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  1. #1
    POTUS HOCUS
    david44's Avatar
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    Save all your Schniztels for me

    It was always going to be up to the voting, half of which was done, late on a Saturday night, by people phoning in, expensively, and possibly, for which read probably, drunk. We had heard 50 minutes of technically-listenable songs (I'll wilfully exclude Iceland, Italy and France) cunningly crammed into to a whole three hours.

    Focussing to the usual absurd extent on global love, peace on earth and love of one's fellow-man, with a sprinkling of the usual frankly surreal individual Euro-passions (moustaches, milk-churns): but in the last hour, the witching and voting hour, it was all down to dirty politics not to put too fine a point on it, whether we approve or viscerally not of gay people.

    The "douze points" awarded to Russia by the likes of Azerbaijan and Belarus were met by a chorus of boos. The Slav contingent stayed Putin-loyal. Interestingly, saying much for European tolerance if not long-term unity, Austria creamed it, winning in style with the not-notably-heterosexual bearded drag act Conchita Wurst, who had sung a Bond anthem called, if my notes are correct, Rise Like A Penis. It wasn't at all bad, but I'm so delighted it gave the middle finger to Putin and his ilk: even Georgia voted Austria a couple of points higher than the young Russian twins, who didn't deserve the opprobrium-by-proxy, having made a marvellous fist of singing, while rocking on a massive seesaw with their hair braided together, some words about universal love.

    The UK's contestant, Molly Smitten-Downes, came down the table, a bit straight-faced but still lovely, with a decent self-penned song hampered only by its title Children of the Universe just reeks, as does the second line, "dancing on the edge of time" and the crucial, fatal mistake of failing to implement a third-up key-change as she moved into the final chorus, which is apparently about to become a new euro-law (just joking, Nigel).

    As ever, it was the glorious failures which will be the most talked about. Conchita's Bond theme, and San Marino's, and oh so many of them, were all listenable if you had suddenly recovered after 40 years of debilitating deafness. Though you would wonder if you'd just become stuck in a lift, forever. No, for sheer badness, which is all people remember, you had to include the Poles nice, wise, artistic Poles, who sang a number in costumes featuring the lyrics "We are Slavic girls/we know how to use our classical beauty/now shake what your mama gave you." Gloriously bad, particularly when inter-cut with one of their number pumping away on a milking-machine, boobs practically dangling below my or anyone's screen.

    France told the story of how a Frenchman could have everything in the world, forever, but still not feel life was complete because he lacked the ownership of a moustache. There are, I think you'll find, greater things to worry about in life, and I suspect that France has just sunk to "nul points" in the grand scheme of "urgently deserving countries".

    Graham Norton, the BBC's host, who had toned down his witchy bitchiness last night, shame, apart from his whispered comment about the dress worn by the San Marino contender ("The population is 31,000. Obviously they've clubbed together to buy her a pair of rouche curtains") was bizarrely feted by the Copenhagen hosts, with an intrusion into his commentary-box by various cameras and throwers of confetti. "It's like the gay wedding I'll never have,' he remarked, unfazed, professionally unneedled to the end.

    But it has for many years been a festival of supercamp. I'm rather happy that Conchita won out over prejudice, but rather mesmerised by the fact that this, the Eurovision for God's sake, still features the kind of songs that make you stick matchsticks between your eyelids, hence the necessary props of hamster-wheels and such: listen to *any* European radio station (excepting Albania) and you'll hear better stuff. This year's contest wasn't, generically, quite down there with the first "nul points" contender, the splendidly-named Fud Leclerc 1962, with the inexplicably voter-unfriendly title The Drowned Men of the River Seine, but at least it wouldn't have been so banal.
    I used to have a job at a calendar factory.
    I got the sack because
    I took a couple of days off.

  2. #2
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    Bettyboo's Avatar
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    Erm, confused...

  3. #3
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    You watched three hours of that?

  4. #4
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    Prefer Jager to Zegeuner Schnitzel.

  5. #5
    splendid and tremendous
    somtamslap's Avatar
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    Quote Originally Posted by david44
    Graham Norton, the BBC's host,
    You can't move for poofters on the Beeb these days. Although I'd rather watch Norton than Alan Carr.

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