Here are 10 good reasons for not being part of Europe. One, intestinal German meats with odd names; two, overdressed Latvian folk dancers; three, the Russian Mafioso; four, lederhosen; five Lourdes and all other places the Virgin Mary has supposedly visited; six, crazy Italian drivers; seven, white toblerone chocolate; eight, cocky German penalty-takers; nine, Silvio Berlusconi; and finally, and most importantly, the Eurovision Song Contest.
By chance and perhaps appropriately, I found myself on mainland Europe watching the Eurovision Song Contest on French television. I had imagined that the French might take it every bit as seriously as most of Europe, but was pleasantly surprised to discover that even the French have little time for what has become an extravaganza of extraordinary proportions in recent years. Greece sent 300 journalists to cover the event. Yes, 300. The Greeks obviously thought they were going to win.
There seemed to be four criteria needed to attract votes. First, that the song had to be sung by a woman; second, that she had to be attractive; third, she also had to be scantily clad; and fourth, she had to have long, flowing hair (colour not important). The French commentators, who treated the evening with some disdain, spent most their time giving marks to the markers, most of whom again were female and attractive. But when an elderly grey-haired Greek marker popped up on screen they roared. Greece demonstrating a new less flippant image to the world given its financial meltdown, they reckoned.
But that’s the kind of thing you expect from the French. What I didn’t expect, although Terry Wogan led the way on this one, were the guffaws of sarcastic laughter from our French comperes when some eastern European country voted for an eastern European neighbour. Maybe this had something to do with France not picking up too many votes from eastern Europe – or anywhere else, for that matter.
Thankfully, Britain found itself propping up the rest of Europe. I say thankfully because, in all honesty, the last thing you would really want is to win this contest. But there again, we were the nation that gave you the Beatles, the Rolling Stones, Oasis and any number of other mega rock stars. Such thanks you get from your supposed friends. You name me one decent Estonian band. I just don’t know why we take it seriously; maybe like Italy, Austria and a few other nations we should simply tell them where to stick it and withdraw. At least in Britain you had one advantage in that the entire extravaganza was over by 11pm; elsewhere it dragged on into the early hours of the morning.
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As a nation we seem to have become obsessed with wanting our 15 minutes of fame. Even WAGs are famous these days. Next it’ll be the MAGs – Mothers and Grannies – who hit the headlines. Egged on by the red top tabloids and television shows such as Britain’s Got Talent, we imagine a pot of gold awaits the winner. Sadly it’s not usually the case, especially for the winners of Britain’s Got Talent who get a measly £100,000 plus an audience with the Queen.
Wherever you look, Saturday night television has become little more than a succession of supposed talent shows – although, thankfully, Britain’s Got Talent 2010 has finally came to an end. En route to the final, we had strippers, farters, endless dancers, off-key singers and even a father-and-son singing act.
Maybe I’m just an old cynic, but I could hardly imagine my kids wanting to sing along with me in private, let alone public. So many people with so little talent – all grasping for their 15 minutes of glory. It makes you wonder if Britain really has got talent. Only Susan Boyle can claim to have had any follow-up success with her two million best-selling album although that was tempered by a spell at the Priory. And anyway she didn’t actually win. As for rest, they just sank into oblivion, their 15 minutes over. This year’s winners, Spelbound, will as likely go down that same route. Little more than well-choreographed tumblers there’ll always be a job in some circus for them, especially at Blackpool. What a pity Labour doesn’t go there anymore or we could have all gone along to see them.
The final attracted an audience of more than 14 million viewers – proof indeed of our obsession with fame. Simon Cowell was reported to be disappointed that it didn’t beat the previous best of 19 million, but his disappointment will at least be offset by the money he’s banking. Perish the thought, but it’s thanks primarily to Simon Cowell that ITV is still in business. l
