VERITY LUSH: To me, Barry Gibb sounded more like a singing mouse

I caught some of Glastonbury on the Beeb last weekend.

Saturday, 1st July 2017, 6:55 am
Updated Tuesday, 12th September 2017, 11:33 am
Barry Gibb performing on the Pyramid Stage at Glastonbury Festival. Picture: Ben Birchall/PA Wire YPN-170625-165943060

I always like it when they have an icon performing and this year it was Barry Gibb.

Which sadly went to prove that it’s always more successful if the icon in question can actually still sing.

Tom Jones, for example, is still a power-house of a voice. Barry, not so much.

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At 71, he was attempting his falsetto. Or, at least, a septuagenarian version of his falsetto.

In reality, what Barry looked and sounded like was a man taking part in an experiment that necessitated him placing his testicles in a vice, before attempting to sing while a group of scientists with cameras surrounded him, ready to capture the ensuing helium squeaks on film in the name of research.

In essence, Barry Gibb sounded more like the singing mice from Babe, than he did the Bee Gees of his heyday.

But still, at the grand old age of 71 he has more hair than Donald Trump and more fans too, so fair play.

Jo Whiley was presenting when I tuned in on Friday night.

She must have either run there from somewhere or been part of an emergency rescue operation.

Because she appeared to be swathed in one of the tin foil sheets that mountain rescuers swiftly wrap around the lost souls they sweep up after a Bob Graham round goes wrong in the Fells.

By far the best performance of the weekend lay at the musical hands of The Killers, who were a surprise act.

The actual ground appeared to be jumping, causing cameras to waggle and wobble as they filmed, while Brandon Flowers led the crowds through Mr Brightside.

It’s always fantastic to see a band perform when everybody in the crowd actually knows the words and is happy to belt them out.

It’s far better than the cringeworthy moments when a lead singer implores the masses to warble along, only to be greeted with tumbleweed and the recognition that either they don’t know a single one of your lyrics, or they just can’t be bothered to open their vocal chords.


My husband and I tried to call 101 after spotting some kids sitting on cars in the street, fighting, and knocking back booze.

Obviously it’s not an emergency situation, but nor can it be ignored.

Particularly as you may have vulnerable people living in your street, who are easily intimidated by such anti-social behaviour.

Unfortunately, it would appear that I rang 101 at the wrong time, weather-wise.

I ended up listening to an automated message telling me it had been a bit hot recently so they were all busy, but that I could find advice on the website.

It was right up there with a similar time when I rang and was quizzed as to why I hadn’t simply confronted the grown men fighting in the street myself.


I cannot be the only parent who is bored sick of cooking.

I am bored witless of choosing the meals each week, trying to think of something remotely original, and too shattered to feel vaguely inspired.

If I make something with vegetables in it (which is most nights), then my kids have joined forces in telling me, ‘We don’t eat it when it’s squishy’.

Squishy simply means ‘cooked’ in their book.

So, anything like a standard spaghetti Bolognese has to have peppers, for example, chopped and added when raw.

Even a carrot can no longer be presented roasted or lightly steamed.

Healthier I realise than actually heating them up, but such a huge faff at the end of the working day.