“That was rubbish,” said the LTLP. “That was absolute crap.”
I wasn’t so sure, and gave the spacious lady from Malta a seven out of ten on my score sheet. That might seem quite high to you, but I work on a system of low expectations, where a ten out of ten in this particular exercise would be equivalent to about a three in any normal music environment.
Big A opened another bottle of wine.
The Village Eurovision Party is one of the highlights of the year. Just as in days gone past us country folk might have done maypole dancing or killed a pig, now we have new traditional rituals to bring a sense of cohesion to the community. We caught up with local gossip and news as some people from Turkey yabba-yabbad from the screen.
“All over the beer garden!!!”
“So what did you do?”
“Well Short Tony started discreetly covering it with earth, but there was so much there. So we tried to get her home, but…”
The shared experience of fellowship brought us together as we groaned at the voting. Just as the foreigners did not let us win the European Cup because we invaded Iraq, so the greasy racists made a point of voting for other countries and not us, despite the fact that we had the song that should have won because we are British.
“There are some people,” I observed, “who are sad enough to sit at home and watch this tosh. Sad and lonely people with no taste. But a party is completely different, isn’t it?”
A forest of heads nodded around the room.
We settled down to watch the end of the results.
Partying away, all four of us.