Ah Eurovision. It’s my favourite time of year. A time to celebrate all that is tasteless, kitsch, and blue eyeshadow about the world. A time to revel in dodgy voting systems and bad accents. A time strip off velcro attached clothing mid phrase, to drink on every key change, every peasant instrument, every dancer dressed only in white, every giant Maltese woman wailing in a flowing mumu. Take it to the bridge.
For several years now, wherever I’ve been, Eurovision has been a serious business. First inspired, perhaps, by the sardonic commentary of English footy presenter Terry Wogan, and later just for its sheer piss-weak-worldness, Eurovision is a time for celebrating mediocrity. The worse the song, the more we want it to win. The bigger the hair, the bigger the fan base. If you’re thinking “but it’s just plain weird” then you don’t get it, and you need to work harder at embracing your inner eastern European; which is like you in 1982, minus the money or taste.
Last year, the outfits were easy. Germany was the host country, and we lederhosened up, drank beer, and ate sausages und sauerkraut. Other years, in Russia, we made Moscow mules and wore giant fluffy muffs. Hub-in-Boots in Lycra tights and a bandanna almost put people off their food.
What the hell do you do for Azerbaijan ????
Our ‘party’ is essentially a gathering of tastelessly attired adults, sampling the drinks and food of Europe, shouting at the television, occasionally trying to learn the dances and playing Eurovision bingo and/ or drinking games. It is about as hip as Eurovision itself. This year, I have the added glory of dressing Eurotrash AND maternity. That should be special, but at 6 months pregnant w diabetes, it may cut into my beer smorgasbord and sausage fest a tad. It is important that Gumby is introduced to this cultural revolution in the womb, because his parents’ Eurovision parties may well become a staple childhood memory.
Just as some parents believe in the Mozart effect, we believe in the Eurovision effect. The ability of introducing bad synthesisers and back up vocals to encourage a lifelong tolerance of 80s music, rigged democracies and tragically time warped cultural stereotypes.
10 sleeps to go til the semi finals.
Happy first Eurovision, Gumby. Mummy and Daddy have no taste. Get used to it.