Misinformed, angry, coffee-addled ranting.
I haven’t written anything in a little while, and for that I apologise. The simple truth is, I’ve had the cheek to be relatively happy recently. Nothing has filled me with enough burning hatred to make me spew outraged bile at my laptop. I’ve even started to tolerate people. People. I must be growing.
That all changed last night. I went round a friend’s house to find them watching the Eurovision Song Contest. This shrieking bucket of camp pop has shimmied and sobbed its way onto our screens every single year since 1956, like an attention-seeking child clawing at your face in an effort to direct your eyes in its direction.
Those of you expecting a detailed analysis of last night’s show will be disappointed. I missed the majority of the actual singing, which meant I had to try and garner some semblance of sense from the recap montages shown before the voting commenced. I don’t think there is any way of accurately expressing the nonsensical drugs-trip that assaulted my eyes through text. All I can remember is lots and lots of shiny things, bright flashing lights, lesbian kisses and some guy going on about a carriage of rosemary being pulled by crickets. I imagine this is what its like to spend an evening on LSD.
This year’s winning entry was Denmark’s Only Teardrops, a damp fart of a Florence & The Machine rip off, apparently performed by Cassie from Skins. It had been the bookie’s favourite since the start, due to its winning combination of bland middle-of-the-road pop, over-the-top backdrop and pretty girls. Having missed most of the performances, when Emmelie de Forest was announced as the winner and the screen cut to a petite girl in an airy-fairy dress seemingly unable to stand without people holding her up; I thought she’d been found OD-ing in the corridor. Which admittedly, would have made things a lot more rock n roll and interesting.
One of the biggest and most common complaints about Eurovision is the supposedly rigged nature of the voting. For such a garish, glitter soaked spectacle; the contest is surprisingly political. Countries apparently vote based on their relationship to one another rather than on the musical merits of the songs. This makes perfect sense to me, since if they were genuinely trying to examine the musical quality they’d all end up weeping in the corner, despairing for a humanity that could allow such dull, inoffensive, unoriginal drivel to be classified as entertainment.
Surely any country that bases their political relationships on who voted for them at Eurovision shouldn’t be allowed a government in the first place. If you’re refusing to open trade routes to a country just because they gave Bonnie Tyler ‘nil points’ quite frankly you shouldn’t be allowed to be making decisions. I don’t just mean political decisions, I mean any decisions. If Eurovision forms the basis for your foreign policy you can’t be trusted to decide for yourself whether or not you want to go to the toilet. Just sit there and do as you’re told.
I think the most bizarre aspect of the whole thing is that we in Britain know we’re not going to win. And for the most part, we couldn’t give a shit. I only know of about four people who take anything more than an ironic interest in the show, and for that reason I have long since taken steps to cut off all contact with these individuals. Despite the British entry making the effort in recent years to take the contest more seriously with established acts like Engelbert Humperdinck and the aforementioned Bonnie Tyler, the majority of the British public genuinely wouldn’t notice if we didn’t have an entrant. They’re all too busy trying to work out what the fuck the Greek entry is wearing or arguing over whether Azerbaijan is a real country (it is).
But yet when it comes to the voting, they suddenly become die-hard patriots, denouncing every nil points with a scream of “FIX!” and flicking the Vs at the French. They somehow morph into drunken political analysts, angrily spilling wine everywhere while they bitterly recount Russia’s political history.
And then we lose, and no one cares. Because they’re all too busy looking up clips of some twat from Romania singing opera over a disco beat.
People are idiots. I knew it was a mistake to start tolerating them.