Ooh, you are awful: Eurovision makes Frankie Goes to Hollywood look like the Clancy Brothers and Tommy Makem
Eurovision's elements of homo-erotic fantasy are 10 a penny – or make that 10 a euro. Everyone is too sexy for their own good – they make Right said Fred and Frankie Goes to Hollywood look like the Clancy Brothers and Tommy Makem
IF EVER there was a reason for voting pro-Brexit, it has to be the Eurovision Song Contest.
Remember Dick Emery? It's so awful, but I do like it.
It's coming up tonight, so grab a lilo – Eurovision is so not a sofa moment – search out your mankini and an old sparkly disco ball and bribe somebody to stand at the light switch and flick it off and on madly. Honestly, it'll add to the thrill.
I caught a semi-final during the week by accident – All those mountains of sparkle, all those flashing disco lights, all those beautiful people with teeth so bright you could spot ‘em from the international space station.
And black leather – lashings of it – and tattoos, whole Sistine chapel-loads of body art drilled on to honed muscles.
Smear the Vaseline on the lens and where ever else you like, the Eurovision's come a long long way, baby.
Who cares if that bare-chested man banging the enormous gong is a throwback to Frankie Goes to Hollywood?
And the horses. Why do all the beautiful contestants get filmed astride horses? Sigmund Freud might have twirled a moustache as he ruminated on that one.
There is a camera that lingers a little too long on a crotch for my liking – that's my Mary Whitehouse I'm channelling now.
The elements of homo-erotic fantasy are 10 a penny or make that 10 a euro round the Eurovision.
Everyone is too sexy for their own good. They make Right said Fred and Frankie Goes to Hollywood look like the Clancy Brothers and Tommy Makem.
I had to draw the line at the San Merino man who borrowed his suit and hat look from Leonard Cohen... sully my hero not, ye Eurovision hopeful!
And the slogan. Ah the slogan.
Well really, said I from the sofa.
“It's about Europe being one and uniting,” said the voice beside me on the sofa.
Well, it's a Beatles song and... oh hell, we'll not go all Frankie Goes to Hollywood again.
I always loved the Eurovision.
It gave me my passion for languages. But now a lot of the singers are out there butchering English.
I don't want to hear English. I want to hear sexy native tongues even if, sometimes, they sound like there's a fierce war being waged twixt their tongues and their tonsils.
I want to hear sexy French and a bit of throaty other lingos too.
Remember Un banc, une arbre, une rue? Probably not – but I do. It was the 1971 winner for Monaco sung by the beautiful Serverine – she looked long and hard at the camera, even back then.
Hers was the Wonderbra ad look in the days of the Triumph trainer.
It was love at first note and it led me down une rue that turned into un boulevard and a whole year living in Paris and a life long love for all things French. Ah, quel falling off was there.
Remember Éistigi, éistigi, cloisim arís é, ceol an ghrá? That was the Irish entry for the following year. We belted it out from the back seat of our old Marina sailing along the potholed roads of Donegal. It was beautiful. It took our minds off the tailbone paralysis. There was a bar that ran down the middle of the back seat and it you got it, then the bumpy road from Killybegs led to a serious case of numb bum.
I also know all the lyrics of Boom Bang a Bang – come closer, come closer and listen. Oh please.
And I know Congratulations and I winced at that bit where Cliff tried to dance very modern by knocking his knees together and failed in Power to All Our Friends.
As for Dana from Derry winning – that was a huge deal.
She was in my cousin's class at Thornhill school; it was the closest we had ever come to knowing a real star.
And then along came Abba and that was pure magic. I had a white sparkly beany hat just like Agnetha – sadly minus the straight blonde hair to go underneath – and I never could quite pull off – or on – her tight blue satin trousers.
And that particular magic still goes on – Abba Gold goes with us everywhere in the car. I have a dream; Knowing Me, Knowing You; The Winner Takes it All.
There is a lot to be grateful for. But some people should know where to draw the line. The Swedish presenters of this year's show thought it might be fun to pose as taxi drivers and pick up the singers and bands from the airport.
They chatted away and it took a while for the penny to drop with the unsuspecting bands in the back seat that their drivers were actually the host presenters.
Ah, it was so funny. I haven't laughed so much since that hilarious documentary on the Cern Hadron Collider. Don't they know humour doesn't travel? Don't they know Swedes do deep dark Nordic crime trauma best.
So buckle up yer belts, lads. Book me a Brazilian bum lift session. Tonight's the night. Put another umbrella in my Pina Colada and let's channel the old inner leather goddess.