Thursday, May 20, 2010

Kiri-osity killed the career

Image from Reuters/NZPA

Oh Dame Kiri, what have you done? Dissing SuBo? What were you thinking? 'Whizz-bang? You didn't think it through now did you? Do I need to remind you of what happened to Elaine Paige for simply calling the sainted people's diva 'viral'. A lot of folk wouldn't even think that was a bad thing to say. I doubt very much you'll get away with ten hail Susans and a humiliating globally televised duet with this lot.

How bad is it? Let's review shall we. You told The Radio Times,

"You insult me by even wanting to bring it into this conversation. I'm not interested. [My competition] has nothing to do with The X Factor, which I can't bear. It's whipped up for one night and it's over.

"I feel so sorry and sad for those poor contestants. My show is everything to do with finding a true singer. It's a mission because I'm capable of bringing talent forward, which is not being done enough."

Fatal, I'd say. Just as well you were thinking of retiring.

So, you're doing your own talent show. I see. What's that you say Dame Kiri? You're not going to be picking through half-naked fat father and son juggling acts and toothless grannies playing the spoons in search of the next Madama Butterfly or Don Giovanni? You're going to be developing singers who have the pipes and the stamina to perform proper opera? How's that going to work exactly? Where's the edge, the risk, the element of surprise in that? Your funeral.

Speaking of which. Here's how it will play. You will make an exceptionally grovelling public apology in which you will tell the world how much you admire SuBo's courage in the face of the crippling adversity she faced until that miraculous day when she forged her enduring creative partnership with Simon Cowell, whom you incidentally think is the most stupendous impresario who ever lived. And also you will admit that SuBo is the greatest singer who ever lived. Greater than Callas. Greater than Melba. Greater even than Madonna.

You will then receive a messengered note headed 'from the desk of Piers Morgan...' inviting you to participate in a television spectacular entitled 'Yet Another Tedious Evening with Susan Boyle', hosted by the Piers Morgan of notepaper fame. You will then sit backstage in a cold green room nursing a plastic cup of warm Irn-Bru while Morgan, wearing his come-on-Susan-we-rehearsed-this face, tries to coax scripted answers from her to tough questions like 'How great is it for you to be living your dream?'

Then one of a thousand or so 'assistants to Miss Boyle' who has never heard of you will stick her head through the door and say, 'you're on Miss Tea Canister'. You will not flinch. You will march out onto that stage and acknowledge the confused, lukewarm applause. You will then look adoringly at Miss Boyle as you sing together Duettino Sull'aria from The Marriage of Figaro. She will not be looking at you but rather at the teleprompter, where the words will all be typed out phonetically. At the end you will gush and there will be no sparing of the words 'honour' and 'privilege'. Is that clearly understood? Good.

Sometime in the future, you will be sitting at home watching the telecast of Prince William's wedding to Kate Middleton and Baroness SuBo will be singing Wild Horses to a rapt congregation of crowned heads, reality TV personalities and frock designers. And you shall be redeemed at last.