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Another Eurovision shambles




The dust has now settled on the Eurovision Song Contest for another year, with a new winner found but as is now usual, the UK entry got nowhere in the voting, writes JOHN WARD.

In the latter part of the last century when we took part, there were occasions we actually won it with the likes of Lulu, Bucks Fizz etc, but it was a song contest then.

In recent years the song appears to be an afterthought as it all seems geared up to the lighting effects of each individual act, warbliest whomever plus what might be referred to as their setting.

Columnist John Ward (47570715)
Columnist John Ward (47570715)

As the performers gallivant onto the stage, there is more than a strong chance all forms of flashing to strobing lights will pinpoint everything from their facial pimples to their earrings, their latest tattoo to their ‘body furniture’ fittings.

The body furniture can go from a bolt through their nose or neck to show us their ‘individualism and artistic leaning’ – or the strong chance of getting an infection – to having their wrists pierced to accept a pair of cufflinks, one each wrist.

It’s quite possible you could get the end effect by throwing yourself over a steep, convenient waterfall in a barrel filled with scrap metal with about the same results.

To think that some of us saw this form of ‘entertainment’ many years ago as we went to the cinema to see the likes of Frankenstein.

However, to be fair to them then, their screaming in terror was not far off what is now performed at these Eurovision events nowadays but it’s termed as ‘singing’.

The supposed song or whatever passes for it, comes way down in the pecking order of things as possibly the first and foremost is what the performers are wearing or in a lot of cases, not.

Because as soon as they stampede onto the stage, you are suddenly transfixed by what he/she or they are wearing.

At this point we go over ‘live’ to 63 Stanley Road, Somewhere UK to take in the viewpoint and general opinion of Bert and Joyce who are sitting at home watching.

Bert is two cups of tea up on Joyce, still on her first cup of coffee, but both going through a packet of Hobnob biscuits between them at a reasonable speed.

Bert speaks: ‘By heck, our Joyce – what does he look like in those baking foil pyjamas with the fur trimming – I mean, imagine our dear Rita bringing something like that home and telling us she is going to marry it...”

Bert speaks again: “Joyce... she hasn’t, has she?!”

Joyce speaks: ‘Wellllll, not quite, no... but close although he has good table manners and I’m sure you will take to him in time, once your desire to strangle him goes away...”

Back to the contest.

Somebody on screen is semi-shouting/shrieking something or another, together with assorted leaping about, up and down, and looks as if he may have touched a live electrical cable with the power still switched on.

He finishes to a rousing cascade of applause from the inmates, none two metres apart it appears , but one thing is pretty certain though.

If he wins, it’s safe to say that nobody the following week will be singing, humming or whistling it unless they plug themselves into the nearest mains electricity socket.

In years past, folk were singing or whistling away for ages after, such as, ‘Making Your Mind Up’ as sung by then winners Bucks Fizz that year.

Nowadays or in recent years, it’s safe to suggest that a week (or less) after the event, nobody you ask would know what the song was that won, who sung it or importantly what they wore during those agonizing minutes they ‘performed’ the supposed song.

Back to 63 Stanley Road, somewhere UK with Bert and Joyce, but the hobnobs have now run out.

“So just where is our dear Rita anyway?” Bert asks Joyce, who is wondering if they still have a packet of lead free, ozone friendly, low calorie ginger nut biscuits left in the cupboard.

There is silence, which is more than can be said for the next act coming live from Whatyamacallit as they start in mid wail.

Bert then asks that question: “By any chance, has our Rita run off with this pile of recycling on legs to Greta Garbo, up Scotland way, to get married!?”

“You mean Gretna Green, and the answer is no – they are around your mum’s as she gets in those chocolate suggestive biscuits you don’t like as they are watching this there.”

“I was just asking,” replied Bert, feeling a bit miffed. “As them up there could well have one of them referee (referendum) voting things – you know, they keep voting until they get the result that woman with all those different dresses wants – then split from us, put border barriers up.”

Joyce said he was overreacting as he quickly replied: “Overreacting?! – I am quite subdued compared to this crop prancing about all over the screen with flashing lights instead of singing something useful with a decent tune.”

By now it was all over except for the voting, so I did a bit of channel hopping with the remote as I arrived on one of the shopping channels, which can give much intentional laughter – you probably know the sort of thing I’m sure with such gems as the following.

“This is the Finito Memory Foam Coffin – it’s so comfortable that once in, you won’t want to leave it” that comes with a lifetime guarantee and with free postage and packing but excluding pallbearers’

By this time I have had enough, my bed is calling as I call it a day as I had had too much shrieking and flashing nights for one evening.

It came as no surprise to hear on the eight o’clock morning news that the UK entry had scored ‘nil ponts’ as basically predicted as many suggest it’s all gone political in recent times, so no surprise.

However, we did enter as usual as we are good at futile gestures – ask Bert, he has to go out for another packet of Hobnobs later.



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