Why Your Favourite Song Isn’t Going To Win Eurovision – 2024 Style

Why your favourite song isn't going to win Eurovision 2024

So, seeing as everybody has boycotted this year’s Eurovision this annual feature of ours is completely immaterial this time round. Wait! What? Oh heck, you mean it’s actually still happening and we’ve got to cobble together a load of half-arsed gags about each nation’s lack of chances the night before rehearsals start? Oh my! We’d better start chucking some words at it then!

So here, ladies, gentlemen and everybody else, is our traditional in-depth and well-researched anihilation of why we reckon none of the class of 2024 are going actually going to win the thing. And of course, as you have come to expect, it’s not anywhere as good as last year’s.

Because by now it’s had so many revamps and upgrades that the song will be completely different in the semi-final to the way they rehearsed it, and nobody was ready for the dancing horses – least of all Besa herself, who was expecting seahorses at best.

Because this has got unexpected third place written all over it!

While you and I know that it’s a smart bit of bright and uplifting pop joy, the Nans, kids and grumpy Dads watching at home will be hit with just that too many variables that they’ll be quite unable to fully pay attention to what a great little tune it is. Curse them!

Because sadly those Es were laced with Special K, and by the time the banging drop in the middle hit, Kaleen was lurching about the stage like a confused mule, drooling gently from one side of her mouth and struggling to open a bottle of cheap water. And if you’ve no idea what we’re talking about here then you’re much better people than we are!

Are they in it this year? We hadn’t noticed.

Well, you wouldn’t put it past the telly overlords in Switzerland to have snuck them back in on the quiet the way this year is going…

Because even though the massed ranks of grown up fandom think this is the bees knees, poor Mustii here just isn’t remotely likeable on stage, and that alone will seriously impede his chances in the contest. As will his name in the more English speaking nations.

Up in the lighting gantry, a dark figure lurks. Flicking his severe fringe out of his eyes, he rests his rifle on his green sleeves and mutters under his breath. “I was the first, curse you! This whole Rammstein-lite jarring into an unexpected poppy techno interlude idea is mine. Mine I tell you. No one else is going to win with my schtick. Just me. This’ll decompress you good and proper…!”

Hang about, which one’s this? Young girl dancing unconvincingly in her pants, only pausing to gasp out the occasional line of a cod pop lyric as she struggles to breathe every now and again? We thought it was Malta…?

C’mon, you really have to ask.

Because in a thoroughly batshit year, the meek and mild are likely to be pushed well into the background. Also, just saying the title a couple of times with the second iteration being a dozen vowels longer isn’t really a chorus, is it. It’s more of an apology for not being terribly imaginative.

Because ugly middle-aged men having a bit of fun always get dismissed out of hand by fankind, but quite often do waaaaay better than you’d expect when actual real people get to see it. What it will win though is all those polls made by dullards claiming to describe to us the worst Eurovision songs of the decade. You have no art in your souls, you middle-brow blandos!

Up in the lighting gantry, The Portion Boys nudge aside their countryman from the prime sniping position and bring their rifles up to aim, muttering under their collective breath. “As if it wasn’t bad enough that our mate here nudged our masterpiece out of the winners slot last year, this pair of amateurs come along with a half-baked, bodged-up version of our schtick that means we’ll never be able to have a go at entering Eurovision ever again for fear of getting unduly compared to them both. It’s just not fair! We were here first. Right troops… ready, aim…”

Because he steps back just that little bit too far on the central satellite stage when he’s doing his show-offy loud bit near the end and tumbles right off into the crowd, cracking his head so hard that he inexplicably starts singing in Danish – that noted language of love and romance.

Anyone else think that this mob have given up trying over the last couple of years

Go on, sing it now! I’ll bet you can’t. It doesn’t matter how nice a bloke he’s proved to be at the parties, because during those three minutes in May an entire continent is going to think they’ve had a petit mal by the time it’s finished.

One song at a time please, ma’am. Medleys are not allowed in this contest… (We’d just like to congratulate this joke for its tenth consecutive appearance on this list!)

Because folks are more concerned with what it’s not than what it is – and at the end of the day, what it actually IS is little more than a dated cruise ship bop from a time that never really existed. Or 2002, whichever’s nearest.

Because every Catholic Nan on the continent will be ringing up their local priest for a swift exorcism because they reckon their telly’s been possessed by some banshee from the bog. (Mind you, if our Mx Thug can wrangle an effect where it looks like they’re climbing Ring-style out of the screen, that could garner them a few more points from the shires! Or at least reduce the local pension bill a tad…)

There isn’t really anything to joke about here, I’m afraid. Move on, nothing to see.

Because true to the subject of the song, our lass here got so darned bored of the whole sorry affair that she couldn’t be arsed getting out of bed that day, and she just left her dancers to stamp about on stage to the backing track on live international showbiz TV. Still came fifth, mind.

“Calling International Rescue. Calling International Rescue. That evil villain known as The Hood is at large in Malmö in a big blue boiler suit and he’s almost certainly up to no good. Send Thunderbird’s One and Two. And probably Four as well, just in case he’s got a speed boat.”

Because do you know what, the only weak point in this entry is the singer lad himself. Is it just us that sees it, though? Is he not totally devoid of any kind of performer’s charm or charisma? Or is that the thing now?

Well at least it was nice to have them back – however briefly. Bless. Are we going to see their return next year, though, or is that their budget blown for another thirty years?

Wait, I thought this was Cyprus. They’re the same song, right? Didn’t anybody notice? Can they actually do that? Here we go again again…

How’s that old “vaguely successful Eurovision artist from the past having another go at it” gambit going for you lately, eh Moldova?

Because the stompy gabber bit near the end is such an intense switch up that the whole of Europe will communally explode trying to dance Jumpstyle to it! (A lesson from history: Mrs Apocalypse’s leg muscle actually did explode when she was trying to learn Jumpstyle dancing in our kitchen once. It sounded like someone cracking a 4×2 inside a side of beef. So it can actually happen!)

Because quite by chance, all that weak black metal chuggery and witchy wailing, combined with the rustic decor and their vague proximity to Valhalla, summoned the great Norse God of the Earth, Fjörgyn herself, from the very heart of the soil. Such was her pure beauty and majesty thats she melted the faces of all who cast their eyes upon here – which isn’t terribly useful when you’re trying to get people to vote for you. The EBU, of course, then disqualified the act for having more than six people on the stage.

Because every year there’s a song that everybody loves while it’s playing, and then instantly forgets when it comes round to tallying the points up, and we fear that this year it’s this one.

Because even Iolanda’s own mother couldn’t pick this one out in a line up, it’s THAT anonymous.

San Marino
A gravelly voice snapped the air in up the lighting gantry. “Oi you Finns, clear out of here, it’s my turn!” Out of the gloom a blue-haired apparition of a certain age began to materialise, snatching the assault rifle out of the hands of the shocked Suomis. “I’ll teach you Spaniards not to steal my thunder,” she growled as she started to crouch, somewhat creakily. “I’ve been setting this whole thing up for years to avenge my sister and annoy my ex-husband who no one can believe I actually married! I cannot let this indignity pass!” She’d been planning on getting there for Ms Mango’s performance, mind, but had trouble getting up the stairs…

Beautiful. Atmospheric. Spectacularly staged. Doomed.

Y’know, sometimes you should just accept that it’s not to be, and that you were never ever likely to top your much better attempts from much earlier in your career… however few clothes you happen to wear on the night.

Come on Nan, it’s time to get up from your nap, you’ve got a show to do. Nan? NAN…!

Because in a fit of pique regarding the actual nationality of this act, NRK kept sneaking around backstage putting Norwegian flag stickers over any instance of the old blåguld relating to the terrible twins, which confused all the commentators no end. This led to Sweden dropping just a big enough handful of points not to win, but almost doubled Norway’s middling score, making that witchy wail seem much more popular than it actually was, and consigning us to at least three more years of witchy wails clogging up the MGP playbill. Sigh.

This is like one of those celebrity improv gameshows bits where they have to make the rest of their team guess which songs they’re miming in under three minutes. Young Nemo here might have knocked up one heck of a score in that kind of thing, but we fear they’ll just utterly bamboozle the good voting Nans of Europe with this schitzy little ditty – or rather, collection of ‘em!

Sultry ballad about loss and motherhood? Angry-yet-grumpy rap monster about much the same thing? But which is better? There’s only one way to find out… (Apologies to our international reader who will have absolutely no idea what this gag is about. But to all the Brits who’ve read this far, don’t pretend I couldn’t hear you!)

United Kingdom
How many times do we have to tell you, the UK – the BPM of death is a curse, not an aspiration!

So there you have it. When you consider the evidence we’ve displayed above I’m sure you’ll have to admit that absolutely none of them are going to actually win the thing this year. AGAIN!

Ooh, and while I have your attention, keep an eye out for my second novel, Worst. Eurovision. Ever., which is still available via www.earthislandbooks.com if you get in quick. It’s pretty much this annual ramble in long form, mind, so don’t get your hopes up.

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1 month ago

Belarus – what the hell are they doing in this article?

I am probably missing the joke here

1 month ago

But who has Mrs Hacksaw tipped?