I had to explain the Eurovision Song Contest a few times last week. Here’s how it goes:
You (the people of Europe) are one of the team captains in a game of soccer at recess. For the first twenty or so recesses you pick the best player first and it’s all rather fun. David Beckham turns up to play but it turns out he’s not as good as he thinks he is so you don’t pick him (see Olivia Newton-John, Cliff Richard).
There’s an Irish kid who’s jolly good but a bit of a show off. Every time he scores a hat trick he invites you all round to his house afterwards for tea but after a while his mum decides she can’t keep buying sticky buns for everyone and starts sending his little brother instead because he’s not very good.
It gets edgy. The neighboring school finds a hole in the fence and a bunch of new kids join in. You start to pick the kids who look like they might put a brick through your window if you don’t. You realize the British kid is not very good after all and is beginning to embarrass himself trying to fit in.
It gets weird. You’re so bewildered about the rules and who’s who that you pick the odd looking kids just for the hell of it – the strange one with excessive bum fluff and the one who dresses like an orc from Lord of the Rings.
It gets painful. By this point, there are so many kids lining up to play that it takes all of recess just to pick sides and there’s no time left to play soccer. By the time the Australian kid turns up, you decide enough is enough. You dimly recall the first game was quite fun and had a Swedish kid who was pretty good so you pick a Swedish kid and hope it will all end soon.
Here’s the (Swedish) winner from 1974.