Europe comes together for a night of gloriously daft entertainment
The Eurovision Song Contest
Praise be for the harmless daftness of the Eurovision Song Contest 2017 (BBC One). The annual extravaganza of kitsch musical cabaret provided a welcome dose of levity in this post-Brexit era of simmering pan-European strife.
Live from the barn-like International Exhibition Centre in Kiev, the epic broadcast clicked in at a stamina-sapping, bum-numbing three-and-a-half hours.
It was expected to be watched by 200million viewers across Europe, making it the planet’s most-watched non-sporting event. If we weren’t so fatigued from all the over-emoting, it might make us feel proud.
The slogan for this year’s contest was the worthy “Celebrate diversity” and the 26 finalists certainly ticked lots of boxes. Present and correct were such oppressed minorities as hippy brides, horses stuck up ladders, estate agents on treadmills, schizophrenic tenors, matador milkmen, yodelling rappers and dancing gorillas.
The build-up had been dogged by controversy, with fears of a backlash against the UK (“In current circumstances, I’m not sure how many votes we’ll get,” admitted PM Theresa May this week) and Russia’s entry being banned due to the ongoing conflict with host country Ukraine.
With its sub-plots of politics and patriotism, Eurovision has become much more than a cheesy sing-off. This was diplomacy with backing dancers. A karaoke contest with shameless bloc voting
The UK representative was X Factor alumnus Lucie Jones. The Welsh belter only needed to rank higher than third from bottom to improve on last year. Barefoot in an unflattering gold frock, Jones pluckily did us proud on power ballad Never Give Up On You.
For the first time in Eurovision history, proceedings were hosted by three males, which wasn’t terribly diverse: the spellcheck-challenging trio of Volodymyr Ostapchuk, Oleksandr Skichko and Timor Miroshnychenko. They resembled a boyband kitted out by Moss Bros, smeared in glue, then rolled in glitter. Their stilted links were a rare mis-step in a show which was glossily staged and slickly produced.
As always, the pace sagged horribly during the interminable half-hour wait between performances and jury results. The other bum note was a brief stage invasion from a mooning Australian fan. Serves us right for letting such a far-off nation gatecrash the party.
Our own guide was Graham Norton, who has grown into the gig superbly since inheriting the BBC booth from his Irish compatriot Terry Wogan. With Norton’s gently mocking asides delivered in conspiratorial and intimate tones, it was like having a waspishly witty companion on the sofa.
The atmosphere was infectiously optimistic, the standard of songs was higher than usual and for a change, our own entrant was one to root for, rather than be embarrassed by. It added up to one of the most cheering Eurovisions in years.
Who needed Britain’s Got Talent over on ITV when Europe had varying amounts of talent on the BBC? There was tension. There was togetherness. There were more sequins than an entire series of Strictly. Inadvertently hilarious and teeming with talking points, this was textbook communal Saturday night TV. Certainly not nul points.