So much to look forward to! York, PGA, Eurovision, FA Cup, End of Days,
First thongs first and down to the foam party that is Eurovision.
As Jess Philips goes off into the undergrowth, harrumphing about all she has done for women, one might recall her rather unsupportive role in establishing an independent inquiry into the Grooming Gangs. I hesitate to use the word obstructed, but what is clear is that Jess Phillips, in October 2024, rejected Oldham Council’s request for a government-led inquiry and instead said Oldham should run a local inquiry itself. This potentially delayed a national inquiry, but also signalled reluctance from the government, and contributed to a perception of institutional defensiveness. Anyway, she has resigned and given Starmer both barrels of her .410.
Tomorrow we have the first day of the Dante meeting, but first and probably more importantly, tonight we have the first semi-final of the annual “song” contest, which is known as Eurobitch in the cafes of Amsterdam's Reguliersdwarsstraat district.
Imagine a geopolitical summit organised to discuss unresolved Balkan tensions and the impact of the arts on vegans. The entire summit is organised by theatre kids, powered by sequins, with a few unnamed Grannies with clipboards doing important things. Somewhere in the background, there is a Committee of people who were elected by a deeply mangled proportional representation system, that selected them on their height, LGBTQ+ gaydar rating, colour sense, views on cattle and lack of political interest. These people created the rules.
With a solid infrastructure like that, you would be unsurprised to know that every year, the nations of Europe, plus Australia and Israel, for reasons nobody fully understands, gather together to determine which country can produce the loudest emotional crisis while suspended from wires above a wind machine. Each country has to submit one song, a group or performer to sing it, and approximately three tonnes of LED lighting and the same amount of dry ice.
There are five known song types, and every year there is a backstage competition to see which country has produced one song each year to cover the spectrum.
The styles are Scandinavian Ice-Pop, which is about emotional resilience. The songs are always performed in dry Ice and often involve Amazons dressed in fur. Then there is the traditional Mediterranean nightclub anthem involving fire. Every performance is a Health and Safety film in its own right. It wouldn’t be Eurobitch if you didn’t have at least one post-Sudetenland cultural nod towards the joys of the European countryside. These are often performed memorably by milkmaids, with cream on their cleavage. The collapse of communism saw a rise in Eastern European techno-folk, traditionally performed by a man dressed as a haunted chess piece and preyed upon by dancers in grey diaphanous flammable plastic. Finally, there is an earnest British ballad which finishes 23rd despite being technically competent. Often, European countries will put an English song in to avoid hosting the competition next year.
There are three main elements to the Eurobitch production: the Semi-finals (tonight and Thursday), The Final (Saturday), and the diplomatic incidents (ongoing). Five countries are boycotting due to Israel’s inclusion (Spain, the Netherlands, Ireland, Slovenia and Iceland) - but Bulgaria, Romania and Moldova are back after some years away.
The five countries that pay for most of this and, in return, get a free ticket are always referred to as the “Big Five”: the UK, France, Germany, Italy, and Spain. However, with the last two boycotting the event, it is entirely possible that they won't be paying anything, so because the UK didn’t read the small print, and we’re way more gay than Germany, we have to pay for the other two as well.
The Voting - and Starmer should take a look at this - runs two systems in parallel. The Jury Vote has professional music experts who have to pretend this is about artistic merit. Thus, they reward vocal control, composition, originality, and occasionally San Marino or Andorra. Meanwhile, the Public Vote is entirely dependent on patriotism, neighbourly affection, historical grudges, attractive accordion players, or whether the supporting dance group has to walk through a wall of water.
The scores are announced by bilingual and very nervous compères from the host country’s broadcaster who are always ideally unsuited to the role, but recognise that if they’re cute, they might be offered a slot on Italian late evening TV. Sadly, they have to rely on a competent floor manager to connect the stadium live to some European city to get their score, and live TV being what it is, this is not always possible.
Simultaneously, and just as the host nation is finding its stride, the other end suffers from one of three problems. No sound, no picture, or yet more people inflating their career prospects by being wacky or cute - but never talented. Because of a technical delay, they finish being cute just as the host nation finally connects and starts to laugh politely. The ten-second delay leads the voting nation to start being hilarious again, this time simply to show off their credentials for Berlusconbni TV by talking in bad Italian. This voting process lasts approximately four and a half years.
Somebody eventually wins; usually either Sweden, Ukraine, or a nation that nobody had previously realised had a solar-powered goat factory that doubles as an LGBTQ+ cafe, an artistic venue, and a vegan restaurant.
We only discovered this the following year when they had to pay the penalty for winning, namely hosting. This means they have to build an arena, find 50,000 volunteers, and explain to the taxpayers why a man dressed as a chrome falcon is now hanging from the town hall.
Meanwhile, the United Kingdom spends the next twelve months insisting the whole thing is deeply political, despite having entered a song that sounded like the music played in a regional airport Pret A Manger at 6:12 am. Despite all that - and because I can - I will, like everyone else, be watching it. Because beneath the glitter, and unfathomable solos, and alarming quantities of dry ice, Eurovision is one of the few moments each year when half the continent gathers together simply to be ridiculous at the same time.
Also, it is a betting fest, and my tips and a few thoughts are….
