Diamanté, tight leather trousers and excessive hair gel.

I apologise in advance for the Euro-centric theme to this post, specifically for those of you who hail from lands further away than, say, Azerbaijan (No idea if that is a real country? It IS. I know, l was surprised too. And had to Google the spelling.). However, l suggest you read on. It will be a cultural enlightenment for you. Honest.

One Saturday night every May sees me seated in front of a television screen for 4 hours solid, wearing a Union Jack leotard and cape ensemble, complete with tattoos of Our Royals on each butt cheek, waving a flag in one hand whilst sporadically cramming themed snacks into my slacked jawed mouth. Not, as l am sure you would naturally infer from my description, to watch a Royal wedding, nor to support our hard-working but ultimately trophy-phobic sports teams. No. It is SO much better. It is the Eurovision Song Contest.

It is the night when 25 out of 43 countries that come under the currently drooping umbrella of Europe send their best singers to compete in a song contest. One song, specially composed for the night, and voted for (hopefully) by the rest of the continent. Considering the hype, you may suppose that the prize is something breathtaking. Perhaps all the money the IMF has to offer. But no, they win the honour of hosting the event the following year. With all the expense it incurs. Although, on reflection, that may be why Greece put forward a duo of a  rapper whose speech seemed hindered by the fact that his tongue had grown into his cheek and a manboy who had a voice with emotive qualities of a horny peacock attempting to seduce a reluctant hen. Using a vuvuzela. Attached to a loud hailer.

But l digress. For those of you unfamiliar with this whole event, here follows a brief breakdown:

Two presenters - Usually ex-singers or presenters who have been dragged out of a cupboard somewhere. Fake-tanned, botox-ed, and hair dried to within an each of their lives, and told to 'be funny'. They aren't. Ever. They inevitably make you want to do what you did with your Barbie and Ken, ie., remove their limbs and replace them in the wrong holes, tie them together head to toe, and put them in a piping hot oven. Or was that just me?

Performers - A selection of Europe's finest musicians, apparently. Which may be why the charts are dominated by artists from the US of A. From guitar strumming, checked jacket wearing octogenarians, to teenagers bouncing across a laser-lit stage wearing enough diamanté and neon to blind an astronaut, to those 'alternative' kids who wear cheap leather and lots of angst ridden eye-liner but at the end of the night like nothing more than a cup of tea and a hug from their mum. Each of them giving their all on a stage with a backdrop of flashing lights, cheap graphics, and a crowd of flag waving, badly dressed (think sandals and socks) Europeans. They perform songs of the quality that make you feel like you are being aurally abused, whatever the genre they choose. The staging and costumes are the standard of your average infant school talent show - all glitter, glue, sugar paper and staple guns. They can be split into three categories. Either the countries are going for the straight female/gay vote by sending out their hunkiest young males wearing unrealistically tight trousers that will rip at the hint of a lunge and enough hair gel to rebuild Japan. On the other hand, the straight male/gay female vote is won by placing a selection of nubile young females on stage who wear dresses that, what they lack in material, make up for in adhesiveness. The third category is the nationalist vote, which can only be won by singers who had hits centuries ago, sing about 'the good ol' times' in their national language, and who, when the camera pans backstage, have their hand up the skirt of one of the afore mentioned young ladies.

Crowd - As described above. Oh, also, they can't dance. Or maybe that is unfair, perhaps moving two seconds behind the beat, one leg in the opposite direction of the other, whilst waving ones hands manically counts as dancing.

Commentator - An Irish comedian who bitches about outfits, presenters, performers, and crowd like xenophobia never existed. Basically, like the majority of the UK population, pretends disdain about the whole event whilst secretly obsessing about it, knowing all the statistics, and phone voting for Jedward to a loss of over £100. Don't judge me. I love the fact they can't even jump in time.

Representatives - After the performances have taken place each country nominates someone (usually a minor celebrity) to give the results of the votes in that particular country, They have one minute to do this. Without exception, each one attempts to catch the eye of a movie producer in that time. Women with hair the height of the Eiffel Tower, men with over-plucked eyebrows. This will be their one moment of fame. Literally. The next time they receive that much attention will be when they are trying to sell incontinence pads on the local shopping channel.

Add in some fireworks, and there you have it. This is what passes for entertainment in this eccentric continent.

You need it n your life.

But as a word of advice, stay away from the themed snacks. Apparently roast beef, Camembert and schnitzel pizza followed by Edam, paella and beetroot flavoured goulash does nothing for your digestive system. Who knew?

P.S - Azerbaijan won. That's how l know it exists.

They think it's all over.

The view in my full length mirror has just given me a heart tremor the like of which Scrooge must have had when shown his Christmas Future. Attired in a cornflower blue flannelette nightdress, hand knitted rose pink bed jacket, pop socks, and orthopaedic tartan slippers l stared at my 80 year old reflection with a sense of trepidation. The deep-set fear that my Agent Provocateur lace briefs are soon going to be replaced by giant white cotton longjohns lined with three layers of incontinence pads and a pair of plastic pants has set in. Bugger.

Now, logically, this hideous apparition of my aged self is unlikely to become reality for a few years yet. I am only thirty-four this year. I still get asked for ID when buying alcoholic substances, and feel a smug sense of satisfaction when the salesperson recoils in shock at my DOB. My pupils still think l am 24 (oh, the innocence of youth).  I write all of this nonchalantly, as if my age does not bother me in the least. In reality, l am shitting enough proverbial bricks to build a brand new pyramid. I scour my head for hints of grey. I count the lines around my eyes. I attempt the 'pencil test' to see if my breasts and buttocks are still as pert as they once were. Yes, I have suddenly found myself as the target customer for magical creams that fend off wrinkles with swords and bombs laced with secret ingredients that have more 'Oxy's than l ever thought possible, hair colourings that promise to cover those dead follicles with a blanket of fluorescent red, and hydrochloric acid treatments that will eventually peel away all your skin to reveal your baby faced skull underneath. And, yes, I have read 'Bad Science', l do understand that most of these potions are ineffective, but still l find myself stood in the aisle at Boots, wide-eyed and drooling at the seductive promises the packaging offers me. And as l leave with a shamefully clanking bag, l shudder as l try and hide from the truth: l want eternal youth. Or at least the appearance of it.

Inevitably, one has to accept that preventing the ageing process is as impossible as preventing a starved cheetah from tearing a dead carcass limb from limb. No matter how many nights l sleep hanging upside down from my bedrooms door, how much duck tape l use to fold my face back over my ears, or how many layers of acrylic paint l plaster over my skin, those pesky lines will appear whether l like it or not. I can clench my buttock muscles until l have to hobble around as if l have rocks in my knickers; l could string my breasts up around my neck with dental floss; if l bench pressed enough weights to give me the muscles of a steroid munching gym bunny, the collagen in my skin would still leak, unwanted, into the atmosphere. The nights l have spent painstakingly applying whitewash to each and every tooth are essentially worthless, for they will end up replaced by a set of  clacking dentures that will have to be removed after every meal and picked over for scraps. Although, secretly, l am quite looking forward to giving small children nightmares with my falsies by hiding them in their bed. Or in their porridge. 

 

So, as l sit here in my nightie and slippers, pointlessly injecting my forehead with a potent mixture of toilet bleach and bicarbonate of soda (the effervescent qualities pump out those fine lines miraculously), l am forced to accept the fact that slowly, but surely, l will morph into a mad old lady. I will be wrinkled and lined; l will push a trolley laden with cuddly toys and royal paraphernalia around town; l will attempt to lame young people with my walking stick; I will wave my Bus Pass fiercely as elbow my way to the front of bus queues; l will live in a junk filled house that smells vaguely of cat piss and rotten half-eaten ready meals; l will wear low cut leopard print blouses that expose my wrinkled sagging breasts, with pop socks, tartan slippers, fuschia lipstick and blue mascara; and l will consider it my right to stand on street corners and verbally abuse passers-by as l glug milk from a bottle, stolen from a passing milk float. 

But for now, l will cling on to my youth as tightly as possible. And hope that when l start to resemble Barbara Cartland, someone will put me down.