'And I have some YouTubes of the Clancy Brothers'
The screen blossoms into aerial shots of the cliffs of Moher then abruptly changes to jumpy footage of flute bands marching up Donegal Place. A jam-smeared toddler lurches towards the camera - 'Sorry! That was wee Saoirse's birthday party'. The camera now zooms over the Mussenden Temple and the Giant's Causeway before doing a rapid montage of Trinity College, O'Connell Street and the Titanic Quarter without making it clear these are in different cities. It closes with four chaps in Aran jerseys singing 'The Wild Rover'.
The principal flautist of the Loyal Sons steps forward.
'Eat your heart out, James Galway!' He licks his lips and blows across the silver tube. A shrill plangent melody climbs, quavers and swoops like some mad lark over the auditorium.
The flute solo finishes in a series of batsqueak tremolos and Ayesha McKitterick steps into the spotlight. She is a small girl with the waxy complexion of the dedicated indoor type, enhanced by heavy mascara and purple hair. In a voice of surprising volume she sings -
It was the week of the Twelth I went to Donaghadee
On my summer holidays down by the sea.
I was sat in the bus shelter watching the drips
When you gave me a smile and half of your chips
The backing features a rugged upward scramble between flute and electric guitar, from the summit of which Ayesha launches into -
I walk in the streets I walk every day
I'm back but I'm gone, I'm home but away
I don't see the people I don't see the cars
My feet's in the Shankill but my head's in the stars
The music drops back into mournful.
We looked at the shops and walked the sea wall
We took us our selfies outside the Orange Hall.
Now we are parted for dear knows how long
I hope you can hear me singing this song
The lead Inquisitor - Pius himself - wrings a screech from his Yamaha evocative of high-speed cornering on a wet surface. Alongside him Billy McInerney hefts the lambeg and lays down a ground of staccato thunder. Drum and guitar combine in an assault on every frequency in the audible range. Small, unsecured items rattle. Dogs bark and cats hide under the sofa. A nearby seismic monitoring station registers a 3.6.
Into the numb aftershock Ayesha's voice rises like a sparrow ascending.
We talk on WhatsApp when we're on our own
But it's not the same, kissing a phone
My seaside romance, my love in the rain
The sun it will shine when we meet again
She looks up soulfully, the light glittering on her facial piercings, as the music swells
I walk in the streets I walk every day
I'm back but I'm gone, I'm home but away
I don't see the people I don't see the cars
My feet's in the Shankill but my head's in the stars
Thierry: That was heart warming. Loud but heart warming. When those engines started I bet there wasn’t a dry seat in the house. As we wait for the next act here is a word fro, our sponsor.
Sponsor: Buy more of our stuff. We have have just started a line in broken pieces scenery.
The Klingons are eating everyone's discarded Euro ear cheese. There's a discussion of whether this delicacy could be marketed on the Klingon home world for premium cash as an accompaniment to the new drink product "Piledriver Prune Pop".
The Italian contingent, who rather like their food, are slightly worried about what parlous state Klingon cuisine must be in that such things would be considered a delicacy there....
The viewers fear what the next delivery might be. If they are lucky, the extra toilet paper they ordered on account of prune juice. If not, this ear cheese which they all think is something the people two countries over enjoy but certainly not them.
In the absence of any action, Helena Belena is threatening to call her cousin in Denmark and get her to reprise the 2018 hit: Enter the Battleground! That’ll shift things faster than prune juice.
Alpenhorns have been banned, along with bagpipes. If we ever hold this contest again, I shall volunteer to represent Scotland. Yes, I have Scottish connections too.
Practice: while we wait a word from our sponsor.
Sponsor: Buy our new stuff. Our new baguette, prune juice and ear cheese smoothie. Boldly drink what no one has drunk before
The Klingons want to know about bagpipes. What is smoked within them? They're getting agitated waiting for the next act. They've been feeding the penguins prune juice and baguettes. Do penguins always turn green....?
A whisper comes into Patrice's ear:
The Italians are next, but their lyricist just needs to finish off on a PC rather than wrangling code on her phone.
The stage darkens again and the promo video for the Italian entry comes up. We see the two singers, who are brothers, looking wistfully at a picture of their grandmother whilst sitting at a dining table with empty plates.
As the lights come up the Italian flag is splashed across the screen. Giovanni is dressed in a stripey gondolier's top so tight he would struggle to use it whilst actually handling an oar, whilst Pietro is wearing a flouncy white shirt that is open at the neck to show off some of his chest.
The folk group backing them are carefully spread around the stage with a selection of flutes, clarinets, fiddles, a drum, and even an accordion.
As the opening bars of a folk song are played, it becomes clear that this is rather a wistful piece, and that they are going for the token ballad role.
The screen changes to a video of their Nonna (grandmother) in her kitchen lovingly stirring a large steaming cooking pot. It is quite obvious at this size that this has been done on a webcam, not top spec video.
We travel and work as hard as can be,
But when we are home it's always round to Nonna's for tea.
She feeds us like kings on the best home cooked fare,
So it's really quite sad we can't currently be there.
For starters we'll have bruscetta, or minestrone piping hot,
And if we get arancini , proscuttio or sarde, we'll definitely eat the lot.
Under this the drummer and accordion player start quietly reciting: baldo, cal riso, maratelli, vialone nano, carnaroli, arborio
Giovanni starts a melancholy solo: Her risotto's to die for, the gnocci fantastic, her polenta's divine,
I wish I could eat it all of the time,
But alas I am often away as labouring man,
Commentator: yeah right And now I can't go there with the coronavirus ban.
The recitation speeds up and changes to: Conchiglie, Farfarlle, Fusilli, Gemelli, Lumache, Orecchiette, Rotelle, Spirali, Trofie
Bucatini, Cannelloni, Maccheroni, Penne, Rigatoni, Spaghetti,
Vermicelli, Capellini d'angelo, Fettuccine, Lasagne, Linguine, Pappardelle, Tagliatelle, Farfalle, Orzo, Stelline, Cannelloni, Mezzalune, Ravioli, Tortellini
Paulo takes his turn with a slightly more upbeat tone: And as for Nonna's pasta, the angels would come for dinner
Just to see what delicious sauce she had on a simmer
Bolognese or pesto,
Vegetable creations,
Sausage sensations,
Magic with mushrooms, meat, and cream,
Just bring the wine and it'll all go down a dream.
On screen it's time to dish up...
The tempo of the music starts speeding up for the last verse, rising to a crescendo. We're missing her food so badly,
And none of our efforts are on par,
Which isn't surprising, because unlike Nonna,
Ours comes from a Jar!
We couldn't even make foccacia,
Because we couldn't find the yeast,
So watch out Nonna, when this is over,
We're coming round to feast!
With a final flourish of fiddles, Giovanni and Pietro turn to face the screen where Nonna is holding up a steaming plate of food to the camera.
Everything goes dark a bit quicker than it should, leading to some hissed comments of 'watch where you're putting that clarinet' as the band troops off stage, getting a bit closer together than they should in trying not to trip on the steps.
Comments
Helena rushes in, white-faced:
Alors, je n’arrive pas a trouver l’Italie! Ou sont les Klingons? Et les baguettes? Eek! [So, I can’t find Italy! Where are the Klingons? And the baguettes? Eek!] 😯
They enjoyed the French number greatly. They want to know if they can immigrate there, it's close to Lichtenstein, and bigger. Do the French also have alpenhorns?
Sponsors: Buy more of our stuff. Try our new range of baguettes pre soaked with prune juice. The food of warriors
Will this all lead to shops and supermarkets with bare shelves where baguettes and prune juice should be?
'There's some French blokes calling the shots.'
'One of them was calling from a cupboard a while back'.
'It' s them guys with the wrinkly foreheads next d'ye think?'
'I had a slug of their vodka and prune juice. Compared to the Sperrin Dew - feckin' amateurs'.
'Who isn't?'
No, just threaten to send a Klingon after them if they’re not back on stage pronto. It worked with Thierry and Practice.
Nector drunk by warriors,
Tastes better than blood,
Makes you strong and tough,
Makes you sing so joy-ful-ee!!!
(It rhymes and scans in the original Klingon)
Of the world for ever it seems
The Prune Anthem
(Apologies to O'Shaughnessy)
'Did you know you can order up a crate of Guinness and charge it to the show?'
'Ah well, never mind then'.
'I've got footage on my phone of The Twelth'
'And I have some YouTubes of the Clancy Brothers'
The screen blossoms into aerial shots of the cliffs of Moher then abruptly changes to jumpy footage of flute bands marching up Donegal Place. A jam-smeared toddler lurches towards the camera - 'Sorry! That was wee Saoirse's birthday party'. The camera now zooms over the Mussenden Temple and the Giant's Causeway before doing a rapid montage of Trinity College, O'Connell Street and the Titanic Quarter without making it clear these are in different cities. It closes with four chaps in Aran jerseys singing 'The Wild Rover'.
'Who brought the feckin' penguin?'
'That's no way to talk of Sister Ignatius'
'Eat your heart out, James Galway!' He licks his lips and blows across the silver tube. A shrill plangent melody climbs, quavers and swoops like some mad lark over the auditorium.
It was the week of the Twelth I went to Donaghadee
On my summer holidays down by the sea.
I was sat in the bus shelter watching the drips
When you gave me a smile and half of your chips
The backing features a rugged upward scramble between flute and electric guitar, from the summit of which Ayesha launches into -
I walk in the streets I walk every day
I'm back but I'm gone, I'm home but away
I don't see the people I don't see the cars
My feet's in the Shankill but my head's in the stars
The music drops back into mournful.
We looked at the shops and walked the sea wall
We took us our selfies outside the Orange Hall.
Now we are parted for dear knows how long
I hope you can hear me singing this song
The lead Inquisitor - Pius himself - wrings a screech from his Yamaha evocative of high-speed cornering on a wet surface. Alongside him Billy McInerney hefts the lambeg and lays down a ground of staccato thunder. Drum and guitar combine in an assault on every frequency in the audible range. Small, unsecured items rattle. Dogs bark and cats hide under the sofa. A nearby seismic monitoring station registers a 3.6.
Into the numb aftershock Ayesha's voice rises like a sparrow ascending.
We talk on WhatsApp when we're on our own
But it's not the same, kissing a phone
My seaside romance, my love in the rain
The sun it will shine when we meet again
She looks up soulfully, the light glittering on her facial piercings, as the music swells
I walk in the streets I walk every day
I'm back but I'm gone, I'm home but away
I don't see the people I don't see the cars
My feet's in the Shankill but my head's in the stars
Back in the Greenroom, the other competitors remove wodges of Eurocheeese from their ears and breathe a sigh of relief.
All except the Klingons...
Sponsor: Buy more of our stuff. We have have just started a line in broken pieces scenery.
Sponsor: Buy our new stuff. Our new baguette, prune juice and ear cheese smoothie. Boldly drink what no one has drunk before
The Italians are next, but their lyricist just needs to finish off on a PC rather than wrangling code on her phone.
As the lights come up the Italian flag is splashed across the screen. Giovanni is dressed in a stripey gondolier's top so tight he would struggle to use it whilst actually handling an oar, whilst Pietro is wearing a flouncy white shirt that is open at the neck to show off some of his chest.
The folk group backing them are carefully spread around the stage with a selection of flutes, clarinets, fiddles, a drum, and even an accordion.
As the opening bars of a folk song are played, it becomes clear that this is rather a wistful piece, and that they are going for the token ballad role.
The screen changes to a video of their Nonna (grandmother) in her kitchen lovingly stirring a large steaming cooking pot. It is quite obvious at this size that this has been done on a webcam, not top spec video.
We travel and work as hard as can be,
But when we are home it's always round to Nonna's for tea.
She feeds us like kings on the best home cooked fare,
So it's really quite sad we can't currently be there.
For starters we'll have bruscetta, or minestrone piping hot,
And if we get arancini , proscuttio or sarde, we'll definitely eat the lot.
Under this the drummer and accordion player start quietly reciting:
baldo, cal riso, maratelli, vialone nano, carnaroli, arborio
Giovanni starts a melancholy solo:
Her risotto's to die for, the gnocci fantastic, her polenta's divine,
I wish I could eat it all of the time,
But alas I am often away as labouring man,
Commentator: yeah right
And now I can't go there with the coronavirus ban.
The recitation speeds up and changes to:
Conchiglie, Farfarlle, Fusilli, Gemelli, Lumache, Orecchiette, Rotelle, Spirali, Trofie
Bucatini, Cannelloni, Maccheroni, Penne, Rigatoni, Spaghetti,
Vermicelli, Capellini d'angelo, Fettuccine, Lasagne, Linguine, Pappardelle, Tagliatelle, Farfalle, Orzo, Stelline, Cannelloni, Mezzalune, Ravioli, Tortellini
Paulo takes his turn with a slightly more upbeat tone:
And as for Nonna's pasta, the angels would come for dinner
Just to see what delicious sauce she had on a simmer
Bolognese or pesto,
Vegetable creations,
Sausage sensations,
Magic with mushrooms, meat, and cream,
Just bring the wine and it'll all go down a dream.
On screen it's time to dish up...
The tempo of the music starts speeding up for the last verse, rising to a crescendo.
We're missing her food so badly,
And none of our efforts are on par,
Which isn't surprising, because unlike Nonna,
Ours comes from a Jar!
We couldn't even make foccacia,
Because we couldn't find the yeast,
So watch out Nonna, when this is over,
We're coming round to feast!
With a final flourish of fiddles, Giovanni and Pietro turn to face the screen where Nonna is holding up a steaming plate of food to the camera.
Everything goes dark a bit quicker than it should, leading to some hissed comments of 'watch where you're putting that clarinet' as the band troops off stage, getting a bit closer together than they should in trying not to trip on the steps.