Eurocamp in Malmö

The Eurovision song contest has evolved in extraordinary fashion since it was started more than half a century ago.  In its early years it was a charming portrayal of the different European cultures, with each competitor singing in their own language.  As the number of participants grew, so the spectrum of cultural differences widened.  I recall one year when there was a weird combination of Eastern European folk dancers in national costumes one minute, then a Eurogoth extravaganza of Vikings in helmets the next.  In the UK, self-styled hub of the pop world, we could be quietly condescending about the antics of our underdeveloped neighbours.

All of that has now changed.  Apart from Greece's quirky entry last night, there wasn't a folk dancer in sight.  On the other hand, there was an incredible amount of flashing lights and glitter.  In an arena of Olympic size, a rapt audience of 11,000, comprising most of the continent's gay men, waved flags and had a ball.

There was some weird stuff, of course: Romania fielded a sort of Dracula meets Phantom figure, who started off with quite a nice voice then surged into a countertenor;  the Ukrainian singer arrived on stage in the arms of a giant seven foot tall, who apparently has size 24 feet (and I thought I had problems with size 12!); and the dancers accompanying the eighteen-year-old from Belgium kept clutching their groins as if they had a bad attack of cystitis.  Finland seemed to be aiming at the lesbian vote, with their singer having a discreet kiss with one of her female dancers at the end - enough to cause a tiff with the Turks, who banned the programme from their national network.

But it was generally professional and good fun.  Ironically, the British, producers of so many pop icons, lost the plot completely.  Bonnie Tyler looked like a granny doing karaoke - old, drab and dull.  Somehow the UK scraped some sympathy points.  But the message was clear enough - bring out the razzle-dazzle, strobe lights, thumping rhythm and above all a young singer, or you might as well forget it.

Antony Mair