It would not be possible for me to claim in good conscience that I enjoy Eurovision. My love of kitsch only extends so far, after all. On the other hand, it is a perfect two-hour encapsulation of our continent's glorious insanity. It's like a high-budget Eurotrash special, only without the tits. Just last night I got to see three women turn into butterflies, a robot stripping, and a half dozen Armenians worshipping a giant apricot stone. I doubt that this is what taking acid is actually like, but it's the best conception of it I can manage absent experience.
Almost as much fun as watching the madness unfold is the attempt to predict the eventual winner. This time, for once, I actually managed it. Turns out there's a system. Ignore the quality of the song, or the stage show, or even the technical ability of the singer, and just go for the sheer flat-out enthusiasm on display. In those terms, Lena was the clear winner. Sure, to our untrained eyes it looks like the vat-grown love child of Sarah Silverman and Fairuza Balk is singing in a cockney accent via Canberra. But the Eurovision aficionado understands better. To them, all that matters is that she did it in the style of a woman desperately stoned and who's just had the best sex of her life. And that, my friends, is Europe.