SOMEWHERE along the line it became cool to watch the Eurovision. At least that's what someone told me.
They were wrong. The only way to watch it is with irony in mind, otherwise you will find yourself reaching for the tablets. Or a gun.
Even worse than the event itself - which usually involves an increasingly inebriated Terry Wogan becoming progressively sarcastic and is worth watching for the live results link-ups - is the programme in which they choose the UK's representative.
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Think just how bad the songs in the actual competition are and times it by 10 for the qualifying round.
Wogan, who strangely has the same hairstyle as he did in 1973, is joined by presenter Claudia Winkleman, who treats him as if he could prove something of an embarrassment, rather than the actual saviour of the programme that he is.
John Barrowman and Carrie Grant are the uselessly over-the-top judges, reluctantly whooping and cheering with the enthusiasm of 15-year-old kids who have just received full-on lip-smackers from their 105-year-old great-grandma.
First up are Loveshy, two girls who have been in a band together for five years, the only thing being that they've forgotten to learn to play anything, sing, write a decent song or dance. Which begs the question: what the hell have they been doing with their lives? "We're really passionate about what we do. We describe our sound as sexy, edgy pop." Pants would be more accurate. "It's about a really fit guy who's gorgeous and we just want to eat him up," scream Aimee and Emma about their "song" Mr Gorgeous. Deep stuff.
The fact they manage to lose their heat against three-girl Motown wannabe act The Revelations says more about Loveshy than it does about the winners. Careers over, Workshy. I mean, Loveshy.
Some bloke from that programme where they found someone to be in Joseph warbles a ballad and is deservedly beaten by the absolutely barking-mad Simona from the one about Maria. Simona is Romanian, which is a good enough reason to vote for her in the first place, ignoring the fact she looks and sounds mad. "It's a dream come true," she exaggerates. She gets through to the final, but soon her dream will be shattered.
X Factor smoothie Andy Abraham loses out to former EastEnder Michelle Gayle, before the former is voted back in as best loser and survives the public vote to reach the final against Gayle. Understand?
We get to see former winners such as Sandie Shore who prove that Eurovision used to be better than it is now, and failed competitors such as Katie Price, whose performance made Loveshy look good.
Anyway, Gayle whoops, shoops and shimmies her way through what she thinks is an up-tempo soul number, while Andy "my family are so very proud that I have done so well for myself in such a short space of time" Abraham belts out something not too disastrous that he thinks will be "difficult for people to get out of their heads". Within seconds I've forgotten it.
The judges go for Gayle, who says: "It's not the taking part, it's the winning." The audience, whose vote counts though, pick Abraham, confusing Wogan - who asks "Did I read that correctly?" - and the crew, who send the glitter falling over the runner-up rather than the winner. Bodes well, then.
Roll on Belgrade, May 24. Come on Dustin the Turkey!
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