Time for Juicy Papi from Hungary. Ooh I love him! I went into the hall to get an up close and personal experience with him. I just love the way this oozes an ethnic sound, something I feel we’re lacking at this year’s Contest otherwise.
It’s a tale of forbidden love, and I can play out a similar storyline in my head because I too am divided from my Juicy Papi: by the cordon in the arena, the fact he licks his stamp on a different side to me, and – if I’m not careful – the restraining order.
But what can I tell you about the performance? Well, nothing really, as it’s pretty much exactly the same as the Hungarian national final, with an addition of a fiddler on the satellite stage, only the second act to use this this year, which seems almost rude being as they’ve gone to the trouble of having it. The dancer wafts her skirts and trows herself at his feet in desperation. I know how she feels. Oh, my Juicy Papi! I sit and lament my fate, and wonder what yours will be, come Thursday night. I fear this won’t score as high as I feel it should, but hopefully its originality this year will help it stand out.