West Hartlepool, County Durham, 1966

“Mum, what’s the Eurovision Song Contest?”

“It’s a programme where all the countries in Europe hold a competition to see which of them can write the best song.”

“Sounds great! Who are we entering? It’ll be the Beatles, won’t it?”

“I don’t think so. They’re probably a bit too busy.”

“The Rolling Stones, then? No? What about the Kinks? Manfred Mann? The Hollies? The Animals? The Yardbirds? The Who? Donovan, he might win…”

My mother scratches her head.

“I think it’s someone called Kenneth McKellar.”

“Kenneth McKellar? Who’s he?”

“I don’t know. Now tidy those toys away before your father gets home.”

I made that conversation up, of course. But you can believe me when I say that I spent quite a while wondering why a country with so many world-famous pop groups chose to be represented by a singer who to the best of my knowledge wasn’t even good enough to have appeared on Top Of The Pops.

Listening to it now, I can understand why ‘A Man Without Love’ was chosen. It has an engaging melody and thoughtful lyrics, delivered in fine style.

http://www.dailymotion.com/video/x90c7t_1966-uk-kenneth-mcke...

But it was square. When it came to pop music, the UK led the world. The only country that could live with us was the USA, and they could thank Brian Wilson and Bob Dylan for that.

[I get it now. It’s called having nothing to prove. But when you’re 9…]

Fast-forward to 1968.

“We wuz robbed! ‘Congratulations’ was the best song by a mile! The lass who won just went ‘la la la’. It’s them Spaniards, they voted against us deliberately!”

Although I don’t know if my dad ever came out with those exact words, it’s certainly sums up how he and a lot of other people felt.

In the meantime, an eleven year old boy took his first halting steps on what would turn out to be a very long road.

Because ‘Congratulations’ was shit. But it was British shit. Which made it smell sweet.

And yet…

http://youtu.be/VjmYJpFn7Gc

The sheer joy Massiel pours over the audience makes her a worthy winner. Who cares what she’s singing about with a smile like that?

Now it’s 1976. I’m on a Geography field trip, staying at a youth hostel outside Arnhem in the Netherlands. It’s Saturday night, and the girls have caught the train to Amsterdam because they were the only ones sensible enough not to spend all their money on cheap booze as soon as they got here. But in the kitchen there’s still some free Heineken in the fridge, and we’ve got a tape deck. The Doobie Brothers, Steely Dan and Nils Lofgren are just about making up for the lack of female company.

Enter a young man — I can’t remember where he was from, just that he wasn’t British — with a beaming smile.

“You have to come and watch the TV! Your country is winning!”

“Winning at what?” one of us asks.

“No footie on, is there?” wonders someone else.

“It’s Eurovision! The UK is going to win! Don’t you care?”

I’m not sure if this well-meaning individual had ever come across the phrase ‘couldn’t give a fuck’ before. He heard it that evening.

There will be no link to ‘Save Your Kisses For Me’. I despise blind patriotism, but I will not turn my country into a laughing stock.

1981. We win again because long skirts become short skirts. I begin to understand the true meaning of the word ‘shallow’.

http://youtu.be/boEph_ic-NM

But not why the makers of ‘Grease’ weren’t all simultaneously reaching to phone their lawyers.

You know what, I’ve only covered 15 years and already I feel sullied.

I can’t go on with this, knowing that you may feel violated too.

I’ll try and make it up to you. I hope the link works.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=LLN4gXJqzNY&feature=share&lis...

Now I have to listen to ‘Casanova’.

I can put on the perfume, even wear the dress sometimes
But I'll always be the bridegroom and never the bride

I get these thoughts now and again. Life sucks, doesn’t it.

Forgive this shameless rambling.