A member of the Barrie audience fainted after Blue Rodeo’s first song and needed to be taken out on a stretcher. A fellow octogenarian, he was heard to say just before he collapsed, “I can actually make out what they’re saying.”
The obscenely rich and spookily skinny (oxymoronic?) Celine Dion arrived in London to make her own inimitable impassioned plea to feed those millions she could buy a country for, and then proceeded to squeak and squeal into the microphone in all her French Canadienne glory. It was rumoured that during Celine’s squirming performance Adrienne Clarkson, having purloined her ticket from a scalper of dubious nationality, was witnessed following the mike wire, apparently miffed she wasn’t invited to inject her save-the-world formula into the sanctimonious mix.
Viewers everywhere, mostly young and of that demographic which seldom appear at polling stations, were cajoled repeatedly to vote online for something vague and irrelevant to convey to the G8 leaders.
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