I have read that the first two songs on the UK shortlist for this year’s European Song Contest are dire. Excellent. The more dire the better in my view. Even though the organisers keep tinkering with the scoring systems in order to give us a better chance, we’re no nearer winning the thing than we have been for years. The point about the contest is not about the songs anyway. It’s about entertainment and what we refer to as taking the piss.
I cannot remember who won the contest last year, the year before and the year before that. In fact, I can only remember a few of the winners from all the competitions ever. I remember the Abba one and of course Buck’s Fizz but then it gets a little hazy. It doesn’t matter though. I always enjoy it.
For years, Terry Wogan was the perfect host. He understood what the whole thing was about and treated it, not with contempt, but as entertainment, pointing out the political nature of the voting and just generally extracting said Michael. The songs were almost completely unmemorable, the voting entirely predictable. Just how it should be.
And I can never pick a winner. I’ll sit through all the entries saying, “Hmm. That was a good one. It will do well” only for the song to attract barely double figures in votes. Then, I’ll casually dismiss a nonentity of a ditty from somewhere obscure, it will take an early lead – “they’ll never keep it up” – and go on to win by 50-odd points. “How did THAT win?”
Our entrants are always obscure and remain that way. Established stars won’t appear because they worry they might be rendered obscure as soon as they appear on the show. Even when Engelbert Humperdinck competed for us, known as he is all over Europe, he still didn’t stand a chance. Unlike some of his predecessors, Enge will still have a job to go back to. So will his fellow competitors, although theirs might well end up with them asking “Would you like fries with that?”
Anyone can win these days, except us, which is odd since we have produced some of the greatest music and musicians ever. The country that gave the world the Beatles, can’t get passed an amateur cabaret act from Latvia or Croatia.
I could get angry about it, but what’s the point? I suspect the organisers regard the concept as a serious contest to establish the best song, but when did the best song ever win anything? You can make the finest rock and roll song in the history of the world, but you can run into Jive Bunny and Telly Savalas on a bad day and it won’t matter a damn.
I’m looking forward to the contest, wherever it is this year and whoever is going to lose for us. Glass of wine in hand, expression of disbelief, some terrible music, lots of dodgy voting – what’s not to love?
