Tag Archives: postsaweek2011

Unfortunate back story? YOU could be the next big thing!

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A couple of weeks ago, I had the misfortune of watching “Germany’s Got Talent”. It wasn’t my choice; I was babysitting and the parents had decreed it. The three children had permission to watch the show provided they ate up their salami baguettes and promised to be in bed by 9.30 pm. As I tossed salami slices onto their French sticks, I prayed for a hunger strike, but it was all in vain: they tore through the bread and the youngest even asked for seconds.

If its British counterpart is objectionable, Germany’s Got Talent is downright offensive. It’s even more slow-moving and features considerably more sexually provocative performances and an unacceptably broad definition of talent.

I asked the children whom they were rooting for. “The piano player” they answered. Oh, how nice!

Turns out he’s a Brazilian-German with a red Mohawk known as “Punker Jorg” who’s been up to no good; for the last few years he’s been living on the streets and getting in trouble with the police. Somewhere along the way, he started playing Yann Tiersen songs on the keyboard and now he wants to turn his life around. We see some teary tributes from his grandmother and an emotional appeal from his family to quit his path to self-destruction.


Before he performs we must watch a Russian lady showing off her uncanny ability to change outfits in seconds while covered by a sheet her husband drapes over her; an unfortunate man who is besotted with the main judge, whom he describes as his idol; and a blind lady whose dog sits beside her panting as she sings.

The kids’ eyes get bigger and bigger with each story of an unfortunate life about to be transformed by a winning performance.

This all came back to me tonight because I stumbled upon a clip of Korea’s Got Talent on youtube. Sung-Bong Choi is 22 and was abandoned as a child. He’s spent his life working on the street selling gum and sometimes the public toilets are the only shelter he can get.

One night he’s in a nightclub selling gum when he hears a vocalist performing with such emotion that he decides he wants to sing too and turn his life around. Korea’s Cheryl Cole gazes at him with adoring pity while the camera pans out to audience members, who are wearing uniform expressions of patronising compassion.

Sung Bo, self-contained and humble starts to sing and the crowd goes wild. Cue millions of youtube hits: the boy goes viral and he’s the next Susan Boyle (with that name, he has to be).

Well-intentioned youtube comments beneath videos of this kind remind us “not to judge people by their looks” and thank the Su Bos of the world for having talent despite adverse life circumstances and lack of physical attractiveness.

They’re called “feel-good” videos and they travel around the world in seconds and bring tears to people’s eyes, which they then tweet about with a link back to the video.

Pity that these superstar moments rely on the gross assumption that talent and good looks and fortune are usually correlated and where this is not the case it’s legitimate to make an enormous deal out of it.

Much to the kids’ disappointment, Punker Jorg doesn’t win. An African panflautist who hasn’t been able to afford to see his family for eight years does. Magically, before his winning performance and after an elongated series of clips conveying his unfortunate life-story his mother appears on stage, having been flown over courtesy of the show to hear her son perform the melodies of his native land.

He begins to play. The pretty judge wipes a tear from her cheek with her perfect nail. He’s crowned winner and embraces his mother.

By this time, the kids’ eyes have glazed over. As I tuck them up, I ask whether next time they’d like to play make-believe “Das Supertalent” instead. They nod in excitement. When I return downstairs, I notice a piece of salami stuffed down the side of the sofa.

My left-leaning Christmas tree from Crumlin

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If there is an awkward, complicated way of accomplishing an easy task, the Ferguson family has found it. At Christmas, this means leaving buying a tree until very late and then refusing to bring the car out to transport it home. And of course refusing to buy one close by, because they can be found more cheaply further away.

This year was no different. Given that it’s only four days until Christmas, today seemed like the appropriate time to acquire a tree.

“Dad, we should get a tree”, I said stuffing a potato waffle into my mouth.
“Righteo. Let’s go”
“What, now? I’m eating!”
“We’ll leave in five.”
“FINE.”

Grabbing my coat and boots, I found my dad at the door.
“I’m cycling. Will you accompany me?”
“Nyee… No.I’m wearing a skirt.. and these boots aren’t suitable. You can wheel your bike there and then we’ll carry the tree on it in on the way home.”

He seemed to be okay with this.

Until we were making our way down the canal and he cycled off, leaving me trotting behind, fuming, resentful and futile. I chased him all the way around Harold’s Cross but we found none of the usual haunts open for business.

Dejected, we parted. I dared him to return home without a Christmas tree.

Sure enough, an hour later, I heard the gate creak open and caught a glimpse of my father’s head bopping between a mass of bushy branches.

We argued about the best way to fit the tree through the door. He heaved it all the way into the dining room, where he dumped it unceremoniously against the bookcase. “Got it in Crumlin”, he boasted before announcing he had to dash out again.

Alone now, I took a look at the specimen before me. An absolute beauty. Totally symetrical, full-bodied and tall, with a well-endowed base. This was the Beyoncé of all trees. My Papsi had done well.

The rest of my day went something like this:

I went to the garden and found a large green pot full of earth but without signs of vegetation. Armed with an enourous spade, I emptied it out and marvelled at the reflexive movements of the pinkish-blue worms which resembled varicose veins. Then I boiled several kettles of water and washed it down. My favourite part of the day happened next.

While I returned to the kitchen, I left the pot on the grass. I’d poured in some boiling water and a little cloud of steam was rising from it. When I came back, I found a robin perched at the edge of the pot, with its little red breast all puffed up and its head errect, enjoying a sauna.

I spent a long time cleaning that pot and making the acquaintance of a number of worms, who didn’t seem to want to engage in small talk with me and even, on a few occasions, phsyically recoiled with fear.

When I had finally finished, I brought the pot inside, and lined it with a collonade of bricks, which we happen to keep in our garden.

I took a firm hold of the tree and lugged it over to the window. Employing every ounce of strength my small and under-exercised frame would allow, I lifted it up and tried to jam it into the pot. It didn’t fit.

I breathed in deeply, turned on Mooney Goes Wild and relined my pot. This time it slipped in seemlessly, and, while it is now stable, it leans slightly to the left, which is a position I can identify with.

I was so happy alone in the house today, carrying one box of German Christmas decorations after the other up the stairs and unpacking it all to find it all just as I had packed it away last year. I whiled away six or seven hours dressing my full-bodied, left-leaning tree from Crumlin.

My heart did a little skip when I found my favourite decoration again. It is a little baby (probably Jesus) wrapped in a pink blanket, sleeping inside a walnut shell.

I am incredibly attached to the walnut baby. I would dispense with all our straw stars, our wooden horses, our glass presents and our golden baubles just to save this little one. It’s so simple, so lovely, so constant.

I hung it up on a protected branch near the top of the tree and this evening, in my armchair sipping a glass of spiced apple wine, I watched it swing slightly under a white light and thought that the best moment of Christmas was passing before my eyes.