Hurricanes of fate on the plains of Mexico...

.

Mexican history for hundreds of years was plagued by violence, war and revolution. It began for Mexico, as for most of Latin America, with the invasion of the Spanish conquistadors; the symbolic rape of an entire continent and culture by external forces. The image of this rape recurs in Mexican literature and art - they call themselves 'la chingada', the rape-victim of those who came to 'chingar' - to rape both literally and metaphorically.

Despite finally winning independence in 1811, Mexico's violent history continued to spiral from one vicious circle to another. In the nineteenth century, Mexico went through presidents at an alarming rate, and at one point even tried to implement a French-style constitution. But trying to superimpose a foreign system on Mexican society did not work. This was a country in which large tracts of barren land were sparsely populated - most of the population were peasant farmers and couldn't have told you they lived in a country called Mexico, let alone adhered to a new political system.

The writers called Mexico the 'orphan nation' as a result, never having a father-figure to lead them. Porfirio Diaz was the closest Mexico came to a father-figure, but he clung onto power for so long that the need for revolution was fomenting by the early twentieth century.

The revolution, when it came, was a chaotic shambles. Roving bands of bandits caused gratuitous destruction, often with little idea and even less concern for which side they were fighting for. Communication across the scorched Mexican plains was nigh on impossible, which made negotiations futile. Three ill-trained, ragamuffin armies fought pointless battles in dusty valleys, often before switching sides to fight the very people they had just fought alongside.

And the Revolution achieved little. It installed a new elite in Mexican society, the cacique landowners - the nouveau riche who almost feudally controlled the land and squeezed money and labour out of their tenants. Stories of abuse and rape were rife. Mexico remained an orphan nation - a perpetual victim of the rape of a violent history.

One author, above all others, stands out for his chronicling not of the events of the Revolution itself, but of the effect on the Mexican psyche. The characters in Juan Rulfo's short stories are all loose analogies for the Mexican character - they are wanderers, orphans or rapists. They are peasants oppressed by the government, by prejudice, or simply by the stifling heat. They are violent fathers or estranged sons. They are bloodthirsty bandits or angry tenants.

One story in particular always stood out for me. It is called 'El hombre', or The Man. The story is of a revenge for a revenge of a revenge of a revenge - another example of the cyclical nature of history and violence. A man at the beginning of the story strides up in broad daylight and shoots dead the brother of another man. We don't know why, but know it is the result of a feud - a revenge for something. That second man decides to avenge his brother's death, and steals in the dead of night into the house of the first man and kills everyone he finds. It turns out, however, that the first man was not in, and he returns to find his whole family slain. He then swears vengeance on the second man, and proceeds tirelessly to pursue him across the mountains and deserts of Mexico until he finds him. In Rulfo's story, we constantly switch between the interior monologues of the two men, of the hunter and the hunted. We follow the pursuit into a dusty valley, where the final confrontation takes place...

Click play on the video below to hear my song entitled 'El hombre', and find out what happens at the end...

Eurovisual diplomacy

.

In 1919, after the Armistice ended the First World War, US President Woodrow Wilson drew up 14 guidelines to govern international diplomacy. These guidelines were the basis for the foundation of the League of Nations, an international diplomatic organisation in whose assembly chamber all the problems of the world would be rectified, thus avoiding any future need to go to war.

Did it work? Did it b*llocks.

Twenty years later, on the dot, Sweden and Finland had come to blows over the Åland Islands, Japan had invaded Manchuria, Mussolini had gone storming into Abyssinia, and Germany had invaded everyone. And so it was arrivederci to the League of Nations and guten tag to Nazism.

Oops.

In the wake of the Second World War (or “The War To End All Wars 2”), agreements made at Yalta and Potsdam between the Soviets, the US and Great Britain sowed the seeds for the United Nations – a second well-meaning and ultimately ill-fated attempt to get international diplomacy back on track. Cue Hungary, Suez, Vietnam, Afghanistan, Northern Ireland, the Falklands, Iraq, Kosovo, Gaza, Iraq (again)…you get the point.

And so, in 2008, mankind has clearly become less ambitious in its quest for harmonious international relations, and all our hopes now rest in the hands of the only international organisation in which diplomacy truly works. That’s right, I’m talking about Eurovision.

In the Eurovision Song Contest, countries put aside their differences, put aside their prejudices, and put aside any consideration whatsoever for musical talent, and show their true love for their neighbours in a frenzy of Balkan and Baltic diplomatic incest, which is as absorbing as it is baffling.

Quite frankly, watching 25 acts plod laboriously through their luridly technicoloured, gaudily choreographed musical abominations is a monumental waste of time, because Greece’s entry might just be a festering dead moose dumped reeking onto the stage, but it will still get douze points from neighbouring Cyprus.

As it happens, Greece’s entry this year was a song called ‘Secret Combination’ sung by the bewitchingly gorgeous Kalomira. She deserved to win, but never really stood a chance.

This wasn’t so much because of the quality of Russia’s song. Nor was it because the Russian singer unbuttoned his shirt half-way through. Nor, even, was it because of the Pat Sharp lookalike on ice skates poncing around him. It was mainly because 98.7% of the countries voting were erstwhile members of the old USSR, and either voted for Russia out of a sort of comradely loyalty, or out of fear that Soviet tanks would come rolling from the East in some kind of retributive putsch.

Little Andorra gave twelve points to neighbouring Spain. Bosnia-Herzegovina voted for next-door Serbia, who returned the favour, despite the fact that the Bosnian singers were clearly insane and tone-deaf. Norway, Sweden, Finland, Iceland and Denmark all voted for each other in a Scandinavian love-in, even though the Swedish singer was patently a lizard in a dress and the Finns looked like the Darkness with a skin disease.

Germany voted for Turkey, which sounds arbitrary enough, until you realise that there are about as many Turks in Germany as there are in Turkey, and then it makes sense. What made less sense was why Turkey were in the Eurovision competition in the first place, but the subsequent appearances from Azerbaijan and Israel showed that geography was immaterial to all but the voting system. Expect to see Tonga and Samoa trading douze points in a Moscovite arena next year.

All this diplomacy left one thing clear above all. No, it was not that the Turkish have apologised for massacring the Armenians by giving them eight points (though that was interesting). What it showed us was, lest we were unaware: everyone hates Britain.

Votes were hard to come by for the UK in Belgrade on Saturday. Ireland gave us eight points, which was charming, though I doubt if we’d have returned the favour because: a) we’re cantankerous kill-joys, and b) the Irish entry was a chicken sock-puppet of some kind, which never made it past the semi-finals.

Other than that, the countries around us gave us diddly squat. Did France, Holland, Belgium, Spain or Norway give us twelve points? Did they even give us one measly point?! Did they heck. The UK saved Norway’s ass in the Second World War (by which I mean we abandoned them to the Nazis after a half-hearted attempt to help), and all we get in return is a big Christmas tree every winter. But Eurovision points? That would be asking too much. We only liberated France, for goodness sake, would trois points be too much too ask?!

Clearly it would, and we had to rely on the generosity of the Irish and the somewhat confusing pity-vote we received from San Marino, whose population of seven people and a donkey gave us a whopping six points, boosting the UK’s overall total to 14 for the evening, and leaving us bottom of the pile with Germany and Poland.

The naïvest comment of the evening went to me for suggesting that England, Wales, Scotland and Northern Ireland should compete separately to guarantee votes for British entrants. It was soon pointed out to me that you can’t really see the Welsh or Scots diving to their phones to spend three quid voting for an Englishman, can you? We’re screwed whichever way you look at it.

And poor old Andy Abraham. Ok, his song wasn’t chart-topping stuff, it had about as much gusto as an Austin Maxi, and he was clearly wearing an air-stewardess uniform discarded by Scooch, last year’s abysmal entry, but he didn’t deserve to finish last, not when you consider the competition.

The Spanish singer looked like Rolf Harris and King Kong’s lovechild, and his song was even less attractive. The Germans trotted out four terrifying old crones, one of whom looked like someone had squeezed Mick Hucknall into a full-body condom. And the Latvian entry was a bunch of pirates leaping about like utter morons and squealing away, which is no doubt why UK voters gave them ten whole points for taking the competition about as seriously as they were.

So, what questions are raised after all these Eurovisual shenanigans? Should we rename it Iron-Curtain-o-vision? Would the UK get any points even if we put Robbie Williams or Oasis in as our entry? Would anyone care?

Ultimately, the only thing anyone cares about is whether Terry Wogan continues to commentate on the event, which he may have done for the last time if the rumours are anything to go by. His dryly sardonic comments make the competition what it is, as he wryly predicts each country’s vote before they announce it, drowns out the hyperactive babbling of the irritating hosts whose eyes you’d like to poke out with pointed sticks, and makes legendary comments such as: “This competition is not over when this lady has sung”, as the buxom entry from Romania takes to the stage. I only wonder if the rest of Europe has the same thing - was there a Lithuanian Terry Wogan equivalent watching Andy Abraham and quipping: "And here's the UK entry - a guy who finished third in some god-awful British TV talent show"? One can only hope.

If you take just one thing from this year’s Eurovision, however, let it be this. France’s entry was a man named Sebastien Tellier, whose hirsute whiskers and dark glasses have made him a bit of a cult figure across the Channel. His entry, a song called ‘Divine’, was a dreadfully cheesy electro-dancy number from his dreadfully cheesy electro-dancy album Sexuality.

However, don’t be dissuaded. If you only listen to one song for the rest of the whole year (and, as a music obsessive, I don’t make such comments lightly), listen to Sebastien Tellier’s track ‘La Ritournelle’ from his album Politics. It is a million, million miles away from the tongue-in-cheek nonsense he entered into Eurovision.

It’s a stunning, moving symphony of rolling piano riffs, flying strains of mellow violin and one brief burst of intriguing lyrics, all laid over a pared-down, infectious housey beat. It is totally superb and absolutely enchanted me when I first heard it at a chillout night at a Parisian club. Turn the lights down low, get a glass of wine, shut your eyes and click play on the clip below.

So b*llocks to diplomacy. As the Libertines once said: “If you’ve lost your faith in love and music, the end won’t be long”. Let’s just leave it at that.