One thing feels certain (to me). Georgia will return to the final after a few mumbling-beardy-man years away.
Nutsa has turned in a gloriously shouty paint-by-numbers stomper. It’s predictable in the extreme, with four or five familiar songs rammed into the regulation three minutes.
Song-wise, there have been perhaps one too many uses of the Maltese rhyming dictionary, but nothing in the rules forbids that.
And, sound the dance-break klaxon – expect wriggly-worm stage writhing while someone hops and skips around blowing his bouzouki.
The end result will be as predictable as the song – all scanty clothed and topless muscle boys, and there’s really nothing wrong with that. Solid.
