The lovely Jude also had a party and let’s just say that she and C took the dressing up for the airline themed occasion fairly seriously. Hello mama!
In many ways Eurovision is just an excuse for grown-ups, be they participants or spectators, to run wild in the dressing up trunk.
It disappointed us slightly therefore that the winning entry was a rather dour power ballad from Serbia, performed by a stout, cropped haired woman backed by female backing singers who made Charlie’s Angels look like women with a curling tong phobia.
Several theories circulated at our party, including that a new hole in the ozone had opened up due to the amount of hairspray used on but one of the backing chanteuse, to a worry that their hairstylist started on the backing group and ran out of time by the point they reached the front woman.
T declared it a dyke victory, whereas P counter-claimed that it was in fact a victory for anyone who had suffered a pudding bowl haircut as a child.
A free copy of The Times on the train last night, offered up first the insight that with the big screens in gay pubs the country over, this annual event was akin to the gay world’s FA Cup and then the observation regarding the bloc voting scandal that we should rise above it all as we probably “don’t want to win a contest in which even Serbian hairdressers[…] have a vote”.
They’ve got a point.
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