Dáithí plays perfect host but he's no cowboy
“COW ACT not happening – she’s too lively!” the text came to my phone just as Dáithí Ó Sé was due to milk a live cow on live television under the guidance of Ottawa Rose Avaleigh Eastman.
Eastman’s family have 400 acres, 40 cows and she calls herself an “agvocate”. If Dáithí had milked that cow, Eastman would have had the farming vote – unless another Rose wrestled a sheep-stealing wolf or renegotiated the Common Agricultural Policy. They should have known. As I sneaked into the Dome before Eastman took to the stage, I could tell that Daisy – pooing to the left of the main door as I entered – didn’t have the X-Factor.
Still, it was a great old do. California’s Erin Kelley told a childhood story about chasing a monkey who stole her bottle (America is brilliant!). Chicago Rose Margaret Rose Keating sang a song about emigration and famine. And, as is tradition,
Dáithí helped take a dress off a lady, Melbourne Rose Claire Lynch, so she could demonstrate Aussie Rules football.
In nods to cosmopolitan modernity, the Luxembourg and New Zealand Roses sang in foreign tongues (French and Maori) and New Orleans’s Lisa Brady encouraged Dáithí to zumba dance – a sight that probably put zumba back decades.
“I’ve always found it very hard to differentiate my hips from my backside,” Dáithí confided, demonstrating this strange fact through dance. He also teased the escorts (“a strange looking bunch of lads”), donned fake eyebrows to scare an eyebrow-phobic Texas Rose (“Touch them!”) and flirted with Avaleigh Eastman’s mother (“I have a wife. I’m not blind!”).
For some, the big media- friendly, black tie event in the big tent by the Carlton Hotel is just an excuse for the town to have a big hooley. Earlier that Monday morning, in the lobby of the hotel where I was staying, perplexed early-rising German sightseers watched smudgey-eyed revellers who were clasping high heels and slurring their words. One girl dozed on a couch as a security guard gently tried to rouse her. “She likes to sit where she likes to sit,” said her boyfriend stoically.
A tall chap rubbing his temples in the breakfast room was an escort in 2007. “Being an escort was the best week I ever had. The closest I’ll ever come to being David Beckham.”
His friend, the only one in their group not in a dishevelled mess, was a Rose in 2008 and glowed with surprising good health and sobriety. “Once a Rose always a Rose!” she said with a broad smile. Out in the lobby, the slumped young lady had been joined by two more slumped young ladies and the Germans looked nervous. It was a bit like a modern version of Hitchcock’s The Birds.