Eurovision Song contest

Eurovision. A vision of h*ll, where music becomes a parody of entertainment, wrapped in slices of paranational tripe, set in a key of 💩 minor by presenters whose verbal diarrhoea is designed to fill our ears, not the blanks between stage appearances. The remote control did not reach as far as Basel, a city I've only passed through, waiting for an onward connection to places, infinitely more alluring than its concert hall this evening. Eurovision. Made in 1956, long since outlasted its sell-by date. Should be able to walk off our TV screen unaided by now.