MUST HAVE been the first foreign words I ever heard in Katie Boyle’s finishing school French: “Norwege, nil points”. Still nursery school age, I can remember everyone in the family gathering round the box, voting paper in hands, all putting in sixpence. We used to bet on everything in our house.
Eurovision has always had a soft spot in my heart. Years when Lulu beat Elton John to be our entry, Sandie Shaw vindicated why it was good to fling off your shoes and Cliff got beaten in the Albert Hall by a Spanish song which had 138 “la la las” in it: there was always something wonderfully absurd about it all. Then ABBA came along and, taking advantage of a new rule to sing in English, won with ‘Waterloo’ and instantly making four-inch soles and mullet hair cuts respectable.
But now it seems to me there are two competitions, not just the division into semi-final and final: but a more fundamentally divide. As Ukrainians protest at a drag Queen being chosen as their entry it highlights the real dilemma: should Eurovision be taken seriously or not? Has it just become a total “campfest” with heavy metal Finnish monsters and cross-dressing cabaret artists?
For better or worse it has developed into a cult show of absolute kitsch among young Brits. Last year I was amazed to see hordes of 18-25 year olds heading for Guildford pubs like a crowd auditioning for the Euro Rocky Horror Show. Halloween for bad taste: the idea to be as madly, sadly, tackily dressed as possible. And, of course, it changes the whole competition with over four million SMS texts contributing to half the final votes. The wilder, the more insane the act, the more likely it is to win.
Of course, part of its fun was that much of what was entered was truly awful and the rest was so lowest common denominator that most self-respecting songwriters started to steer clear. But now with the ever-expanding Europe, it does seem that some countries enter sincere and honest songs, which have merit. So there is an uncomfortable mismatch between the artists who comes on stage and sing of the pain of lost love only to be followed by a group in gorilla suits doing the banana song.
I think we can safely say the UK version is true Hi-de-hi holiday camp, full of seaside humour and kiss me quick hats. We could be back at Butlins with lyrics like:
‘This is your captain speaking; I’d like to welcome you aboard this Eurovision flight.
‘The duration will be three minutes exactly – now sit back, relax and enjoy the flight
‘Ba-ba-da, Ba-ba-da, Ba-da-da-ba, ba-da
‘Duty free madam?
‘Yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah”
Classic stuff. Luckily, as one of the big four financial contributors they get automatic entry to the main event. On the other hand, the Cypriot song, which blared over the loudspeakers as we landed at Larnaca last week, is solid mainstream pop.
I have no idea why Cyprus is being represented in French; I can only think it is a political snub to English and a ploy to pull in votes from the North Africans. But I suppose French does make the lyrics sound a tad more sophisticated which are about the desolation of not being taken to see a chick flick: “Every Tuesday you tell me/ In the morning, and then you forget/ ‘We’ll go to the cinema’/ But in the evening: ‘so sorry.’
Come on girl, buy your own ticket! But comme ci, comme ca I’m still looking forward to next Saturday, getting in a few beers, some cross-dressing mates, squeezing into my gorilla suit and having a little flutter.
At 16/1, Cyprus might look a good bet but I think I’ll go for the drag queen…
