There are very few times I feel homesick for the UK.
In fact, the ONLY time I feel homesick for the UK is usually when there is the biannual airing of the latest Cowell Car Crash Cash Cow.
Before I go any further, I do have a vested interest in all this guff. You see, the truth of the matter is….
I wish it was me.
I really do.
You see , for whatever reason, to go on a stage and sing my big gobbed Northern heart out is my ultimate pleasure, and one in which I never partake.
It’s in the genes. Great Granny was a ‘showgirl’ by all accounts, and hell, I’m even wearing a ‘Fame’ sweatshirt on my first school photograph. It was meant to be.
But it never was.
Yup. My unique vocal talents have remained undiscovered. Despite my wishful attempts to become the fourth member of Bananarama, or even just get to play Mary in the Walton Grove Infant School nativity, 1984, it never happened.
Halfway to school, there was a tall lampost. Every day I’d pretend it was Pete Waterman and dreamily decide which ‘choon’ I was going to belt out as I walked paste ‘Pete’.
But Pete was just a Post after all, and my Kylie/Kim Wilde/Sonia renditions clearly failed to impress.
I digress. Anyhoo, unless you are like, well, dead, everyone in the entire universe knew all about Susan Boyle , right?.
As did I, but busy little bee that I am , hadn’t managed to watch any of the rest of the BGT show until the night before the final when DD and I had a You Tube marathon.
Oh dear. Hollie Steele’s mother PLEADING with la Holden et al to ‘lerrer avanovver go!’
She’s ten years old for crying out loud. She’s a distinctly average Soprano in a Monsoon dress , she’s crying her eyes out like a rabbit in headlights, and all her mother cares about is her ‘avvin’ another go’.
Oh go on, Simon, let her, you see there’s nothing us mums like more than to deliberately inflict emotional pain on our offspring in the name of fame.
Or more like in our own pathetic quest for fulfilment via our children’s achievements?
I haven’t quite got there myself yet. None of the mini me’s are displaying particualr talents. Well, none I’m ready to promote to the world anyway. Obviously if Olympic tantrumming is something to be proud of, we’re gold medal winners, stinkiest nappies, least dinner eaten before whining for chocolate – that sort of thing.
But then I look back to the days when I wrote the family page for the local paper. I pimped poor little H out every week for the sake of an hilarious anecdote or comedy picture, as well as any other family member willing. Indeed, a large extended family is a lazy journalists dream.
I’m still doing it. Somebody needed a kid for a voice over. Before you can say ‘Bonnie Langford’ we’re stood in a recording studio and I’m berating her for getting her lines wrong. Pushy mum turns into embarrassing mum as I’m dropping her off at school and said radio ad comes blaring down the airwaves..
Volume up to 30 and windows open methinks…
I was witness to C’s ‘open class’ at his little dancing group last week. The Billy Elliott boys had won the Tony only the night before, unfortunately for him. Therefore rather than revelling in the cuteness of the 3 year olds barely being able to skip let alone anything one might term ‘dance’, I’ve got his costume for Strictly Come Dancing designed in the back of my mind and I’m half way to Satwa for the sequins.
Which brings me back to Amanda Holden. You see Amanda, rather than being queen of the prime time freakshow, I remember when you were a chorus member supporting your first husband in panto in Sheffield. You were nothing more than a ‘dancer for the dads’, or rather ‘a dancer for the Dennis ‘ obviously….