Jesus it’s that time of the year.
Asking me if I like Eurovision is like asking Hitler if he likes Eva Braun. In fact, people tend to think I'm being ironic when I say I watch it. Am I? I haven't missed a single show since 1997 and I intend to keep it that way. Right until I'm a toothless 87-year old bastard sitting in a rocking chair, with a pipe in his mouth and a vague desire to outlive Winston Churchill.
Face it, as a social experiment – it's priceless. You stock up on cheap cider, you write down the ratings, you get a message from a friend telling you that Luxemburg (or some other nonexistent country) fucking blew it, you give your own country ‘-175’ and a ‘7’ to some autistic pub rock from Albania, you get sloshed wondering how in God's name the whole of Europe thought the bullshit song from Turkey (what?!?) was any fucking good.
Then you remember the naked dancers shaking their hips and flashing their breasts and you think that maybe… well, no. No, it really was bad. And then the votes, the votes! 12 points from Slovakia going to Slovenia, etc. It's beautiful.
So no, I haven't missed a single Eurovision show since 1997. Last year, I even had to slightly reschedule my flight to Moscow so as not to skip the final. Why did I have to go to Moscow in the first place? To see Nick Cave & The Bad Seeds. But then… Nick Cave who? Come on now, there's a ghastly Adele-esque ballad from Malta whose melody was diluted to the point where it no longer exists.
Ah that ghastly ballad from Malta. There is always one. And we all love it. I know I do.