…and gazuky

Please bear with me if I seem a little… weary. I’ve just sat through the marathon dirge-fest that is the Eurovision Song Contest, live from Belgrade.

“Gary – why do you put yourself through 3 hours of the very worst Euro-caterwauling?” you might ask. Although I couldn’t hear you if you did – my brain has involuntarily blocked any more sound from entering, just in case it’s another Eastern European uber-diva singing ever-so-slightly off-key.

It’s been a tradition in my family for many years that we all congregate around the TV in the lounge with a bottle of wine and some food that would give Gillian McKeith a panic attack, and moan and whinge our way through three hours of the campiest, trashiest, pappiest pop known to infest human lug-holes.

Except that we never used to moan or whinge.

We used to laugh at the outrageous costumes of some of the more obscure European countries who, we suspected, may never have heard of the Beatles. Or indeed ‘melody’.

We used to titter at the ineptitude of the presenters, and snigger at the dodgy phone-line connections between far-off lands that, at some point, must have passed through a system of tin-cans on strings.

And we used to howl at Terry Wogan’s good-natured sarcasm on the cheesiness of the presenting, and the occasional political bias that crept into the voting – especially the annual Greece/Cyprus love-in.

That was the enjoyment of Eurovision. Sneering at our European neighbours in a very British way, while simultaneously – and often secretly – enjoying the whole spectacle for what it was – a fun, shared experience that we also had a chance of winning.

But not any more.

Political voting has taken over the competition to the extent that we now shout out the votes before they’re revealed on screen, like a warped continental, bastardised version of panto.

Terry Wogan’s sarcasm now has a biting edge to it that betrays his dissatisfaction with the bias within the contest. He clearly hates how this once-naff-but-lovable institution has become so poorly produced that ‘Wayne’s World’ had better presentation standards.

And there’s as much chance of the UK submitting a winning entry as there would be of Johnny Vegas becoming the next Miss World.

Now before you dismiss these sentiments as the warblings of someone who’s taking the whole thing much too seriously, think about this: the BBC bank-rolls a huge chunk of the Eurovision’s funding, which means that you and I – the licence-payers – are paying for taking part in a competition we can never win, no matter how hard we try. Paul McCartney himself could enter, and we would still be beaten by a one-eared, one-armed lute-player from Serbia because the other former Yugoslavian countries like his tie.

In other words, it’s a farce.

Terry Wogan virtually announced his retirement from the commentary at the end of this year’s show, and you could hear how pissed off he was with the political bias. Phone voting may be democratic, but it doesn’t reward song quality.

Our entry this year came joint last. It was beaten by at least 5 or 6 songs that could well be used by the American military as a water-boarding substitute in Guantanamo Bay. My ears certainly feel like they’ve been tortured.

Next year? No Eurovision. We’ll up the standard a bit, and hire a karaoke.