"Rebecca Upstages John Lennon"

Rebecca Ferguson: Homecoming Queen

Angie Sammons on why it's not just about Lennon in Liverpool this week

Date Published: 08/12/2010 13:29:54

AS timing goes, it was the perfect question.

“What did Hitler see in Wagner?"

Alas, we are not talking about why Simon Cowell allowed an ageing Lothario to remain so long in this year's X-Factor.

Rather, this was the question late on Monday night in a BBC4 programme called “Stephen Fry: Wagner and Me.”

Rebecca's surprise visit incited rapturous waves of emotion across a parent city which, 30 years ago, was famously rendered grief stricken at the 
loss of another of its children. But that's OK. There would be a vigil 
for him in a shopping centre later in the week

The title conjured up so much delicious promise. Fans of ITV's flagship light entertainment show may have tuned in for some sly, surprise, Monday night fix. What they got was The Brandenburg Concerto, not Brandon Flowers, while the Twitter champion pondered the poser.

Indeed, if it was posers and sly Monday surprises you wanted, then the jackpot lay right here, in Liverpool, only hours earlier. Rebecca Ferguson was in town. The real X-Factor deal.

And as timing goes, it was “bang on the money”. Rebecca's surprise visit incited rapturous waves of emotion across a parent city which, 30 years ago almost to the day, was famously rendered grief stricken at the loss of another of its children. One, who by any standards, really was world class.

But that's OK. There would be a vigil for him in a shopping centre later in the week.

We have moved on. Whole golden autumns imperceptibly turn into crisp, cold winters while Britons meditate in a fog of lost TV weekends to the mantras: “Living the dream,” (to be said in an Irish accent); “You are may guilty pleasure.” (Geordie) and “If she messes this up, she could be going home” (estuary English).

Rebecca was going home, but in a good way. As an X-Factor finalist, she, Cher Lloyd, boy band One Direction and the bearded boy Matt Cardle are hitting the roads this week, at vast expense. How many of your calls from a BT landline it costs is anyone's guess, but don't worry: Saturday's live final will generate £25m in revenue.

These wannabes, sponsored by Talk Talk, are the talk all right, and the whole exercise will result in just five minutes VT.

We knew this. Yet we waited for almost two hours in minus six degrees for the Anfield mum's police-escorted people carrier to turn up at the Echo Arena. Us and a couple of thousand teens, clamped to the barrier surrounding the red carpet. They: pinned together, since 1pm, for warmth. Us: freezing our bollocks off in the press pen. Traffic around Rebecca's city route at a standstill, causing the delay.

Everyone in the press pen is impatient. Dying of hypothermia and jumping from one foot to another. So we leg it into the Convention Centre.

No, we are told, there is a conference in here. “Out!”

“Can we just stand in the doorway?”

“Out!”

Back into the life-saving, heated ACC foyer for a reception as frosty as the night.

“Get out!” says the wicked queen on the desk.

"But it's minus six out there!"

“Get out, all of you. Now!”

No Christmas goodwill in there.

Depending on your viewpoint, we got what we deserved. Luckily, it was only an other hour before the homecoming GOOD queen turned up - and then the place thawed.

Rebecca Ferguson showed up with a smile, a wave, and the answers to questions as gripping as the temperature: “REBECCA, what's it like to be back in Liverpool?” “Rebecca REBECCA ! What's Cheryl like?”

You will have to look elsewhere for the answers. Sorry.

It all proved that the only thing that does have a grip is Cowell, on our nation's obsession with celebrity. He is not The Great Dictator, but his funeral song might be “I Got The Power.”

Thousands of young people turned out in sub-zero temperatures for the Russian revolution too. Real students with real missions still destabilise corrupt regimes.

Other countries show their feelings by taking to the streets; Britons take to their seats, 8pm every Saturday night. Forget love, WikiLeaks or the world collapsing financially, all you need is the X-Factor.

Of course, That's unfair, we do protest: with massive Facebook campaigns to get something daft to number one. To scupper Cowell's act.

We fail to see the deep irony of this, as we fail to see that the Xmas number one has been manipulated garbage for the past 30 years. Long before his time. How was Rage Against the Machine raging against, er, anything really? And come on, Pete Doherty, back off. This was a funny stunt. ONCE.

Imagine, for a second, if Cowell harnessed all that energy for something that made a difference. Jesus, then we might really need a Facebook campaign.

Back in Arctic Liverpool, people had been queuing out in various stages of inebriation, from 1am, to get tickets for Rebecca's personal appearance, consisting of a couple of songs inside the Mersey Arena, all introduced by the Tyne Goddess of WAGs herself.

The slight, pretty girl with a voice of honey and chocolate (“Rebechhherrr!!” to her new scouse mates) appeared overwhelmed by the Beatlemania-style screams.

Fireworks exploded, but did Rebecca posture for the paps? No. Mentor Cheryl hasn't taught her that one yet.

She tilted her head shyly at the media mob, and instead gave her full attention to the delighted scals who called her over to mug into their own cheap mobiles. Except she looked perfectly elegant in this cold. Amazing grace.

Let's hope Rebecca, destined for big times, gets there without becoming anyone's mug.

I had my ticket for the gig but couldn't face it. The hard-bitten hacks were frostbitten by now and photographer Mark McNulty, tracking Rebecca since dawn for the big picture agency Rex Features, said he only knew he had taken a shot with any certainty when the flashgun went off.

So why do we do it? Us? Them?

“Because we're worth it,” La Cole might pout.

Up to a point, Cheryl, up to a point.