I am not going to deny that I watched last night’s Eurovision Song Contest. While the idea of watching a single programme for the best part of, what was it, four hours fills me with dread and soon sets off my ADHD, I did give it a try. It was around 15 songs in when I finally called it a day and re-entered my man cave. It is hard to describe the awful build-up of anxiety that I feel at times like these, but soon I was free again to watch You Tube videos of planes taking off and landing, trains and various tunes from my favourite popular beat combo outfits. I did pop back to the main room from time to time to see how things were progressing, or regressing as the British entry managed to do, and I have to say the contest is a magnificent spectacle of the lighter side of life. The world is a better place for it.
One thing I simply cannot do is pick out the songs most likely to win. Not one of the songs leapt out as being an all-time classic, to be ranked alongside the best of Lennon and McCartney. But maybe they’re not supposed to be. They’re created, surely, to fit in with what judges and voters want, which is entirely reasonable, on the grounds that it works. Anyway, after what felt like forever, here are the scores on the doors:
- Sweden: Loreen – Tattoo (583 points)
- Finland: Käärijä – Cha Cha Cha (526 points)
- Israel: Noa Kirel – Unicorn (362 points)
The morning after the night before and I cannot remember a single note of the winning songs, or the losing ones for that matter. I’m not saying this is because the songs were all crap but because they all come at you in a relentless storm of songs you have never heard before. By the time you have made some attempt to evaluate one song, another one has struck up. The brilliant Graham Norton informs the viewer that the next song is very strong, that the singer has a great voice and Bet Fred reckons it has a chance of winning but two minutes later it’s just a blur.
It could be that despite being a song contest – the clue is in the name – the occasion is more important than the actual songs. And given that the UK was hosting on behalf of last year’s winners, Ukraine, I thought the subtle BBC coverage, showing the viewer what a beautiful country it is between each song, was very smart. Because of it, I never forgot about Putin’s vicious invasion of the country.
Shortly after the show had ended, news broke that Russia had launched an attack on Ternopil, the Ukraine city where the performers came from, just before they were about to perform. Even by Putin’s maniacal standards, this was yet a new low, but it was entirely predictable that such a thing might occur. As it was, the Ukrainian entry was my favourite song of the evening, not that I can remember a note of it now. That it came nowhere near winning proved yet again my inability to connect with what ordinary folk around the world regard as a winning song. But then, I don’t remember thinking Abba would win back in 1974 with their song Waterloo. Whatever happened to them?
Meanwhile, the UK languished near the foot of the Eurovision table, as per usual. Cuddly big hair man Sam Ryder went close last year with a song I can’t remember (there I go again) so perhaps the UK team might have finally worked out what makes a decent tune for the contest. The one performed by Mae Muller certainly wasn’t it, sounding as it did with a song with no tune. But then, to my ears it didn’t sound any worse than anything else on offer. Briefly, I felt a tug of patriotism. No one likes us and we don’t care. But that’s just not true. What is true is that we don’t usually know how to write a Eurovision winner. However, does it really matter? My view is no it doesn’t.
Eurovision is a bit if jolly fluff, a time when loads of people watch something together at the same time, in an era where we all watch different stuff at different times. And it reminds me that we are not alone.
Vladimir Putin so wanted Brexit to happen in order to divide the west in general and Europe in particular but last night he was reduced to making a spiteful attack on the home town of the Ukrainian Eurovision performers. A pathetic cheap shot from a man whose only place in Europe should be when he’s up for war crimes in the Hague.
Let’s celebrate the mediocrity of the music, the glorious colours, the incredible diversity and, if you like, a kinder, gentler time which was simply a bonkers international contest. For today, it’s back to lying politicians, warmongering fascists, food poverty and all the other things that make our world the unstable place it is. More Graham Norton, less Jacob Rees-Mogg. That’s enough for me in itself.
