So the date is Sunday 5th February. There’s a tingle of excitement coursing through the veins of every man, woman and child in America. Of course it’s Super Bowl Sunday. Now as a non-American, my interest in American Football (I could get into the argument of should it really be called football but I’ll let it slide) came a few years ago when my brother started playing for his University team. I’ve not looked back since then having sat down to watch the last TWO Super Bowls.
Even now, my interest in the sport is minor but what does intrigue me is all that goes into making it the biggest sporting spectacle on the planet. (i.e the game and the pre-game and half-time shows) It was an interesting decision to book old Madge to perform at half time. All I can say is, watching her performance gave me the creeps. I mean they booked a seemingly immortal woman, (I mean she has to be older than the sun, right?) whose body is clearly starting to assimilate itself, to sing monotonous/mind-controlling songs to the masses, songs, I might add, that carried an eerie auto-tuned quality.
Then there was the dancing. This is where pity set in. (I know what you’re thinking. Who does this clearly talented writer think he is? Pitying the world’s highest selling female solo artist?) The dancing gave the impression of a woman clinging desperately to her youth. It’s gone, love, you’ll never get it back. Stumbling her way across the stage, struggling to keep in time with the talented dancers, I saw through the facade. I saw a woman who just wanted to sit down with a cup of tea and a scone and immerse herself in a good book. The deafening creaks of her weary old bones, as her backing dancers lifted her and turned her upside down and inside out, filled my living room. I was scared.
At one point a clearly worried Cee Lo Green came onto the stage to persuade her to come off and have a sit down. To everybody’s dismay though, the beautifully simple Gnarls Barkley frontman was clearly swept up in the emotion of the evening and only went and joined in, clearly forgetting why he’d gone out there in the first place. It was fitting that everybody’s prayers (for her to stop before she hurt herself) were answered during ‘Like a Prayer.’ Then as we reached the crescendo and ‘World Peace’ was projected in giant yellow letters onto the field, I couldn’t help thinking (and this is the romantic in me), just through the simple act of shutting the frig up, World Peace was achieved…for the time-being anyway (because let’s face it, unfortunately she will probably sing again).
The game was ok too.