Efendi doesn’t sing much, but the few fragments she tackles don’t come over well. For that reason alone, we should praise whichever Geneva God chose to authorise pre-recorded vocals. She also manages to deliver each word with an expression that indicates she hasn’t the remotest notion what she might be singing.
It’s still an unedifying three minutes of bum cheeks and fishnets, bumping and grinding like a Raymond Revuebar staff outing.
And while I’m on a rant, who gets on a plane to The Netherlands and sings a song about the most renowned woman spy in history, who was shot for betraying secrets that were said to have lead to the deaths of thousands of soldiers during the first world war? Next year, perhaps the Brits can front up with a jolly folk song about Fred West.
Did I detect someone lost their nerve on the big ending and decided to overlay a few extra chants of ‘ma ma ma ma’. Shame … that was the only bit that worked in the first rehearsals.
I’m tired, by the way, can you tell?
Malta tomorrow …
The Fanning Verdict
This doesn’t really deserve a place in the final, but Azerbaijan is no stranger to confounding expectations (in one way or another).