Singing along with Mariah Carey is no challenge, as Brian Logan discovered at her first-ever concert in London
MARIAH CAREY once said about her video for the single Fantasy: “It’s difficult wearing all those hats, but the positive results were worth it.” By this standard, the UK debut of the top-selling recording artist of the Nineties was positive indeed. The diva regaled us with five fabulous costumes, including two hats. I felt for her.
The first get-up, a ballgown with bouffant skirt, was unveiled to whoops of unbridled joy as Mariah alighted on stage. A colossal chandelier deferentially receded skywards. Vivid pinks and violets winked. Mariah opened her lungs: “You’ve got me feeling emotions” — what she usually feels, who knows. Soon she was taking the crowd, and music, to heights hitherto unimagined. When her much- vaunted voice hit its piercing peak, London’s Wembley Stadium went bonkers.
A backdrop emerged, all 2-D Corinthian pillars and latticed windows. Reclining on a mock-ornate staircase, Princess Charming invited us to holler along to her new single. “I’m going to teach it to you,” she said. The academically under-achieving needn’t have worried; “do do do da dow” is no great challenge.
This was a squeaky-clean, slickly packaged extravaganza: the usual entourage of breakdancers and beefily soulful backing vocalists embroidered Mariah’s wandering warble; while Boyz II Men — “with us in spirit and on video” — joined in for the chart-busting smoochathon One Sweet Day. Elsewhere, the same screen beamed close-ups of Mariah to those of us too distant to swim in the pools of her eyes.
“I love you all,” intoned Mariah. And the crowd loved her, not least because she packs such punch into those tunes. Witness her belting out Vision of Love, which showcases her entire vocal range. If you didn’t know this was tour-de-force balladeering, you might have thought the chandelier had fallen on her big toe.
A Mariah Carey Special will be screened on SABC2 on Friday at 11pm
@SPORT
@ London News to come out smoking
Tomorrow sees the 100th running of the Rothmans July. As a racing man of many years’ standing, I am overcome with excitement about the race. As a priest with his eyes on more eternal values, I am quietly horrified at the event’s subliminal messages.
The race, after all, is a marketing conspiracy schemed up between the tobacco and fashion industries. The dual message from these ungodly lobbies is this: “If you smoke more, and eat less, you will be able to squeeze your designer frame into expensive clothes and look perpetually ready for sex.”
This endorsement of vanity, debauchery and ill health is quite unacceptable to Catholicism and, if there are any women out there who are falling for it, they can phone me on 403-7111 and I will help them wriggle out of such designer outfits immediately.
In the meantime I have written to the SABC suggesting that the Lung Cancer Stakes be exposed for what it is. I have suggested that striking images of glamorous, best-dressed couples be interspersed with footage of emphysema victims strapped up to heart-lung machines. Also, the sophisticated ritualism of the pre-race parade should have spliced into it footage of a funeral in which a priest intones, “He died coffin’, coffin’, coffin’.”
Unfortunately SABC officials do not appear to have read my protest. They merely faxed me back a standard reply which said,
“Dear Father/ Reverend/ Padre/Brother/Sister/ Rabid
Fanatic. No matter how many letters you and your ilk send in, we will not be increasing our TV religious coverage on Sunday.” And this used to be a God- fearing country!
Since my efforts to prevent ungodly images on our screens have failed, I suppose I will have to force myself to watch all those gorgeous, preening models sporting inflamed lungs and haute couture creations on Saturday. This will be especially distressing since my Catholic girlfriend will be in the room. At present she looks like a hot air balloon. When I go shopping with her, elderly people turn to each other and say, “Goodness, dear, I’d forgotten about the Hindenburg.”
My friends from the diocese are scarcely more discreet. When they see her, they hum an odious advertising jingle, and snigger, “What a lot you got.”
They’re right — she’s so bloody Catholic, she’s almost universal. But it’s not the poor girl’s fault. Her weight problem can be directly related to a quintessential South African phenomenon — vehicle hijacking. A month ago she was caught behind a car being hijacked in Sandton. The moment she saw the gun coming out, she did the only thing any civic-minded, issue-conscious South African would do in similar circumstances — she did a U-turn and raced to a smart coffee house in Hyde Park. Five hours later she was spotted there with seven plates of chocolate cake in front of her.
Three psychologists later we have the answer: she is trying to eat herself into a fantasy world of cream tarts, balloons, smiling clowns and cotton candy. She is, in a nutshell, trying to eat herself out of the new South Africa and into a radical Catholic afterlife incorporating Babette’s Feast.
Even now, she has not emerged from this brave new world. The only thing she has said to me since her ordeal is, “One more raspberry doughnut, garon, and the check please.”
I find her behaviour refreshing and liberating, especially because — in an age of hyper- committed, emphatically idealistic hunger strikes – — she has chosen to embrace an ethic incorporating narcissism, denial, and horror-management. I can see where she’s coming from, and it’s a good place, although my credit card statements suggest it must definitely be over by Monday.
One good thing — while my beloved’s mind is only partly with me at present, her body is still there. Its ample shape, however, is bewilderingly malleable, and subverts my carnal imagination in embarrassing ways. For example, the other night in the dark I moved towards her and felt several mounds of pleasure alternating themselves in my eager grasp.
“You girls are great,” I whispered seductively. “Why don’t we try out this kinky Protestant thing where you split up into your individual selves, and work out my erotic salvation in a number of places at once?” Unfortunately she immediately spotted the fundamental error in my theological premise and belted me.
My mission now is to hide this girl from public sight, and save her from ever having to go out into the traffic again. My Rothmans July has consequently been dedicated to making a fortune so I can afford a fortress home in Houghton. I drove around the suburb recently, and spotted a number of fabulous houses on which I will be making offers after the big race.
I even found a gardener. I was driving past this huge mansion when I spotted an old guy running a Flymo over some thick grass. He was doing a good job, so I got out the car, and said, “Hey, I’m moving into the neighbourhood shortly. Will you cut my grass for me, say once a week?”
“Yebo, Gogo,” he replied. “I’m sure I can fit it in between my overseas trips and running the country.” Oops!
While looking over fences and punching figures into a calculator, I was approached by two electrified fencing companies, a neighbourhood sentry unit, and the National Canine League. I was particularly impressed with the canine league, who told me that if you purchase two Rottweilers you will not need any other fortification to guarantee your absolute peace of mind on your property.
They gave me a lovely brochure on the subject called Two Dogs and Freedom, which I am enjoying immensely. “Don’t get an AK-47, get two K-9s,” the booklet advises sagely.
Of course thoughts of a world with codes like K-9 immediately reminds me of the P2 Masonic Guild in Italy, which runs the entire world. All the cardinals are members, and my long-time associate Cardinal Frankie is its chairman. Frankie is generating funds to run the Vatican, and Italy, from the racetracks of the world. It was he who sent Pope John Paul II to South Africa to examine the racecourses here so that P2 could land several coups.
Imagine JP’s horror, therefore, when — clutching binoculars and a Computaform — he was greeted at Gosforth Park by millions of depressed-looking Catholics with rosary beads and open-mouths, chanting, “Feed us the bread of life, Your Holiness. The local Steers is closed.”
“Nice racing crowd, Equinus,” the Puntiff said to me, tugging my cassock. “But where are-a da horses, where are-a da horses?”
It is P2, the Pope, and yours truly who started pouring a fortune onto London News at 10-1 a month ago. The horse is now at 16-10, so it’s too late for the rest of you. As with all things in life, the RCC has grabbed the lion’s share of the action. It’s the same in heaven, where 140 000 members of the elect will be Catholics. The other 4 000 will be girls with long legs and cellphones.
London News is a three-year-old colt by the son of former July winner Bush Telegraph. He is trained by Alec Laird, whose late father Syd trained seven July winners.
London News has crushed the ambitions of his contemporaries in three features this term, most recently breezing home in the Daily News
2 000 in course-record time. He takes on older horses now, but lines of form through Ashtontown suggest that he can handle a scrap against older animals.
If things go well for the chestnut, he could turn this into a procession. If he’s trapped several horses wide in a bump `n’ grind derby, then he could just come unstuck.
Tourisimo and Pelagos could take advantage if London News comes a cropper. Tourisimo, trained by shrewd handler Michael Roberts, is a lightly raced five- year-old. The son of Prontisimo’s preparation run – — a half-length third behind Stride Ahead in the 1 900m Durban Plasma — was a good one considering he lost a shoe and was probably some way off his peak. On that run he could take the measure of Stride Ahead (2 kg worse off), as well as Teal (drawn badly here), Circuit Judge and Milleverof.
On paper he should also account for Pelagos (3,5 kg worse off) but I’m not sure this will happen. Pelagos needed his last two runs very badly, and one can expect that trainer Tony Millard will have him at his best for tomorrow’s race. He had the perfect trial in the Durban Plasma because he had an identical barrier position to the one he has in the July — pole position. He should be the first runner to throw down the gauntlet in the straight. With three-time July winner Felix Coetzee in the saddle, he could upset the odds, even though he’s never won outside the Middle Division.
Mosszao could provide former South African and British champion jockey Michael Roberts with his first July winner. She has never raced in Durban and it’s also against her that she races best from off the pace. She has a great rider aboard, however, and very little weight to shoulder.
La Fabulous won the Met from a good draw, and fate has again handed him a good barrier position. He now has 2kg more to carry, but his preparation has been perfect and he deserves plenty of respect.
The joker in the pack? A five-year-old gelding called Sleek Machine, who finished a storming 5th last year. His connections have equipped him with blinkers to keep him handier in the running and, if the ploy works, pilot Doug Whyte could just land the shuttle.
The 100th running of the July looks set to be a bumper event. Whether a smoker or not, on-course and TV viewers are bound to be breathless at the finish.
While every effort has been made to avoid errors in racing info. supplied, the M&G accepts no responsibility for mistakes inadvertantly made.