This past weekend was the annual spectacle of bad taste and worse fashion known as the Eurovision Song Contest. Now, even though I only wear red trousers and listen exclusively to LBC radio, my editor thought I would be the perfect person to cover this contest, and I know that because I specifically asked them to send me to cover it. (Their response was, “Whatever will get you out of my fucking hair for a few days.” Oh, that wry editorial humour!)
This year, Eurovision was being held in the United Kingdom because Boris Johnson, man of the people and defender of Ukraine, offered to host it as part of our overall foreign aid package. What benevolence! Of course, we all know that Great Britain should have won the thing outright last year when Sam Ryder sang a good old-fashioned rock n’roll song, but everyone felt sorry for Ukraine and voted for them instead. Can’t complain about anything that offends Vladimir Putin, I guess! And I mean that literally – you can’t complain about anything these days without the wokerati trying to silence you!
I arrived in Liverpool and took a walk through town where I was surprised at the lack of Ukrainian people prostrating themselves with gratitude before any British person. Of course, maybe it was hard for them to find any real British people because the town was full of foreigners! The number of languages I heard! I mean, not that I’ve studied any foreign languages. Why bother when everyone worth talking to speaks English anyway?
I made my way to the press centre and found it to be full of people who were actually knowledgeable about the contest. These chaps even knew the names of the contestants, which is taking it a bit far! It’s not like we’re going to remember any of these people in a few days, and in the meantime, descriptions like “Swedish” or “the one in the big hat” should suffice. There was so much jargon being bandied about that it was difficult to follow any conversations at all. Thankfully, I soon found the Bailey’s stand in the press centre – I was going to need to fortify myself with alcohol to get through this ordeal!
Soon, the big show was on. The Duchess of Cambridge was a standout moment, playing the piano beautifully among the cacophony of last year’s winner. (Pity votes, remember! The compassion we’ve shown to the Ukrainians!) But how much taxpayer funding was devoted to this jolly? Paying for four hosts? Back in the good old days when Eurovision was about music, Katie Boyle could do the whole thing singlehandedly! It’s just another example of BBC waste.
And the songs – oh, don’t get me started on the songs! There was music, and more actual music, and then some music that sounded like something my estranged children would listen to on Radio 1! What a travesty! Eurovision is supposed to be about screechy women in funny outfits with accents, and there was barely anything I could laugh at this year. I mean, there was a little man in an antler helmet, and Eastern Europeans in their underwear, so it wasn’t a total loss, but the standard was far below what was expected.
The crowd – once again, full of foreigners – was going mad for a Finnish man in a bowl cut who was performing a version of the cha cha cha that wouldn’t have a cha-cha-chance on Strictly Come Dancing. But this is what happens when you’re a member of the EU! Regulations and quotas about everything, including what types of songs can appear at Eurovision. It’s red tape gone mad!
By the time the voting started, I had passed out from the Bailey’s, because I’m a barely functional alcoholic who drinks to block the pain of self-loathing. I understand it went on for quite some time. When I came to, after someone had thrown a glass of water in my face and escorted me off the premises, I learned that Sweden had won. A victory for democratic socialism, when socialism is never democratic? Preposterous! And just another example of why Eurovision is awful.
As for the UK, I see that our representative Mae Muller came next to last. Perhaps this little missy will think twice before criticising Boris Johnson again. I bet she lost a lot of votes from people across our country who otherwise would have been rock solid in support of the Union Jack!
I had to take an Uber back home to Surrey because Rishi Sunak hasn’t yet automated all the trains, meaning that Britain is under the thumb of Mick Lynch and his cadre of overpaid, lazy train drivers. As I was stuck in traffic around the M25, I couldn’t help but reflect on my experience of the contest – one that claims to produce unity and understanding – and wish I were back at the press centre, because the Bailey’s cocktails were truly delicious.
(Photo: Corinne Cumming/EBU)
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