Why Your Favourite Song Isn’t Going To Win Eurovision 2019

Hatari Bake Off

As usual, I’ve been taking a close look at all the runners and riders for this year’s The Eurovision and I’ve come to the inescapable conclusion that there’s not a single one of them that’s trying to win it. Even that Russia. It’s almost as if they’ve been watching THAT episode of Father Ted and have sent their very own ‘Lovely Horse’ for a laugh. So here’s why we reckon your favourite song won’t win at Eurovision this year. And don’t worry, as is the tradition, it’s not quite as funny as last year’s list (not even the bits I’ve nicked off Eurovision Lemurs)…

Because although songs about the Albanian diaspora and the Kosovo War are going to go down well with locals and expats, we can think of quite a few less than friendly neighbours who’ll take a pretty dim view of that kind of thing. And even if the rest of the continent votes it best, there’s just enough that won’t to cost it dear. (Yeah, we know it’s a bit serious for an opening paragraph, but you know, alphabetical order and all that!)

Because if she insists on that barging about larky on stage she’ll be too battered and bruised after two weeks of rehearsals to even get out of bed come Saturday morning.

Because in their efforts to show that they’re just like everyone else at Eurovision, Australia decided it was their turn to have a doomed popera song on their tally. Next year: dad rock.

In the wild, the Paenda is a lonely creature who is practically evolving itself into extinction. Eating little else than unpalatable twigs and wilfully hating any kind of contact with the rest of its species, it really isn’t helping itself. In particular, the sub-species with the blue fur has such a mournful plaintive cry that nothing or nobody wants to come within a good mile of it – let alone ring a premium phone line to tell the world how much they like it.

Because once he’s got his kit on in order to perform on a family show, everyone will suddenly realise that there really isn’t much of a song hiding behind his lovely muscley chest.

Because the True-Blue-era-Madonna-in-the-style-of-Camila-Cabello trib act is just about the one genre that we really didn’t need.

Seriously, wake up! You had a little snooze during this dreary plodfest and forgot to tally it off on your scoresheet. Don’t worry, you didn’t miss much.

So many reasons, so little time.

Because diminishing returns are a terrible, terrible thing. Plus Asanda wants her farty trumpets back. As does Maruv…

Czechia (Honestly, it is Czechia. Why does nobody believe them?)
Because that spoken word bit in the mock mockney accent is about the most skin-crawling Eurovision moment of the last ten years at least. Plus, is it just us or is the lyric just a little bit sex pesty?

“Hello! Can someone get me down off this chair? Hello!?! This storage facility in Herning is terribly cold and lonely. Helooooo???”

Before him in his semi sits one of the most anarchically batshit entries in all Eurovision history, and behind him one of artistically unhinged. Good heavens, even his own mum will have forgotten him after being the bland jam in such an epic nonsense sandwich.

People only want to hear the hit, mate, and not see your slightly sinister chin-bearded self staring smugly out of a box. The voting nans will have no idea who you are or why the camera is focused more on you than that nice young lad at the front, anyway.

Because as much as we like the lad, “internet sensation in your own language group” very rarely translates into “anyone else giving a shit”. He’d have done better if he’d brought an actual song along with the admittedly admirable message.

Because they appear to have skipped a year in the “one year for Georgia, one year for Eurovision” sequence. As if being abso-bloody-lutely terrifying wasn’t enough. (Especially if they bring that backing singer with the wobbly hand from their national final!).

Because this song only underlines that last year was clearly an utter and absolute fluke.

Because ladies who sing like somebody is firmly squeezing a mule never seem to do well at this contest. And people only like the video for the girl eating the grapes, anyway.

The curse of the comeback strikes again. If any artist is ever going to make a return, however popular they are amongst fankind, they really, really need have an even better song than the last time or they’re ultimately doomed to mild embarrassment, and we fear the worst for lovely Joci. (Heed these words closely for your inevitable return in the next couple of years, Eleni Foureira.)

Because the way things are going at the moment Europe most probably will have crumbled by the time Eurovision comes around.

Who else reckons that RTE were negotiating really hard to get Westlife for the big show, but when the talks broke down at the last minute they were stuck with the first thing they found down the back of the sofa?

This is actually a Sacha Baron Cohen character isn’t it? He’ll rip off the mask in the last moments of his Jury Final and do a swear, resulting in his instant disqualification, surely. We can’t see any other reason why he’s here…

Because while everyone in the hall will try to clap along in the chorus, its unusual quarter beat timing will mean that the whole darned place will whack their mitts together at random places, totally putting the poor lad off his rhythm. It’ll all end in utter garbled mayhem unless the stage crew make a ‘For the love of god don’t clap!’ announcement before the performance.

Because while it starts nicely enough with a cutesy little singalong motif, it quickly hits a trapped groove like a stuck record and seems to go on doing exactly the same thing for about 40 minutes. But unlike an old-fashioned Dansette record player, you can’t just whack the side of the telly to make it skip forward a bit. Seriously, if a song makes you this anxious after two minutes it’s really no kind of vote sponge.

This year’s song that you can’t find a single negative thing to say about it, but that you just know in the very pit of your heart that it’s doomed to abject anonymity. Bless his handsome little heart.

“Michaela? Yeah, there’s some bloke called Boy George on the phone and he’s got the right hump. He’s demanding royalties and a co-writing credit before he’ll even allow you to go on stage in Tel Aviv. Yeah, I know…”

Can anyone remember how this goes off the top of their heads? Anyone? We’re watching it right now and we still can’t for the life of us recall even a single second of it.

Seriously, whoever in the world thought that their musical notation schtick was a good idea for anything other than a school play?

“Duncan mate. Some bloke called Aram MP3 is on the phone. Yeah, it is a funny name. He says he’s seen your future…”

North Macedonia
Czechia were jealous. Czechia have been trying to get the world to adopt their new name for some years without so much as a by your leave. But here come North Macedonia with their shiny new moniker and everybody takes it to their hearts in mere weeks. So Czechia devised a plan with certain elements from the Macedonians’ southerly neighbours who still aren’t terribly pleased at how this whole name thing has turned out. It mainly involved finding a way to scramble the offending name on every kind of televised broadcast rather than anything terribly dangerous, but it still caused enough confusion to mess with the scoring at the end of the night.  But if they’re ignored for another year who knows what may happen…

Because however culturally important this is to the folks from the Scandi regions, when the little bald bloke in the shiny trousers turns to the camera and yoiks, the rest of the continent are going to spit their tea out in a loud guffaw and break into a collective Swedish Chef impersonation. Sad but true.

Because they’re going to have to do something pretty amazing with the camerawork to make these static lasses look like anything more interesting than a regional Easter bonnet competition.

Because this song isn’t here to win Eurovision. It’s the culmination of a millennia-long ritual that’s an attempt to coax the great alien godhead down to Earth and absorb our bodies into the wider astral consciousness (all except for the bloke with the inflatable Israeli hammer, of course), resulting in our all becoming demi-space lords and learning the actual true meaning of life from the very centre of the deepest, darkest black hole. Well, can you think of a more believable reason why this exists?

Because all that curious, unconvincing hand-waving about will attract the attention of our very own Michael Rice’s similarly afflicted mitts. Said chubby grabbers will drag him unwillingly onto the stage to get into a very unseemly scramble with Ester behind the big chair. It turns out that they were both suffering from the great involuntary wobbly hand virus disease, where those infected have no control of their glove meat. It was a terrible, terrible scene. See also: Evil Dead II

“Comrade Putin? Yes, we’ve had a little bit of an issue with our ongoing attempt to control the results of the Eurovision, thereby destabilising the planet’s economy with our proxy media war. Yes… yes sir. Well, the call centres and click farms around the continent were just that little bit TOO efficient this year, and the glorious motherland have got perhaps a few too many votes to have been entirely believable. How many? Erm… Does 45 million and twelve sound too many? Yeah, I think it’s the twelve that makes it sound less believable. I think they’ve rumbled us sir… No, I’ve never been to Siberia…”

San Marino
Come on, you KNOW this isn’t going anywhere near winning. So let’s just enjoy it for the glorious slab of unmitigated fun that it is, eh, and stop thinking too deeply about it.

Hang about, didn’t Moldova already sing this?

Because these two are soooo into each other that they’ll completely forget where they are, stop singing, and begin to just stare at each other, all dewy eyed, until big Henric skulks on and prods them with a stick.

All they needed to do was repeat their national final winning performance, but they had to mess about with it and iron out all the joy…

Because the pressure of being the first man to have written both the winner and the last placed song in the same year will have become just that bit too much for him and his mind won’t be on the game. I mean, it’s not like anybody’s going to ask him about it in a press conference or an interview or anything…

“Hello Luca? This is celebrity psychic Sally Morgan. I’ve been getting messages from the afterlife from Patrick Swayze and he’s not best pleased. He wants me to come round a do a Whoopi Goldberg on you… only less pleasantly…” (Yeah yeah, I know I’m mixing my filmic metaphors here, but why let that get in the way of a bad joke).

Do you know what, I think they’re actually going to do it this year! Wait.. what?
(Trust me, I will never, ever get bored of this gag).

United Kingdom
Brexit my arse. You don’t get big points by sending plucky lads from the sandwich shop, bless his lovely little hopeful heart.

So there we are, another winnerless year. When will anybody ever want to actually win this thing?