Finally it happened. Finally that thing that I’ve been warning you about for all these years has actually come true, and nobody actually IS going to win Eurovision! Obviously, a ghastly world pandemic is no cause for celebration, but as we all sit at home, wondering how close to Rotterdam our planes and trains would have been right now, I figured that I ought to keep things as normal as possible and so roll out the whole sorry bunch of gags again, for old times’ sake, like. Of course, I was sorely tempted just to put “Because it’s not on, haha!” for every entry, but that’s perhaps a little too bleak even for me. So here we have it, forty-one very well-considered reasons why your favourite song wasn’t going to win Eurovision this year, had it actually been on. And keeping up the tradition, it’s nowhere near as funny as last year…
Because the outfit that she wore at FiK was actually a living, breathing entity – a bit like that Venom character in Spider-Man. Disappointed that it had been discarded for the big show, it turned evil and symbiotically absorbed the first living being it saw. Unfortunately that being was Montaigne, and together this new creature just spent its time running backwards and forwards in front of Arilena while she was trying to perform. It was terribly off-putting, and made everybody forget what the actual song was like.
Because it looks and sounds a little like that bit in a school play when a progressive drama teacher decides to put something “a bit like the kids are listening to” into the production. But the only person who wanted to wear the outfit was the sixth form prefect who had a pony called Tipsy, and who proceeded to hamfistedly writhe around in front of the headmaster’s chair, which only resulted in giving the elderly technical drawing teacher a bit of a heart murmur.
When she finally shook off that pesky symbiote, poor Montaigne was so thoroughly exhausted – both physically and emotionally – by the whole affair that she somewhat leadenly shuffled about during her big performance, leaving the backing dancers charging miles ahead of her and making it all look a bit messy. It didn’t make a lot of difference, mind, because the punters at home were too busy pointing at her shock of blue hair and funny wobbly voice anyway. Note to everyone next year: Blue hair is turning out to be a bit of an albatross at this contest, so maybe consider another hue.
Poor Vincent was doing OK until the beat kicked in and it started to sound a bit like a third division Jamiroquai trib, and a whole continent collectively shrugged its shoulders and let out a big sigh. (There was also going to be a massive concept gag about the knock off Misfits leather jacket he was wearing in the video, but it might have been a bit too niche).
Because realising her mistake at binning this song off at an early stage, lovely Senhit couldn’t contain herself and leapt onto the stage three bars in and started to do her routine alongside Efendi. Confusion rained as the Azeri lass kept trying to stand in front of her, but Senhit’s beautiful mop of hair just kept engulfing the shorter woman. It wasn’t until Jon Ola Sand himself climbed onto the stage with a massive shepherd’s crook and hooked her off the performance area that the rightful owner of the song was able to continue unabated, but by then it was too late. Especially as the whole crowd had just yelled “Take her away!” as Senhit was being dragged out of sight.
“Muuuuuum! Kelly Osbourne and some bloke with a hostess trolley are doing something weird on telly. She’s got metal hair, and he just keeps wheeling that thing about like he’s got a drip attached to it. What’s that mum? No, I didn’t have any cheese before bedtime. Not after the last time. I’m still convinced I saw a Portuguese bloke with spoons on his face!”
The vacuum cleaner company Hoover are massively protective of their name, and try to stamp out any instance of their company’s trading title being used for any other purpose and so help genericise the word Hoover. They’d never minded too much about this band, and the Belgians were only a tiny market for them, seeing as its people famously preferred to use a good old dustpan and brush. However, now Hooverphonic were entering a more broadly seen international stage, this kind of behaviour had to be stopped. So they sent their copyright officer out to stand at the side of the stage, just as the band were about to go on, and serve them with a cease and desist writ to prevent them from performing. Oh the hoo-haa that caused, I can tell you.
Somewhere in Hollywood, Bille Eilish is watching a hooky stream of Eurovision via a VPN. She spat out her tea and got on the phone to her lawyer immediately. She just wasn’t going to let this lie…
That’s not a song, it’s a squaddie at a bus stop absent-mindedly vocalising his shopping list in a familiar Balkan style.
Because it sounds like the kind of generic, copyright-free music they play in Poundstretchers, that was knocked together by bored music producers in order to make a bit of small change to boost up their dwindling cash stocks, seeing as it’s been eight years now since their last reasonably sized hit.
Because the poor lad tinkered with the song so much in the run up to Eurovision that it ended up as just a single repetitive beep noise, with Benny shouting ‘Toast Toast Toast’ over it in loud strings of three. It still managed to beat the UK by a clear 120 points, mind.
Hang about. Wasn’t this the advert to that car insurance advert on the telly about three years ago? Surely that’s not allowed?
Because as catchy as the chorus is, the bloke’s got all the charisma of a broken wardrobe.
* Sniff * * Sniff * “Mum? Can you smell bears…?”
So much handsome, so little song.
You like it, I like it, but he may as well have just have stood there shouting “You’re all rubbish and Georgia is the best!” for all the good our love will do him. Wait! What? Oh, he actually did! Blimey.
Because it doesn’t matter how much of a massive pop groove this song’s got, you can’t ignore the fact that the bloke looks just a little bit sex pesty. As Mrs Hacksaw said when she first saw the video “That boy looks like he’s got a pocketful of rohypnol and he’s out on the prowl!” I’m sure he’s a lovely lad really, mind. Hopefully.
Because it’s the musical equivalent of weak lemon squash and sandwiches with the crusts cut off. And that’s no picnic.
Because Netflix got into a massive hump about being accused of bankrolling Daði’s online success that they had the whole band kidnapped before the show so that nobody could blame them for anything else. They made a cracking six part documentary about it, mind. Debuts just in time for the next contest next May (or June, or August…).
Well I guess they’re only eighteen years off the pace now. They’ll finally catch up with the rest of Europe by the 2040s at this rate.
Because anyone who does her coat up as badly as she did in the Israeli song selection show just can’t be trusted to turn up on time for the big contest. Took the poor girl seventeen hours to lace up het massive boots alone.
Because they’re quite happy with sending amazing songs year-on-year and finishing just outside of the top slot, thank you very much.
We’re not quite sure how many health and safety regulations this song managed to break, but the strict occupational wellbeing inspectors of the low countries plainly refused to let Samanta go on stage with those backing dancers unless she was wearing full body protection. And you don’t get that sort of garment with the same kind of massive tassels any more. Or in that fetching shade of red.
Am I the only person in the whole of fandom who can only look upon this mob as a bunch of plucky pub band chancers shouting “Look at us, we’re bonkers we are!” for three very long minutes? It’s my Invasion Of The Bodysnatchers moment. You all thought the same band were rubbish with a marginally better song last year, anyway!
Because despite being fast-tracked to a leading role as quickly as it was legally and practically possible, we still don’t think she was quite ready for the responsibility. Now, if something could have happened that saved her blushes and encouraged her to wait for another year or so…
People are always saying that blue hair is the biggest form of Eurovision kryptonite. But it’s not. It’s chairs! Just think of everyone who’s used a chair as a prop at this thing over the years. Anyone who didn’t physically have to use one in order to comfortably mime their instrument has been ultimately doomed. That Danish lass last year. Tose in 2004, bless him. Erm, other people. Seriously, you mark our words – if you have to stoop to using a chair on stage, you have no kind of contending song. It’s written in history for all to see!
Because the big fella is just so ridiculously sexy that the entire continent – men, women, children, pensioners, family pets – will have swooned so hard every time that there’s a close up they’ll be rendered completely incapable of picking up a phone, let alone remembering a complicated phone number.
Because it’s just the Croatian lad singing the Cypriot song, surely?
Unpopular view alert! It’s a bit dull and old fashioned though, isn’t it? It might have won in the early nineties, but in this day and age? Even the Irish wouldn’t want it, it’s that out of date.
Because this song is so unmemorable that I’m watching it right now and still can’t recall how it bloody goes!
Is she someone locally famous off the telly over there in Lisbon? Because I can’t see how else she’d have beat that cracking field of monster songs and oddities otherwise. Makes you glad they don’t run the contest in alphabetical order, because folks would have switched off in their droves after the last three.
“Yeah, so you’ve sent a crack team of lawyers out to Rotterdam to stop that Bulgarian thing getting on the TV again, right?”
“Yes Miss Eilish!”
“And you’ve hired that hitman in case we need to quietly finish off the job afterwards?”
“As you wish Miss Eilish!”
“Great, now back to watching this Eurovision thing… Oh for the love of God!”
“Look, we really don’t want to cancel our tour and do Eurovision, no matter how many large sacks of money you offer us. What’s that? You’ve got our pets and parents in an underground holding facility until we change our mind? OK, we’ll do it…!”
Two minutes later on a conference call with the band.
“People, they’ve got our parents. And your little Fluffy, Sergey. We’ve just got to do that bloody song contest. Yeah, I know. Now let’s put as little effort as possible into this so we can just get it over with and get on with our lives.”
Two weeks later on a conference call with the band.
“Erm, Ilya, the bastard video has hit 83 million views. Yeah, I know. At least the whole thing won’t get cancelled and we’ll be forced to do it all again next year, eh!”
Efendi wasn’t going to let Senhit’s unruly behaviour go by without exacting her revenge. So she got her Azeri paymasters to slip one of the crew a few bob for a bag of ball bearings, and slowly rolled handful after handful of them onto the stage before the Sammarinese mob took to the boards before their performance. It was absolute carnage, what with all those big high heels and everything.
Because although hen night karaoke is incredible fun when you’re actually doing it, nobody really wants to see it on their telly at prime time on a Spring Saturday night.
A perfectly good song, that’s beautifully performed. But you know was well as I do that this is coming nowhere remotely near to winning the thing.
If this song were a pie filling, it would be pastry. Pastry in a pastry case. Nearly everybody likes pastry, but almost nobody would want a pie made entirely out of pie. They still think they’re going to win, mind.
Because all empires have their time, and this one is slowly beginning to crumble under the weight of diminishing returns.
Because he caught such a dreadful chill filming that video, what with all that rain and snow and open windows and the like, that his mum’s got him tucked up warmly in bed with a hot water bottle and a cosy jumper. He’d never be able to hit that high note at the end with his poorly chest, anyway.
Because the folks at home just don’t dig shrieky folk, however much of a cool Goan beat you put underneath it.
The bedside clock ticked to 6am and began to play I Got You by Sonny & Cher. Bill Murray slowly awoke and leapt out of bed. It was cold out there. Before he left for work he thought he’d listen to the UK’s Eurovision song. “Oh no! Not again!” he roared. “Will this endless repetition never end?!”
So there we have it, even in a fantasy year, no bleeder actually wants to win it! Normal service will be resumed in 2021. Hopefully…