Concours Eurovision de la Chanson - The Eurovision Song Contest

INTRODUCTION

Sometime between 1688 and 1698, French composer Marc-Antoine Charpentier composed his Te Deum in D major. About 250 years later the European Broadcasting Union (EBU) chose the instrumental prelude to the Te Deum, the Marche en rondeau, as the theme music to precede its broadcasts. It has since become inexorably associated with the EBU’s most popular broadcast, the annual Concours Eurovision de la Chanson, the Eurovision Song Contest. The first contest took place in Berne, Switzerland, in 1956, and in 1983 SBS broadcast the contest in Australia for the first time. I knew about the contest back then. It was hard not to after ABBA burst onto the scene in the 1974, and, of course, The Goodies’ Eurovision Raving Loony Contest, hosted by Miss Katie Pimple (no relation to Miss Katie Boyle who hosted the Eurovision Song Contest four times). I tuned into the 1983 broadcast and was immediately hooked, and have watched every contest ever since.

A VENERABLE INSTITUTION

The contest during the late ‘80s and early ‘90s had an institutional. The songs and constumes were changing, but many things remained reassuringly the same, year after year. The Marche en rondeau and the EBU logo announced that another Eurovision Song Contest was underway. The host or hostess spoke in French, English or their own national language. There was a live orchestra, and the conductor was introduced, often the same one year after year. Postcards were an integral part of the proceedings, filling in the time between performances. Sometimes they were about the guests’ country, sometimes about the host country, or sometimes about the guests in the host country. An intermission act, while the national juries deliberated, was normally something cultural and worthy, if a little dull. Then started the voting, but only after the venerable Executive Supervisor and Scrutineer, Monsieur Frank Naef, gave the official go-ahead.

The voting is perhaps the most entertaining part of the contest. The set script lulled the viewer into a false sense of repetitive dullness. “Hello Oslo, this is Valletta calling, here are the results of the Maltese jury. Sweden, one point.” A pause followed while the host or hostess repeated “Sweden one point, le Suede, une point.” One point, two points, three points, four points, five points, six points, seven points, eight points, ten points, and finally, twelve points, douze points. It seemed to go on forever. If there was a clear leader early in the vote, it could indeed get very dull. But if the vote was close, the suspense was excruciating. I loved a close vote. Rome 1991, hosted by the Neanderthal Toto Cutugno (who sang Italy’s truly appalling, yet inexplicably winning song in 1990) and the beautifully chic Gigliola Cinquetti (who sang Italy’s first winning song in 1964), was so exciting I nearly wet my pants! It went right down to the very last douze points and resulted in a tie between Sweden and France! The audience erupted, and Signorina Cinquetti called out to “Monsieur Naef, Monsieur Naef” for the official scrutinised result. Both countries received four douze points, but Sweden received five ten points to France’s two ten points. Sweden was thus declared the winner by Monsieur Naef (interestingly, under current tie breaking rules, France would have won).

It was also interesting to see who voted for whom. As sure as the sun rises, Greece and Cyprus would exchange douze points, Scandinavia awarded their neighbours liberally, as did Ireland and the United Kingdom. Sometimes a clearly winning song might receive nothing from a country that gave a truly awful song douze points. Sometimes an abysmal song might succeed because its sentiment appealed to the national juries. A prime example of that was the above mentioned win by Italy in 1990. The chorus, in English, of “Unite tonight, Europe” made a winner out of the sleazy Toto Cutugno and his awful composition Insieme 1992. On the other hand, sometimes an abysmal song failed simply because it was an abysmal song (I wonder if Yugoslavia’s Baby Doll ever made it to Brazil?) In those days, songs had to be performed in the national language of the competing nation. There was a theory that national juries were more likely to award points to a song they could understand. So, it was suggested, the United Kingdom, Ireland and Malta had an unfair advantage. There might be something to this; Malta has not performed a song in Maltese since 1972 (apart from a few spoken lines by Claudette Pace in 2000: don’t you just love a bit of cheeky talking?) Ireland has performed in Irish only once, also in 1972. In 1992 Ireland, the United Kingdom and Malta came first, second and third.

CHANGES FROM THE EAST

In the early 1990s the Eurovision Song Contest began to change. After the fall of the Berlin Wall, nations from the East joined the European Broadcasting Union and began to appear at the Eurovision Song Contest. Rules were introduced to keep the number of competing countries to a manageable 23. The concert venues started to change from concert halls to stadiums. The audience became more vocal; and national flags more prominent (including, for a couple of years, a Portuguese royalist who defiantly waved the blue and white flag of the old Kingdom of Portugal). However, the most fundamental changes occurred in 1999, marking the end of the traditional Eurovision Song Contest. Jerusalem was the host, and, for the first time, there was no orchestra. Live music was no longer mandatory, so the Israel Broadcasting Authority took advantage of the new rule to save money, and room on stage, by jettisoning the orchestra. It has never returned. The national language rule was dropped and more than half the performances were in English. 

Popular televoting had been used for a few years in some countries, and by 1999 it was the preferred method (national juries were kept on standby in case telecommunication services failed). As a result, gimmick acts started to do better, culminating in 2006 with a triumph in bad taste when Hard Rock Hallelujah by Lordi won the contest for Finland. In 2008 Dustin the Turkey from Ireland was booed, quite rightly, by some sections of the audience. Dustin was a low point for Ireland and the Eurovision Song Contest. The ascendency of image over substance became so bad that in 2008 national juries made a comeback. The national results are now a 50/50 combination of the popular vote and jury results. But it was probably too late. The gimmick acts seem to be here to stay.

SO MANY COUNTRIES, SO MANY POINTS, SO LITTLE TIME

By 2004 there were too many participants to be fairly culled by the relegation methods used since 1993. A semi-final was introduced, to be joined in 2008 by another semi-final. This reduced the number of participants in the final to a manageable number, and is the format currently in use. When it comes to the voting, however, every country, whether in the final or not, gets to have its say. There is no longer enough time for all the points to be read out in French or English, let alone both. The national presenters are also a problem. Gone, for the most part, is the dignified script of “Hello Dublin, this is Nicosia calling. Here are the results of the Cypriot vote…” National presenters now try to make the most of their moment in the lime light, screaming out “Hello Europe” and thanking the hosts for a great show! To speed things up, since 2006 the first seven points are automatically added to the scoreboard in one hit. The presenter reads out only the eight, ten and twelve points. It all happens so quickly that it is well-nigh impossible to keep track of the voting. 

In recent years, however, not keeping up with the allocation of une or douze points has not really been an issue. With so many countries voting, the front runner comes out way too early and stays there. The early mathematical certainty of a win, and points whizzing by too fast to notice, kills off any lingering enjoyment in the voting idiosyncrasies of Europe’s bloc voting habits. Also, with so many countries, even the most appalling song has a good chance of getting at least one point. There has not been a dreaded nul points in a final since 2003. No wonder Julia Zemiro opens up a packet of chips, or downs a couple too many glasses of bubbly: there’s nothing else to do. How I long for the years of a good close vote, like Rome 1991. 

Another great year was 1993, Mill Street, Ireland. Early in the voting the call from Valetta could not be connected and Malta had to be skipped. Another attempt would be made once all other countries had voted. At the end of the final jury the UK’s Sonia was on 164 points and Ireland’s Niamh Cavanagh was 11 points ahead on 175. Both songs had received votes from every single jury. But if Malta gave no points to Ireland, and 12 points to the UK, Sonia could still win. It was all down to the Maltese jury. “Hello Mill Street, Valetta calling” came through loud and clear. At each point the audience held its breath, but each time the points went neither to the UK nor to Ireland. But no! A stunned audience could not believe Malta’s choice of Luxembourg for ten points. Luxembourg was coming last with only one point from Slovenia. Sonia was still in with a chance. It was all down to the very last points from the very last jury. The anticipation was excruciating. After a good pause for dramatic affect, the voice from Valetta declared “Ireland, twelve points!” The audience drowned out Fionnuala Sweeney’s response of “Irlande, douze points, Ireland twelve point”, as it erupted into cheers. Ireland had won for the second year running. 

Another close year was 1999, but unfortunately I already knew who had won. I always go into a complete media blackout on the Sunday of the contest’s broadcast. In 1998, however, I was living in Canberra, the Nation’s Capital, and there was a problem over access to a TV. A few hours before the broadcast I unbolted the TV from a community room, and with some help, carried it up to my room. As I tuned in the TV, with its old-fashioned rabbit ear antenna, I caught a quick glimpse, on an evening news bulletin, of a woman singing. Later that evening I immediately recognised Dana International’s frock and hair. Oddly enough, a similar thing happened last year with a fleeting glimpse of a bearded lady as I switched off the evening news. 

THE COMMENTARY

For many viewers of the Eurovision Song Contest late last century, the commentary by the BBC’s Terry Wogan was an integral part of the overall Eurovision experience. Mr Wogan could be very funny indeed, and his quick wit livened up many a dull postcard. (One of my favourite Terry Wogan comments occurred during the 1990 contest in Zagreb. In the front row sat some of Yugoslavia’s most serious looking officials, including the Minister of Culture, “what’s he doing here?” quipped Mr Wogan.) But as the flood of new participants from the east increased, Mr Wogan’s tone took on a tinge of bitterness, and in 2008 he left the commentary box. For many years SBS plugged into the BBC broadcast, but in the 1990s, during the glory days of Ireland’s winning streak, SBS switched to RTÉ. The commentary by Pat Kenny was amusing, though somewhat understated and mellow compared to Terry Wogan. Because of the Irish accent, many viewers probably thought it still was Terry Wogan, and might have wondered why he was a bit subdued that year. In 1995, if memory serves me right, the broadcast started with the BBC, but inexplicably switched to RTÉ after the first act (or maybe it was the other way around), and there was even one year without commentary.

In 2001 SBS decided not to use the BBC or RTÉ commentary and instead introduced a local commentary team headed by Effie, hostess of her very own Eurovision Party. It was a disaster. Instead of the actual hosts we had Effie and her friends discussing proceedings. The postcards were cut, as was much of the voting. The tone was overwhelmingly one of mockery, and that did not sit well with loyal viewers. I was furious beyond words that night. How dare SBS presume to hack to pieces Eurovision? First thing Monday morning I was on the blower to SBS to voice my disgust and the previous night’s abomination. This I followed up with a strongly worded letter of complaint. A couple of weeks later SBS showed the full BBC broadcast. But SBS was still determined, by hook or by crook, to introduce local content to Eurovision. After licking their wounds for a few years, another attempt was made. In 2004 Des Mangan was packed off to Istanbul to provide a more traditional commentary for SBS. Again there was a backlash against SBS. But not from me. I thought Des Mangan was most acceptable. He had a thorough knowledge of the history of the contest, and, like Pat Kelly, an affectionately amusing style. But apparently viewers still wanted Terry Wogan, so it was back to the BBC for a few more years.

Finally, in 2009, SBS got the formula right. I had hoped for a return of Des Mangan, but it was not to be. Instead Miss Julia Zamero and Mr Sam Pang squeezed themselves into the commentary box in Moscow. Their commentary was relaxed and chatty, witty and informative: a fine balance that seemed to go down well with viewers. They have been with us ever since, now long enough to become a reassuringly familiar part of the contest. Who knows, in a decade or two, they may become as venerable Monsieur Naeff. 

A GIANT CHIP ON THE SHOULDER

The United Kingdom has won the contest five times, and come second 15 times. This century, however, it seems to be stuck in a particularly long losing streak. For some reason British commentators blame anti-British sentiment on the continent, and often get themselves worked up at the injustice of their predicament. But the truth is, as always, so much simpler. For many years now, the United Kingdom has entered some extremely average songs, some of which were performed so badly that they were doomed before the voting had even started. The worst had to be excruciatingly off-key performance of Cry Baby by Jemini in Riga 2003. It was a most worthy recipient of the dreaded nul points. In more recent years the United Kingdom tried using established stars who might have helped increase the number of votes. Andrew Lloyd Webber, Blue, Engelbert Humpledink and Bonnie Tyler were all given a chance, but unfortunately the songs were just too dull to have any chance of success. But the United Kingdom continues to blame everybody else for their doldrums. 

WHERE TO FROM HERE?

For the last few years I have been disappointed by the overall quality of songs in the contest.  Maybe I am just getting old, but I simply do not understand the appeal of elderly, gravel voiced male performers. I particularly dislike rap and would like to see it as reason for immediate disqualification. Incessant drums must surely be passé by now, along with quirky ethnic sounds (this is a music contest, not a lesson in ethnomusicology).   I also do not approve of some of the more titillating performances; this is a family show after all. Last year in Copenhagen, Poland relied on the gratuitous use of boobs to get through to the Grand Final. A few years ago, the Former Yugoslav Republic of Macedonia had some back up dancers who looked like they belonged in a seedy strip joint in down town Skopje.  There is nothing wrong with a cheeky Carry On style reveal, a la Lil Lindorf's 1985 wardrobe malfunction. But blatant smuttiness has no place in the Eurovision Song Contest.

I think the Eurovision Song Contest has two major problems in it current format. The first one is the voting. It is too rushed, it is almost impossible to keep track of the tally board, and an early run away makes the voting very dull. One option is to restrict voting to the countries in the final, and return to the traditional method of point-by-point presentation. I suspect this option would be very unpopular and extremely unlikely to occur. Therefore, loath as I am to see any changes to the traditional elements of the Eurovision Song Contest, it might be time to sacrifice the douze points, and award, for example, one, three and five points (as was the practice in the 1960s). It would make it easier to follow the tally board, and the results might be closer. You never know, the dreaded null points might even make a comeback.

The second problem is much easier to fix. It is the music, or lack thereof. The orchestra should be brought back, and, if a backing track is required, it should not contain any vocals. I would also be pleased if the national language rule was reinstated, but it is not vital. 

AUSTRALIA AT EUROVISION

After the announcement that Australia would this year compete in the final of the Eurovision Song Contest, various friends asked me if I was pleased. They were generally surprised, if not a little frightened, at my snappy response. I am vehemently opposed to Australia’s participation. Quite simply, it is against the rules, and that is that. I have no objection to the choice of Mr Guy Sebastian to represent Australia, and the song should score well. But I still do not approve, and I cannot wish Australia bon chance. 

I thought for a moment that I might not watch this year, but I know I will. I will not be able to stop myself. The lingering hope still remains that maybe things will get better. Maybe, just maybe, this year there will be some good songs. Maybe this year the voting will be tantalisingly close. Maybe this year the winner will be a deserving song, sung by a singer who can actually sing.

Travel Diary - Mongolia 1993

Friday 2 July 1993

Ulan Bator

Last night, at about 8 o’clock, there was a knock on my door.  I opened it and was greeted by a very tall Mongolian woman with a very deep but soft voice.  She looked over her shoulder, and then leant in closer to me, as if she had a state secret to impart.  “Would you like to buy a cashmere suit?” she asked me.  I politely declined and went back to watch, of all things, a very early episode of Neighbours.  Earlier in the evening I went for a walk to Sukhbaatar Square.  I was stopped by a man who asked me if I had a shark tooth necklace!  Obviously the ‘70s have finally reached Mongolia.

Anyway, this morning I met Bambi (her name is something like that, but I never did manage to get it right).  I told her I wanted to go to the Winter Palace of the Bogd Khan.  She tried to talk me out of it, and recommended the Friendship Department Store instead.  I insisted on the Winter Palace, so we got on a local bus for the five-minute trip (as I was her only client today we did not have a driver).  We arrived at the palace, which appeared deserted.  But Bambi led the way to a little ticket booth.  It cost one US dollar to get in (which still leaves me with this giant wad of 3,000 tugriks, about $10, that nobody seems to want).  Bambi stayed at the ticket booth to chat while I went into the palace by myself.

Winter Palace

The palace was fantastic.  It is primarily a Buddhist temple and, in layout, reminded me of the Imperial Palace in Beijing (in miniature that is).  On one side, in the late nineteenth century, a “palace” was attached.  It looks like the Russian style buildings I have noticed around Ulan Bator, with those pretty wooden windows.  It was two stories high and contained the living quarters of the Bogd Khan and his consort of the Ekh Dagina.  The floors were creaky and uneven, and there was a musty smell about the place. 

The last Bogd Khan was a bit of an amateur zookeeper, and the ground floor contained a collection of stuffed animals.  It was very bizarre, and a little bit creepy.  I was the only visitor, so it was just these animals, mute and frozen in time and me.  It is remarkable how life like, and un-nerving, the gaze of glass eyes can be in dim light, and intense silence. 

Upstairs there was an exhibition of the clothes worn by the ruling couple.  They were an interesting mixture of traditional Mongolian influenced by Imperial China and Buddhism.  They were very vibrant, intricately woven with gold thread and pearls.  Nearby were the colourful thrones of Bogd Khan and his consort, all covered in small Buddhist carvings.  On the wall were two large portraits of Emperor Nicholas II and Empress Alexandra Feodorovna of Russia.  The bedrooms of the Bogd Khan and the Ekh Dagina were fabulous.  In the centre of each room was a large carved bed, complete with canopy and silk hangings.  The Ekh Dagina's bed had a magnificent clothe-of-gold counterpane.

Winter Palace - Residence of the Bogd Khan and the Ekh Dagina
(and the stuffed animals)

The temples were amazing, full of beautifully embroidered Buddhist images and small gold statues.  In one temple I was surprised by a member of staff sitting quietly in a corner, he was so still he could have been part of the stuffed animal collection. 

Winter Palace Temples

After the palace we went to the Museum of Religion.  It was really just an empty monastery, from which the Communists evicted the monks years before.  It was more run-down than the Winter Palace, and really quite sad.  In the central temple there was a beautiful gold Buddha, to one side of which was the embalmed body of a former Buddhist master, looking just like a statue.  The poor lighting, the lingering smell of incense, the lack of tourists, and general dilapidation created an otherworldly atmosphere.  The gardens were terribly overgrown and sometimes it was not clear where the paths were. 

The final temple we went to was amazing.  It was circular with papier-mâché figures all over the walls, painted in a rainbow of colours.  In pride of place was a 1,000-year-old model of an Indian stupa.  The papier-mâché made it look very strange, particularly with the almost cartoon style of the paintings.  Although it is official a museum, there were signs of recent worship; some offerings of money and fruit here and there.  As we left I asked Bambi if there had ever been reports of a reincarnation of the Bogd Khan.  She said she there were rumours one had been identified, but did not seem keen to talk about it. 

Tomb of the Bogd Khan

So that is nearly the end of my stay in Mongolia.  It is only three years since the Mongolian People’s Revolutionary Party started to loosen its iron grip on power.  That probably explains the lingering suspicion and distrust of some of the locals, and the requirement for all foreign visitors to have an official guide.  It definitely explains the awful food and the empty shelves of the Friendship Department Store (Bambi finally got me through the doors after the Museum of Religion, but it was so pathetic I have nothing more to say about it).   I managed to spend some tugriks on food for the train, but I still have a thick pile of notes left.  Bambi has gone home to feed her baby.  When she gets back we are going to the Natural History Museum, then it’s onto the station for the train to Irkutsk.

A Strange Visitor

I once spent a year working as a Night Porter at a small hotel in the city.  It was probably the dullest year of my life, as hardly anything ever happened.  No famous people ever stayed at the hotel, apart from the Academy Award winning actress Miss Susanna York.  She only spoke to me once, to ask where the nearest bottle shop was.  I whiled away the hours watching movies, reorganising the office or just playing patience.  All I had to do was check in any late arrivals, clean the lift and sweep the street out front.  

The hotel was a few doors up from the Melbourne Town Hall. It’s entrance was down the end of a short corridor, next to a Japanese restaurant.  I tended to sweep the corridor and footpath outside at around five am.   One night, however, I did the sweeping a few hours’ earlier, at about two am, because there was something I wanted to watch on the telly.  I was out on the street, getting rid of all the filthy cigarette butts, when I just happened to look down the street.  About 200 metres away, at the corner of Collins and Swanston streets, next to the statue of Burke and Wills, I noticed a man standing still, looking back at me.  I immediately felt a cold chill come over me, and a strange flash of anxiety.  I got on with my sweeping, but gave furtive little glances to see what he was doing.  But he just stood there, looking at me, with a slight smile on his face.  He was well dressed, in a smart overcoat and stylish hat; like he had stepped straight out of the 1950s.  I finished my chores as quickly as possible, and still feeling unnerved, went back inside and locked the hotel front door.

I retreated to the office, on the first floor, and settled down to whatever it was I planned to watch.  I had my back to the security camera monitor, but regularly looked over my shoulder to see if anything was happening downstairs in reception.  About twenty minutes later I again felt a cold chill  along my spine.  The hair on the back of my neck stood up, and I felt inexplicably anxious.  I looked over my shoulder at the security camera monitor, and there he was.  He was in the corridor outside the glass front door.  He was looking directly at the camera, a pleasant smile on what I could now see was quite a handsome face.  I felt certain that he knew I was watching.  It was incredibly disturbing, and despite knowing how irrational it was, I felt frightened.  He stared at the camera for about another minute before finally turning away and heading back out to Collins Street.  I got up and flicked the security channel over to the full corridor view.  After a brief glance back over his shoulder, he was finally gone.  I sat down for a while to wait and see if he was going to come back.  Eventually I went downstairs and out onto the street.  But there was nothing to fear, he was nowhere in sight.  I waved to the security guard on duty at the Town Hall and went back inside.  

I don’t know if evil exists as an objective state in human form.  I tend to think not.  But if it does, this strange man, who came out of nowhere in the dark hours of the early morning, is the closest thing I’ve every come to meeting it.  For my remaining six months at the hotel I thought of him often, particularly when I was out on the street sweeping in the pre-dawn stillness.

Get a Haircut and Get a Job

On the news tonight there was a report about some bunch of protesters getting all upset because the police moved them on.  It seems to be happening a lot at the moment, something about a new tunnel.  Anyway, what annoys me most about these bludgers, apart from their dirty hair, is the indignant way they respond to a perfectly acceptable use of force. 

In May 1968, when student protests in Paris sparked a wave of civil unrest across France, the celebrated author Miss Nancy Mitford kept a diary of the revolution that nearly was.  She was particularly scathing about the protesters:

There was a great deal of wailing about their treatment by the police.  I despise them for it.  They were out for a rough-up and they got it.  Nobody was killed and now they are behaving like babies who have been slapped.  It’s not very dignified.

These wise words describe my feelings perfectly: I despise them for it. 

Travel Diary - The Emperor's Birthday 2011

Tokyo 

23 December Heisei 23

I awoke early this morning and went down stairs for breakfast.  During my weeks in China I got used to the huge buffet breakfasts almost everywhere I stayed.  I loved to start off with the spring rolls, dumplings, and stir fried chicken and vegetables.  Then it would be a large plate of sausages, bacon, scrambled eggs and pancakes with lashings of maple syrup.  But things are very different in Tokyo.  Yesterday I had the western breakfast, which was an odd selection of sliced ham, a boiled egg and a piece of white toast about four centimetres thick.  Today I had the Japanese breakfast.  It was a bowl of miso soup, a small bowl of rice, a piece of smoked fish, and an egg.  At first I thought it was a boiled egg, but it turned out to be just a normal raw, fresh egg.  Not sure how it should be eaten, I left if for a while and waited to see what the Japanese guests did.  But the Japanese couple near me had opted for the Western breakfast.  So I took a punt and cracked the egg into my soup.  It was quite pleasant, but nothing remarkable.  The fish was nice, if a little boney.  It was accompanied by some small plumbs which were incredibly sour, so I left them and finished the rice.  By then a Japanese man was at the table next to me and he cracked his egg over the rice.  Oh well, at least I know for tomorrow morning.  

Just before eight I headed off for the Imperial Palace.  The Imperial Family’s first appearance was scheduled for 10:20 and I wanted to make sure I got there early enough to get a good spot.  The hotel is across the road from the Imperial Palace’s Hanzomon Gate.  There was little sign of anything out of the ordinary, though the police booth at the gate had a flag out.  As I was waiting at the lights, two policemen came running past, only to turn around and run back to the gate.  The other police seemed a bit fidgety; so maybe the running back and forth was just a way to break the tension?  I discovered tonight, after I watched the news, that I probably just missed the arrival of the Crown Prince and Crown Princess, Prince and Princess Akishino, and Prince and Princess Hitachi.  

It took about fifteen minutes to walk to the plaza in front of the Imperial Palace.  There were several queues forming at designated points around the perimeter of the plaza, and a security check point in the centre.  I chose one to join and settled in for the wait.  It was then that I realised how very cold it had become.  The blue sky had disappeared as clouds came rolling in.  Luckily I had brought my beanie, gloves and scarf with me as I ended up needing them all.  Some of the other queues had smatterings of European faces, but mine was entirely Japanese.  There were a lot of elderly ladies, but also many young couples and families.  Everyone was very polite, and, apart from occasional chatter, it was fairly quiet.  If it had been China the locals would have stared at me, laughed, said hello and taken photos.  But not the Japanese.  They studiously refused to show any interest in the large man with a big bushy beard who was towering over them.  I had already noticed that the Japanese do not really like to speak English, even though they have learnt it at school and seem to understand what is said.  So with their politeness, and my shyness, our part of the queue remained very quiet.  

Eventually we were on the move.  The various queues were brought into the next holding pen, and then ushered through the security check.  I had to show my passport and my backpack was thoroughly searched by a young policewoman.  I forgot that I still had half a roll of toilet paper in my bag (a vital necessity in China).  The policewoman pulled it out, realised what it was, and quickly put it back.  She then examined my camera to make sure it really was a camera.  Finally, with only the hint of a smile, she pointed me in the direction of the next queue.  This one was numbered, and a sense of expectation now spread through the crowd as we got closer to the Imperial Palace.  One of the queues was lead by a couple of dozen people holding tall long banners.  Some had chrysanthemums or the Hinomaru, while others had greetings in Chinese characters.  Paper Japanese flags, the Nisshōki, were handed out, but not to foreigners.  All eyes turned to the Nakamon Inner Gate at the end of the Seimon Ishibashi Main Entrance Stone Bridge.

At 10 am on the dot the great wooden gates opened, and the numbered queues began to move in a very orderly fashion.  It was wonderful to look back out over the plaza from the Seimon Ishibashi to see the prospect usually seen only be the Emperor and Empress (and the Imperial Guard sentry on duty).  Once through the Nakamon, it was a steep incline up to the right and then over the Seimon Tetsubashi Main Entrance Iron Bridge.  This is the bridge that was originally called the Nisshōki Double Bridge,  because of its two level design.  The wooden Nisshōki was replaced by an iron bridge in 1888 (which in turn was rebuilt 1964).   From certain angles the iron bridge appears to hover above the stone bridge, so the name Nisshōki stuck, now referring to both the Seimon Tetsubashi and the Seimon Ishibashi.  From hidden speakers came the sound of Imperial Court Music.  Though quiet unusual, the music is strangely compelling with the mournful strains from the Shō, a traditional reed instrument, and the occasional drum beats. 

The visitors making their way into the Imperial Palace

The different queues began to merge into one at the entrance to the Kyūden Tōtei Plaza in front of the Chōwaden Reception Hall. I wondered if there would be a rush for the front.  But nobody made a break, and the crowd, moving only a tiny little bit faster, remained orderly as it converged beneath the glassed in balcony of the Chōwaden Reception Hall.  I was in a good spot, about 20 metres from the front.  It also helped that I was taller than most of the Japanese, so my view was excellent.  There was a great sense of anticipation and subdued excitement, but still everyone remained fairly quiet.  There were certainly no chants of “we want the Emperor.”  There was an announcement, part of which, I think, was to tell everyone which members of the Imperial Family would soon be seen (I made out Tennō, Kōgō, Kōtaishi  and Akishino ).  There was a footman standing like a statue on the balcony.  I checked my camera settings with him, and then enjoyed the final moments of anticipation.

At 10:15 silence descended on the crowd as all eyes focused on the balcony, and the last few minutes ticked by.  Then, at precisely 10:20, the sliding door behind the wide screen at the rear of the balcony opened.  A courtier could be seen, making a deep bow, as he moved off to the right to make way for the Emperor.  His Imperial Majesty the Emperor of Japan then came slowly out from behind the screen, followed serenely by Her Imperial Majesty the Empress.  Immediately thousands of paper Japanese flags were raised and waved with great vigour.  I was surprised by the sound made by all these waving paper flags; like extremely loud mosquitoes buzzing all around us.  This sound was then overwhelmed by the great cries of Tennō Heika, Banzai!  Ten Thousand Years to His Majesty the Emperor!  With each banzai everyone raised their arms, almost like a mini Mexican wave.   It was extremely moving, and I tried to savour every moment.  The Emperor and Empress were joined by the Crown Prince and Crown Princess, Prince and Princess Akishino, Princess Mako, and finally Prince and Princess Hitachi.  They all moved to their assigned spot on the balcony and sedately waved to the crowd.  It was wonderful to see the entire family so closely.  

The Crown Princess and Crown Prince, the Emperor and Empress, Prince and Princess Akishino and Princess Mako

The roars of Banzai continued for a couple of minutes, and then the Emperor prepared to speak.  As he did the Banzais and arm salutes stopped, and the flags went silent.  I’m not sure what the Emperor said, but he spoke slowly and clearly.  Until then I had not taken any photos.  I learnt long ago not to worry too much about photos.  It tends to result in images remembered as if through a view finder, or a small video display.  It is better to enjoy the moment; listen to the sounds, watch the crowds and soak up all the atmosphere of the moment.  While the Emperor spoke I did take a few photos of all the Imperial Family, but pretty quickly put my camera down again as the Emperor came to the end of his speech.  

The Emperor thanks his visitors for their birthday felicitations

As soon as the Emperor stopped, the flags came straight back up and, if possible, were waved with even greater enthusiasm.  The roars of Banzai came back with greater gusto, and I even made out a few cries of Kōgō Heika Bonzai! Ten Thousand Years to Her Majesty the Empress!  The Emperor looked genuinely happy and with a big smile acknowledge the cries of loyalty.  The Empress looked a bit tired, and her concern for the Emperor could be seen in the way she kept an eye on him.  The Empress and the princesses all held a fan in one hand, and gloves in the other, and stood in the same formal manner; it gave a glimpse of the formality of the Imperial Court.  I was particularly interested to observe the Crown Princess who is the subject of so much speculation.  She was smiling and waving, but there was, perhaps, a certain tension in her expression.  The Crown Prince, however, was relaxed and smiled broadly. .  Princess Akishino was the most relaxed princess; when the time comes she will make a fine Empress.  For Prince and Princess Akishino’s daughter Princess Mako, it was her first time on the balcony as an adult member of the Imperial Family.  I thought she looked quite nervous, if not actually frightened!  I’m sure she will relax over the coming years as she undertakes more public duties.  Prince and Princess Hitachi seemed somewhat reserved, with Prince Hitachi showing the sort of awkwardness I remember seeing in footage of his late father, the Emperor Showa.

Princess Akishino and Princess Mako

The Emperor looked at the Empress, she smiled at him and took a step back as he prepared to lead the family back into the Chōwaden Reception Hall.  With a slow stately reserve, all the members of the family fell into line behind the Emperor and Empress.  After a couple of final waves, and more roars of Banzai, the Emperor and Empress disappeared from sight behind the screen.  With perfect choreography all the princes and princesses were soon gone as well.   The flags came down again, but the long tall banners came back up to lead everyone away from the Kyūden Tōtei Plaza.  Now there was a lot of animated chatter and big smiles.  Everyone had thoroughly enjoyed their opportunity to greet the Emperor and see the Imperial Family.   The happy crowd made its way past the Imperial Household Agency and back out onto the plaza through the Sakashitamon Gate.  Straight away the sights and sounds of busy Tokyo replaced the peacefulness of the Imperial Palace.  I made my way towards Tokyo Station, and along the way several vans passed by with loud speakers blaring out messages or playing jaunty military music.  They were flying the Nisshōki national flag and the Kyokujitsu-ki rising sun naval ensign.  On the streets other groups were handing out pamphlets; I was given one in English about the Japanese atrocities in Korea and China during the Great Pacific War.  

The purpose of my trip this year was to be in Tokyo to see the Emperor on his birthday.  I have travelled over 5,000 km by train and boat since arriving in China about five weeks ago.  I’ve been to Guangzhou, Xian, Lhasa, Shigatsu, Chomolungma (Mt Everest) North Base Camp, Beijing, Shanghai, Osaka, Kumomoto, and Kyoto.  Was it worth it just to see the Emperor? Absolutely.  He is the 125th Emperor of Japan; the direct descendant of Jimmu, who became, according to traditional dates, Japan’s first emperor on 11 February 660 BC (11 February is today celebrated as Japan’s National Foundation Day).  An unbroken line of Emperors descended from Amaterasu Ōmikami, the Sun Goddess; an “Imperial Throne coeval with heaven and earth.”

Old Melbourne Gaol - Cell 17

When I was at school in the late '70s and early '80s, the most popular school excursion was a trip to the old State Museum of Victoria, no doubt because of its free entry.  I liked the old museum, mainly because of the old fashioned grandeur of some of the VIctorian exhibition rooms.  There and was also something reassuring about seeing the same displays year after year.  Another popular destination was Polywoodside.  This old sailing ship always left me unimpressed; it made for a very dull excursion.  Finally there was the Old Melbourne Gaol.  We went there year after year and, like the museum, it was comfortingly the same every time.  In those days, a few of the cells housed a dummy dressed up in prison uniform.  They were not very life like, and the effect was stilted and not very interesting.  However, one of the dummies stood out from all the rest.  Every time we visited the gaol, my best friend Neil and I would head straight to the cell that housed this particular dummy.  We would then have a hearty laugh because this dummy was the spitting image of Rowena Wallace.  It was a male dummy, but he really did bear a striking resemblance to the Logie award actress; star of the Australian small screen.

The next place we visited was cell 17.  It was always locked, and nothing could be seen through the peep hole.  But there was something compelling about it; a feeling of melancholy and isolation seemed to take over as we stood outside the door.  Maybe its location at the end of the row had something to do with the sense of forsakenness, but cells at the other ends did not have the atmosphere of despair we experienced outside cell 17.  We would speculate over what might have happened in there to leave such a lasting presence.  Oddly enough, we always thought the presence was a woman, even though we were told that section of the gaol had always been for men only.  After several years, the school excursions came to an end.  Memories of the spooky cell at Old Melbourne Gaol faded away.  But I never forgot them.  They remained part of the nostalgia of that period, along with Sunny Boys, Twisties and Choo-Choo Bars.   

Recently, for my birthday, I felt like doing something a bit different.  It was on a Saturday, so I looked about to see what might make an interesting change.  Several years ago on a visit to England, I went on a very enjoyable Ghost Tour in York, run by the extremely gruesome Mr Andy Dextrous (if you go to York, you must do this tour).  I am partial to a good ghost story, so I went in search of something similar.  When I saw the advertisement for the Old Melbourne Gaol Hangman's Night Tour, I booked right away.  The night  of my birthday was suitably cold, dark and gloomy.  I went with my friend Darren, and on the way into the city I told him about my school memories of the Rowena Wallace dummy and the creepy cell.  I was curious to know if I would be able to pick it l after all these years.

The Hangman's tour was great fun.  It started in the dark, with a candle flickering on the floor, throwing ghostly shadows up to the high roof and across the three levels of cells.  The hangman played his part with gusto and brought to life the often terrible stories of life in the prison.  There were some genuinely spooky moments along the way, particularly when we were all shut in a cell and the Hangman extinguished his candle.  As we made our way to the gallows, I nudged Darren and pointed towards an end cell.  I knew straight away that it was the one, and the memories of sadness Neil and I felt all those years ago came back.  The door was open and In passing I finally got to glimpse inside.  The tour ended at the gallows with a description of how the condemned spent their last night, and an explanation of the skill required by the hangman for a successful execution.  If the rope was too short the condemned might die slowly from strangulation, rather than the desired snap of the spinal cord; too long and the witnesses might have been shocked by an unexpected decapitation.  At the end of the tour a few lights came on, and the Hangman told us we could have a look around.

We headed straight for the cell (I also kept a half hearted eye out for the Rowena Wallace dummy, but I did not expect such an old fashioned museum display would have survived to the more interactive days of modern exhibits).  It was a real treat to finally enter the cell.  It was fairly dark inside, with only a gloomy light coming in through the low, narrow doorway.  It was, like most of the cells, empty and nothing distinguished it from the others.  But right away I felt a sense of sadness.  Darren left almost immediately, saying he felt cold and unwelcome.  I stayed for a while, pondering how an empty room could possibly contain a feeling; it  really did seem too silly for words.   But there it was: I had a real sense of foreboding, melancholy and resentment.  Maybe I was just imagining it all, creating it in my own mind.  That is, of course, quite possible.  But I still could not get past the feeling that what I sensed came from the cell itself, and not from my own emotions.  It was all very strange. 

As I left the cell, a young couple came in.  The woman asked me if I had seen the ghost.  

"What ghost?" I asked her in surprise.  

"The one in this cell" she said "we asked the lady who took our tickets if there were any ghost.  She said the gaol is certainly haunted, and that a lot of unexplained activity came from cell 17.  I saw you point to the cell when we passed it earlier, and thought you must have asked as well."

I told her about my experiences of this cell from over thirty years ago.  It was all a bit spooky, and the young woman became nervous.  Her boyfriend said he wanted to shut the door and stay there in the dark, but she would not have a bar of that.   I left them to it.  Later, on the way out, we passed the cell again.  There were a few people waiting outside the now closed door.  They were all quite tense and one of them said a young man was in there, on a dare, to stay in the dark for at least five minutes.  As we passed through the gift shop, I spotted the hangman at the counter.  I asked him what had happened in cell 17.  He said they do not know, but confirmed there is no doubt something in cell 17.  Visitors regularly report an unwelcoming presence, and experience sensations of loneliness, despair and anger.  The hangman said the odd thing about it is that the presence seems to be that of a woman, and she does not like men.  Some men have heard a female voice telling them to "get out" and felt pushes from unseen hands.  I told him my story and he was not at all surprised.

He told me there have been attempts to identify the woman, but nothing has been found in the available archives.  There is not even any proof  that the cell was ever used to house women.  Paranormal investigations have also failed to provide any information that might help identify the female presence. 

Who was she?  We will probably never know.  But, unlike the long gone Rowena Wallace dummy, she will most likely still be there the next time I visit the Old Melbourne Gaol, even if it is not for another thirty years.  For her time has no meaning, she is always there, waiting.  Her sorrow, loneliness, and resentment exist in a frozen, unchanging moment of despair; forever contained within the walls of the forsaken, empty cell number 17.

Travel Diary - The Imperial Palace Beijing 2011

In 2011 I was back in Beijing for my third visit, this time in winter.  As always for my trips to this city, the skies where clear and blue.  The commercialisation and development of Beijing continues unabated, as hutons make way for even more western style shopping malls.  It is sad to see what has happened to this delightful city.  Yet there is still something appealing about Beijing and its residents, despite all the changes not necessarily for the better.  Here is what I had to say after my third visit to the Imperial Palace.

Beijing Saturday 10 December 2011

Today was an odd day.  It was a search for the China, the Peking, I liked so much in 1993.  But I am afraid it is gone.  Anyway, I'm getting ahead of myself.  This morning I got the metro to Qianmen and went in search of the entry to the Chairman Mao Memorial Hall.  The queue was not very long, and it was moving at a nice steady pace.  Security was very tight (no bags, and definitely no cameras).  The hall is quite impressive, and it looks something like the National Library in Canberra, the Nation's Capital.  On the way to the front door several people bought a single yellow flower, for three yuan, to place at the feet of a large statue of a seated Chairman Mao in the outer chamber.  The space in front of the statue was nearly full of flowers, so no doubt they eventually make their way back to the little shop later in the day.  A nice little earner that must be. As we approached the inner chamber, most people became subdued, though there were a couple of men still chatting away loudly (just try and keep a bunch of Chinese quiet).  A highly decorated military man hissed at the remaining talkers, and must have told them to take off their hats.  They uncovered their heads, and shut their mouths quick smart.  

Then it was into the inner chamber.  It was very '70s in decor; wood panelling, hidden lighting, and potted plants.  The chairman was under glass, on a slight incline, wearing a green Mao suit.  A Chinese flag covered him from the chest down.  He looked like a wax figure, even his hair looked fake.  But I suppose there is no reason to doubt that it really is he.  So this is the man responsible for the death, suffering and misery of millions of people.  But to what end?  Across the road from him are now a KFC, and malls full of crappy shops.  Mao has become nothing more than a curious relic; a pop culture image on a tacky watch selling for 120 yuan.  If he had a proper grave, I suppose he would be spinning in it.  There was no chance to linger, and members of the Peoples' Liberation Army kept everyone moving at a steady pace.  Then it out the other side back into the late morning sun.  It was an interesting visit, and as an exercise in the macabre it was certainly a worthwhile.  In a way it was also the closest I have come to capturing the nostalgia of that 1993 visit.  

After I picked up my bag and camera I went over the road to have lunch at KFC.  I must admit that it was the best KFC I have had in years.  The chicken was crispy, the chips where just perfect, and the Pepsi Max cold and sparkling.  Thus fortified, I made my way up to the Meridian Gate for my third visit to the Imperial Palace.  The crowds were huge and completely lacking in any historical respect.  But it was nice to be back again.  It was cold, but sunny and clear (I am yet to experience anything but blue skies in Beijing).  I wondered about slowly for a couple of hours.  There was nothing new since 2007; all the same exhibitions, the same displays.  The face lift for the Olympic Games has not been maintained, and some parts were looking a bit tired and run down.

I went to my favourite spot in the Imperial Garden.  In 1993 there were old men sitting around chatting, with their little singing birds in cages nearby.   There were also the smiling ladies selling the hot snacks from their little hot plates.  They are long gone, and Imperial Garden has lost a great deal of its charm.  It now feels somehow sterile; overrun my dozens of loud Chinese tourists.  I had afternoon tea at a new cafe.  It was a complete rip-off; 65 yuan for a small heated up bowl of Gōngbǎo Jīdīng, a huge scoop of stodgy rice, and a dry, tasteless muffin.  I planned to stay until dusk and closing time, and hopefully experience something of the peace and quiet that must descend on the palace as the crowds depart.  One new thing I did see was the Hall of Mental Cultivation where, on 12 February 1912, the Dowager Empress Longyu signed the Imperial Edict that granted China a republican government (well, I had seen it before, but did not realise its importance).  The Articles of Favourable Treatment meant that the Great Qing Emperor Xuantong would keep his title and his palace, but the empire was gone.  

After a quick visit to the Hall of Supreme Harmony I went in search of somewhere sunny to sit as the temperature began to drop in the late afternoon.  Then I saw the most disgusting example of just how bad things are at the Imperial Palace.  A shop has opened called "Fly Over the Forbidden City".  Yes, you too can dress up as the Emperor or Empress and be filmed pretending to fly.  This is then superimposed over aerial footage of the Imperial Palace, the Summer Palace and the Great Wall.  The Emperor flying over his palace; it was all too depressing for words.  A girl in the shop saw me staring incredulously at this abomination and smiled and called me in.  With a great effort I smiled sadly in return, and then beat a hasty retreat.  I found a nice spot in the sun, and sat down for a rest.  It started off nice and quiet, but far too soon my peace was disturbed.  A pack of photographers came rushing past, following a woman wearing the most ridiculously tight pair of leather trousers I have ever seen.  Maybe she was some sort of minor celebrity, but to me she just looked like a slut.  

So this is what this proud old palace has been reduced to: a theme park; a backdrop against which masses of newly prosperous Chinese, ignorant of their own history, can have their photo taken doing star jumps.  A palace now the stomping ground for trampy D grade minor-celebrities trying to drum up some publicity.   Over 2000 years of imperial dynastic history reduced to a tacky DVD of an emperor flying over their palace.  Bad taste wins the day.  This is what millions of people died for.  But how can the Chinese Communist Party maintain its dictatorial control when it has so obviously sold out to consumer greed?  What socialist ideology is left?  Precious little as far as I can see.  However, the people seem content with the situation, so it looks like the men in power, hiding behind the fiction of the CCP, will hold onto power for the foreseeable future.  Well, at least until the Mandate of Heaven is bestowed upon a suitable new Emperor and the dynastic cycle is reestablished. 

Feeling disillusioned, I gave up on my plan to stay until dusk, and left the palace.  It was with a feeling of melancholy that I looked back towards the Hall of Supreme Harmony. Will I ever come back to Beijing again?  Maybe one day, after all I still want to do the train trip from Beijing to Urumqi.