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ADAPTED FROM A CHAPTER IN MY BOOK 'SOUR MOUTH, SWEET BOTTON', PUBLISHED BY UNBOUND

In Britain, we nearly all have the same ambivalent attitude to Eurovision. We half want to laugh the whole thing off as an annual joke devised by daft people across the channel. And we half want to win it in a clean sweep to show them how it ought to be done. This year, I’m beginning to think we might even manage it. We’ve picked a singer who looks like he was born for the Eurovision stage and a song that sounds like it’s won the contest a dozen times already - Olly Alexander with ‘Dizzy’. So fingers crossed.

It’s twenty-four years since I first attended the event. It was in 2000, and like this year, it was in Stockholm, But I wasn’t there as a Brit, I was there as an honorary Russian - I was the manager of the Russian entry, Alsou.,

What hit me when I arrived in Stockholm was the good-natured buzz that pervaded the city. And what a large event it was! Twenty-five countries, the singing teams from each, the Eurovision committees from each, the press contingents from each; plus the national TV crews, the sponsors, the VIPs, the hangers-on and the huge conglomerate of Eurovision fans who travel to every event, every year, a barmy army of international pop addicts. I have to admit it surprised me. Here I was, forty years in the music business, thinking this was a minor TV show when in fact it was more like the World Cup.

A year earlier, I’d started managing Alsou, a major star in Russia. She was a pretty girl who sang sentimental tunes - she looked stylish, sang nicely, smiled pleasantly and was probably fulfilling her father’s ambitions rather than her own. She certainly didn’t have the emotional trauma in her past that drove most of the pop stars I’d managed. She was just plain nice.

Her dad was OK, too, despite being a big deal. He was a director and major shareholder in Lukoil, the world’s biggest oil company. That made him one of the richest men in the world, which meant there were no great budgetary constraints. But anyone familiar with British pop knows all too well − kids can sniff out hype in an instant. Spending money on Alsou wouldn’t be. enough to make her a star. She actually needed to be one.

Once I’d got to know her I decided perhaps she could be. There was more steel under the surface than showed on top. Even so, for success in Britain having a rich dad might work against her. For Eurovision it wouldn’t. So Universal Records, who she was signed to, set about getting the necessary strings pulled to make her the Russian entrant for 2000.

Meanwhile, I set about studying the rules. Surprisingly, I found that songs didn’t have to be written by someone from the country the singer was representing. Like most people I’d always presumed they were. So I did the rounds of British and American publishers till I found a good one, catchy enough to be good for Eurovision but good enough not to be laughed off the charts. Then I found the producer also didn’t have to be of the singer’s nationality, so I chose Steve Levine, who’d produced all of Culture Club’s hits.

With the song recorded and Alsou in London, I got her rehearsing daily at Pineapple Studios with a top British choreographer and a couple of pro male dancers who could give her routine a bit of kick. Then it was off to sell her round Europe.

The objective was to get her record released and promoted in as many countries as possible so the general public would become familiar with it by the time the show took place, and hopefully vote for it. But could those votes be swayed?

To outsiders the show always looked tediously corrupt. Eastern European countries voted for each other, as did Scandinavian countries, and to some extent Southern European ones, too, while islands like Cyprus and Malta often gave each other maximum points. Was it because these countries shared a cultural understanding? Was it political? Or was it a downright fix?

Unsure what could be achieved, I set off around Europe seeing record companies and getting the record released. Since Alsou was signed to Universal in Russia, that part wasn’t too difficult. And in the local Universal offices people gave me pointers as to who might be able to help.

In Malta, for instance, where Alsou did a couple of TV shows promoting the song, we had dinner with the chairman of the local Eurovision committee. A jolly fellow whose principal business was pork farming, or more precisely bacon production.

‘Russians love bacon,’ I told him over dinner. ‘Is your stuff top class? Maybe they’d like to buy some?’

Naturally nothing untoward was spoken, but after reporting my findings back to Alsou’s dad, I heard in due course that a certain quantity of Maltese bacon had found its way to some of the better-connected food stores in Moscow. Perhaps (though I had no way of knowing), this might cause the Maltese judging committee to prick up their ears at the sound of the Russian song on Eurovision night.

We went to other European countries and did similar TV shows followed by similar dinners. Afterwards (though nothing is certain), it’s possible that other businesses too found new opportunities for trade in Russia.

In Romania, following the obligatory TV performance of the song, we had the usual dinner. We’d heard that Romania was in urgent need of a large quantity of oil. Since Alsou’s father owned the word biggest petroleum company, it was no surprise that one of the dinner guests was a high-up politician.

There was also an unrelated visit I made to the Netherlands. It wasn’t intended to be about Eurovision but I was imposed on by a man who turned up at my hotel and told me he could pull Eurovision strings. I had no idea if he could or not, or how, or if pulling them would be effective, but he appeared to be some sort of stalker. He said he’d been following my career for many years and without doubt I was the one person he knew who would be capable of turning his songwriter son into a worldwide superstar. He was quite intimidating. A bit crazy, in fact. Maybe a psychopath.

I explained it was impossible to guarantee success in the music business and the odds of making his son a star would be extremely small. He replied that getting me twelve points from the Netherlands for Eurovision was also impossible. But he could do it. And once he had done I would owe superstardom to his son.

‘What about the public?’ I asked. ‘In the Netherlands it’s not done by committee. How can you fix the points when it’s the public who vote?’

‘I have ways,’ he insisted.

Then Eurovision was upon us. It was glorious spring weather and Stockholm was a happy club of managers, publishers and music executives mixing over al fresco lunches of herring and salmon.

On the night of the show I was impressed. The hall was huge, the sound and lights as good as any I’d seen, the audience arranged in national blocs with the gangways between them wide enough to allow cameras to whizz up and down. But from watching the show from out front, I couldn’t really tell how well Alsou had done.

For the voting I went to the green room and sat with the artists and their national committees. When the first three votes came in, Nicki French, the British entry, received zero. The Russian committee were expecting me to get Alsou into the top three but I was worried we might join Britain in its annual descent to the bottom. I didn’t need to be. Alsou’s points were mounting up nicely.

‘From Malta,’ they announced, ‘twelve points.’

‘Good heavens,’ I told everyone around me, ‘how on earth did we get those?’

‘From Romania, twelve points.’ (‘Ditto!’)

‘From Ireland, twelve points.’
(And this time from me, a very genuine ‘Good heavens’. I mean – how did we get them?)

And then some ominous news...

It was announced there’d been a fire in the Amsterdam phone exchange. Phone lines were down across the Netherlands. The Eurovision result would have to be decided by a small panel in the studio.

My stomach lurched. I remembered the psychopath I’d met in Amsterdam. Could he? Would he? Was it possible? Was it an accident? Had something gone a bit further than he intended?

Then more news came − several firemen had been injured and two had been killed. Now there was only one thing in my mind – I DO NOT WANT US TO GET ONE SINGLE DUTCH VOTE.

And thank goodness. When the vote came in we didn’t. Not a single one.

If we had, Alsou would have won. Instead, she came second, the perfect spot – plenty of glory but without the media madness that would face the winner. For Russia, this was enough; the best result they’d ever had, delivered by their melt-in-the-mouth young pop star.

Alsou’s father supplied unlimited Cristal champagne till dawn and, like everyone else, I drank all I could pour in. When I woke the next morning I found I’d only just made it back to my room. I’d managed to get there and get the key in the lock, and I’d even managed to open the door, but then I’d lost momentum. The door was open and I was lying on the floor, half in the room and half out; from the waist down in the passage, from the waist up in the room. And my head was on another planet.

By midday I’d recovered enough to pack my bags and get to the airport. On the plane I found myself next to the senior representative from the BBC, the man whose job it was every year to oversee Britain’s contribution to the event. I commiserated with him over the British entry having received just a smattering of votes.

‘Not what it deserved,’ I told him. ‘I thought it was rather good.’

‘Never mind,’ he said. ‘That’s just the way things are. But the one thing we all love about Eurovision is that it’s still so completely incorruptible − genuinely down to the song and nothing else. We really must find a better one next time.’

It sounded so British, so defiantly naive, so daft, so absolutely blind to reality. But later I thought he might be right. Perhaps our subterfuge had been nothing do with Alsou’s success. Maybe we’d just chosen the right song.

Hopefully, we’ve chosen it this time too, and I’m now no longer speaking as an honorary Russian, I’m speaking as a true Brit. I love the singer and I love the song.

So go for it Olly – let’s show those Europeans how it ought to be done.

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