Valley of the Trolley Dollies

America - the United States, that is - has, I think it’s safe to say, won the culture wars.

America is, of course, a Nation founded by Puritans who were considered too extreme even for the Mad Mullahs of Cromwellian England, and formalised by a group of humanist-leaning revolutionaries. The dichotomy - strict puritanism battling with freewheeling acceptance of new ideas - is what kept the US so vital for so long.

And in this, the first decade of the twenty-first century, the face of Western (and much Eastern) mass culture, not to mention a large part of the face of high brow culture (the forehead, perhaps, and the left cheek. Maybe a bit of the chin too) has been remodelled - in, at times, a Bride of Wildenstein way - by a culture obsessed with Novelty value.

Because, to the Humanist, sensation based side of American culture, novelty is, in and of itself, A Very Good Thing. If the gilt flakes away and what’s left is lead, the offending novelty is unceremoniously dumped, and life carries on as though nothing had ever happened. Viz the hula hoop, Tiffany (the serenader of Shopping Malls; not the purveyor of Sterling Silver) and, of course, Hillary Clinton.

At the same time, however, there’s that Puritan Work Ethic demanding that the novelty - as long as it lasts - be wrapped in the tissue paper of import. Everything, put simply, must have a deeper reason for existing. To be otherwise makes a thing worthless frippery. A hula hoop is not simply a ring of plastic designed to provide meaningless fun; it’s a revolutionary exercise tool.

Movie Stars too: try retyping the last sentence, replacing the words “Hula” and “Hoop” with “Jane” and “Fonda.”

But sometimes - even after the gilding has blown away like gossamer - the remains are shown to be of immense and permanent value.

Jazz. Motion Pictures. Hip Hop. Journalism-as-Literature. Beat Poetry. Rock ‘n’ Roll. Disco. The Blues.T.V. Soap operas. The works of Hemmingway and Fitzgerald.

All of these came from America (having often, admittedly, been sourced elsewhere - usually Europe or Africa) but America can lay claim to taking base lead and, if not actually transmuting it, certainly of regilding it.

But not pop. Oh no. To see an American do Rockanrawl is a joy, a Hip Hop crew - love or loath the genre - is, in full force (I.E. On a good day, not a specific reference to the purveyors of “Alice (I want you just for me)”) a pleasure to behold.

But, when Americans try to do pop, they invariably end up with Lite - Rock Lite, or R+B Lite - and it’s often not bad at all. The Thriller album, or the first Britney Spears, for example.

Then there’s the afore-mentioned Tiffany (the serenader of Shopping Malls; not the purveyor of Sterling Silver), Debbie Gibson, or the entire oeuvre of Les Soeurs Simpson.

Not Pop. Because Americans can’t do pop. Because Pop - like Champagne, Philosophy, Opera, Ballet, Farce and Surrealism is a peculiarly European concept, and, in the Eurovision Song Contest - a TV spectacle stretching, this year, over three nights and attracting an audience of 150 million people - Europe takes back Television (a mass culture product invented in the Old World but fully realised, popularised and proliferated via the New) and uses the medium to proclaim it’s biggest contribution to modern Popular Culture.

We are Europe. And we invented Pop.

And the first Euro Pop Star? W. A. Mozart. Listen to Die Zauberflote, the highlights, and you’ll see what I mean: One after another after another. All Killer, no filler, pop sensations. Glorious, hummable, joyously nonsensical and beautifully crafted songs sung by men dressed as vagabond bird catchers, or drag queen castrati done up as the Queen of the Night. Lyrics that make little or no sense, and choruses that are little more than ‘La La La,’ but tunes and tempii that burrow into your head like audio ringworm, and don’t let go. Listen, and tell me you can’t see a direct line on to the “Happy Ever After” album by Donna Summer (an American, but an album largely factored by Europeans in Europe), and on to ABBA’s melancholy meisterwerk “The Visitors,” A-Ha’s “East of the Sun,” and even Bananarama’s “Wow.”

Because - and here’s where distinct difference – when it comes to popular culture, Europeans have no shame.

We’ve seen Empires rise and fall, survived Genocide and Futurist Haircuts, and acknowledge - happily - that a loud, catchy dance tune performed by a bunch of fancy dress Latvian Pirate Kings and Queens might, in fact, be nothing more than it seems - a joyously fizzily camp entertainment designed to make the audience smile, tap its feet, and hum along.

Pop, in other words. And with this years Eurovision selection promising the afore mentioned Pirates,a Spanish Reggaeton Pastiche with obscene lyrics, and a Polish woman with the whitest teeth, tannest tan and closest resemblance to a post-op Tranny since Dana International, the proof is incontrovertable:

You can keep your Britneys, your Justin Timberlakes and your XTinas - all of whom take themselves waaaaay too seriously anyway. Because, for this one week - and this weekend in particular - Pop rules the world.

We are Eurovision. And we, as I believe I may have mentioned, invented pop.

We hugged for a little longer than we usually do when I got home.

We made poached eggs, and served them on top of thick cut Deli Ham – pink and salty-sweet, with the faintest tracing of fat – which was in turn placed atop rounds of lightly toasted, melted butter smeared white bread, and accompanied by Heinz baked beans, their sweet mushiness complementing the crisp salt-sweet blandness of the poached egg towers.

We talked about Theresa – how we both felt so shocked at how quickly she’d gone; how we both felt guilty that we didn’t get round to see her ‘For a slice of cake and a cup of tea,’ like she’d asked. We wondered whether she’d known she was going, and if that request had been code for ‘Come around so I can say goodbye.’ We fell silent, and ate, savouring each mouthful, newly aware of how vitally important the little things – like slices of cake, or gelatinous yellow yolks, are.

We watched Doctor Who: The Invasion of Time.

“You know,” I said to Him, “When I was a kid I loved Doctor Who. But I don’t remember this story.”

“It’s Tom Baker,” he replied, “Leila’s last story. With the Sontarans.”

Still nothing. We lay on the sofas and watched all six half hour episodes.

Oh. Dear. Lord.

Tom Baker is wonderful – mugging for all he’s worth, and really getting some scary anger on screen for one or two of the scenes. His knowing Naughty Schoolboy routine is proof that Mr Tenants currently acclaimed Doctor has a direct lineage back to Mr Baker, and his wild curly hair is a site to behold.

Some of the script:

Sontaran: “I am commander Stok, of the Sontaran Supreme Space Shock Squad.”

Doctor: “Stock? Of the Sontaran Supr- That’s a lot of alliteration, isn’t it”

Is sharp and funny and clever(ish). The exchanges between the Time Lords – a bunch of bitchy camp old queens in a very fancy version of The Quebec, if their phrasing is anything to go by – are joyously cutting. But the pacing. Dear Lord, the Pacing. At one point the Doc and a secondary support character have the same conversation twice. In immediate succession. With Every Line being repeated by the other. Immediately after it’s spoken. And this happens Twice. In a conversation. Between the Doctor and someone else. Some, I don’t know, secondary character. And you know how annoying that can be. Basically, what could have been a very sharp three (or four, max) parter is stretched out to six episodes for no obvious dramatic reason.

And the design – apart from a bunch of reused costumes – is school production bad. The makeup on the Sontaran Villain makes him look like a bloated bald Amy Winehouse after a night on the gear (not to mention the fact that he  sounds like a bad Bruce Forsythe impersonation), and the three secondary villains turn out to be Shiny paper from the planet Bacofoil, whose humanoid manifestation is a trilogy for whom the phrase the banality of evil might have been created.

A shame it was so ropey, but the two of us, dozing on the sofa, newly aware of the fragility of all that we hold dear, loved every second.