Eurovision, Euro Vision or Eurotrash?

The world is indeed a stage and Zelensky wants to be back on it……..

Eurovision.

So, everyone’s favourite trackie bottom grifter has had his ‘request to address the audience’ turned down.

I do love how Mr Z is such a fan of culture.

He really is the Elton John of politicians, isn’t he? Is there anyone he doesn’t know, any party he won’t cosy up to?

Like some combat gear wearing ‘Where’s Wally’, I was half expecting him to show up at the Coronation last week.

With a patter that’s more bucks than fizz, there’s actually something quite poetic about him wanting to do Eurovision, because he does indeed have a vision for Europe, doesn’t he?

One where we’re all fucking brassic.

Well, I don’t know about you, but the thought of a massively orchestrated event being gate-crashed by someone representing a massively orchestrated event, just left me cold……

The Eurovision Song Contest.

I remember it well.

An annual reminder that despite the UK being cut off, an island limb, my nation was European. A part of this eclectic carnival of weird and wonderful.

As a child, I found it reassuring, as a teen it was a guilty pleasure.

Most of the time, Europe felt like another place, ‘the continent’. Exotic and distant. But once a year it felt like we took part in a reunion of sorts. The countries always seemed to me like Britain’s extended family complete with quirky, eccentric relatives.

“Oh don’t mind Hungary, you’ll get used to her”

“Yes, we’ve always found Luxembourg a bit strange too”

We remembered their flags, reacquainted our ears with the accents and embraced the friendly rivalry.

I liked it when they showed the snippets of countries before they played their song, a sort of ‘X Factor meets Wish You Were Here’ hors d’oeuvre.  There was a tat shop pride. Stereotypes were not just nodded to but shamelessly overindulged.

There was a Christmas cracker novelty of not knowing quite what you’d get next, only that it would be a bit naff and make you smile.

Did we take it seriously or was it purely kitsch? No-one ever seemed to know.

Watching those passionate performances peppered with Terry Wogan’s heckled reflections was a real treat of a Saturday night for me in the 1980’s.

Staying up late as they totted the points up. Enjoying the various foreign TV presenters popping up like mascot dollies in national dress.   Channelling my piss poor French to impress my mum

“Shhh! Royaume-Uni….…they just said United Kingdom!”

For all I remember of Eurovision though, I do not recall international leaders being involved.  And that’s precisely how it should remain.

Whatever your stance on the Ukraine/Russia conflict, to engage politicians in a music competition, dilutes both.

It detracts from the event- which is supposed to be a celebration of culture and music, and further cheapens politics as it confirms no arena is immune from its seedy tentacles.

Politicians aren’t stupid. They know hardly anyone watches the news these days and want a piece of every pie they can get. Why traipse about kissing babies when you can instantly bag an audience that wouldn’t normally give you the time of day?

But just as Eurovision has become a watered down parody of itself, politics has also descended into a parade of gaudy caricatures, each gloating egomaniac shuffling on to the world stage with the faux glamour of a gold lamé skirt.

See, I used to follow it.

But somewhere along the line I stopped believing.

There’s a moment you realise that certain parties stick together to the detriment of others. That’s there’s some sort of unspoken ‘understanding’.

That no matter how worthy an effort, some will always have ‘nul points’ and there’s a fixed outcome.

Hmm….am I talking about Eurovision here, or politics?

Well, ’as it ’appens (God, I’m Savilling!), I’m talking about both.

For all we re-enact the triumph of Waterloo, convince ourselves we’re winning wars, it’s time we saw the puppets on strings.

One day, you’re watching those who represent you on that stage, all hopeful. The next, they are exposed of their glossy cover and you see revealed the scant fabric hiding behind a heavyweight facade.

Once you clock that, every time you see the same routine trotted out, your brain is always one step ahead.

And when it does - once you see the movers and shakers for who they really are - you’ll have made your mind up.