Eurovision money burning exercise

In time honoured tradition, we settled down armed with nibbles and sarcasm to watch this years song offerings from across Europe.
I did find that most of the time I was roughly calculating just how many euros had been, and were being, flung at this sparkling celebration of . . . what, really?
I believe the original aim of the contest was to heal war-created wounds and provoke love and friendship; the object now appears to be to spend as much as is humanly possible on one evening of terrible music, elaborate sets and crazed light displays.
It's not the same watching in France as it used to be in the UK. Terry Wogan was a master of the piss-take, and I believe Graham Norton is following in his footsteps most satisfactorily.
The French maître de cérémonie was far too serious, believing, or at least doing a good job of believing, that France's entry from Twin Twin were going to carry France to certain victory.
I must digress to say that this group of small maniacs with big hair were not destined for great things on the evening. The song seemed to be about wanting a moustache: possibly along the lines of the now-disgraced Rolf Harris's All I want for Christmas is my two front teeth (remember that? I think I do, or maybe it was a surreal dream I had).
Ezra looked them up on Spotify, and, apparently they are very popular here. . . but perhaps not in the rest of Europe, coming last of the 26 countries with just two points more than the various nul-pointers of previous years...
http://www.nulpoints.net/halloffame.htm

So, the highlights, or what I can remember of them between Ezra shouting: Mum, Dad, go to bed! as we nodded simultaneously like two faded, nodding dogs on the back shelf of a car.

1/  Well he had to win, didn't he: a bearded diva in a gold dress. God knows what he was singing about but it was all fabulous, especially his teeth.

2/ Poland. Dressed in traditional costume, singing about their hot Slavic blood - Miley Cyrus-like, but worse, with a huge-busted wench at the front of the stage pounding a milk-churn with a phallic-looking pole thing.

3/  Mad people from Iceland, all dressed in bright blue/pink/yellow suits - a bit, OK Go-rip off costume wise, but we liked their cheery lyrics about getting rid of prejudice etc - different as most songs consisted of adjectives, but with absolutely no meaning.

4/ A group of handsome young men singing utter drivel, but we liked the whistling and especially the banjo playing. Norway?

5/ The Dutch one was quite good apparently, but I'd gone to the loo.

6/ UK entry, worse than Bonnie Tyler.

7/ No vampires for Roumania this time, but a teethy man standing inside a circular keyboard while a woman warbled on about knitting, love or something - can't remember.

8/ The hamster-man in a large wheel, think it was the Ukranian entry.

9/ Twin Twin front man's Eraserhead hairdo.

As I sat, jaw slack with disbelief at the awfulness and cost of it all, I thought back to the 1970s when I used to watch the programme in London with my godmother.
Yes it was bad, really bad, but there was something homely and village fete-like about it then: white teethed, keen young folk singing about innocent things.
I searched for a memory of something cringingly-bad, and representative of that time, other than the planet-conquering Abba. Then I remembered Brotherhood of Man.
Of course there it was on uncle Youtube, a glimpse of 1976 Eurovision: teeth, hairy chests, flares, dog pissing on a tree-inspired dance routine, and REAL orchestra!
I read on Wikipedia that in 2004, there was a ban on groups playing their instruments live . . . why?
The best part of the event this year, we felt, was the introductions to each country and group - inspired in fact. Each team apparently going though some art process which would then reveal the flag in various ways: dominos, sweets, coloured motorbike exhaust, ice pucks, lilos in a pool, embroidery, etc, etc. It was worth watching for that.

I had loaded up a vid of Brotherhood of Man but it's been removed from Youtube.

                                                           

That song contest

Feeling tired, wet and cold after playing for the 'fete de la rose' in a nearby village we opted for a spot of snuggling and watching the Eurovision S.C.
Was it extra hyped this year? some European measure against austerity? Hey, I know let's spend 17 squillion euros on making a vast stage in Sweden so that everyone in Europe can listen to some terrible songs and feel so much better.
I have fond memories of sitting in my Godmother's flat in Wandsworth, eating Marmite on toast and watching the same program on her small 'Bush' set. It might have been the year that Brotherhood of Man won with that song that went Bongy bongy beep beep boop, or was it  pooty oopy ringy dingy om pom pam? or, perhaps that was another band . . . the whole show seemed to be full of plastic blonde hair, grinning maniacs and terrible commentary. Oh, nothing's changed then, it's just a whole lot more extravagant.

I really likeded Greece: I liked the older gent with the moustache and a tiny guitar thing, the black and white kilts and the crazed energy which was so lacking from nearly everything else. Britain was desperate: Bonnie Tyler – bless her. Surely, in the whole of the British Isles there must be thousands of young, musical, gorgeous people who could sing an original song? Maybe not, or perhaps I'm missing something. Is the whole point of it that it must be utterly dull, naff, and so middle of the road that you would have to check it with a millimeter rule?
The French entry was, I think, rather good. She won Nouvelle Star and can belt out a song with an impressive gravely voice. Italy's singer had fantastic hair, Belgium had the most pathetic song . . . There was another country that had some person trapped in a box, another who's singer was dressed in an alarming 'growing' dress thing, that meant she was eventually about twenty feet tall and covered with projected flames. Oh yes, there was another similar thing featuring a man with an incredible counter-tenor voice, surrounded by writhing, scantily-clad men, ( I quite liked that bit) in fact, his voice was worthy of a further listen, but preferably not in vampire-pop style.
The most stupid act was without doubt from Finland: a Lady Gaga would-be dressed in flouncy wedding dress and horrible pink accessories. She also had gyrating, tuxedo-wearing male dancers and backing singers in red rubber pinnies combined with librarian hairdos. A memorable line was something like: I'll skip dinner so I can be a bit thinner, then a chorus of, ho ho ho ho a ding dong . . . Mmm, back to classic E.S.C form then.
The song ended with a naughty, girl kiss with one of the red rubber aproned females: OOh, missus. Since this has been carried out by various people including Madonna, I don't suppose anyone was really shocked, and who cares anyway.
By this time bed and a hot water bottle, preferably a red rubber one, was an exciting prospect. We turned off the glittery racket, kicked the dogs out for a wee and staggered upstairs wondering why we hadn't just watched an old film instead.