Douze Points (Slight Return)

I wasn't going to write about the Eurovision Song Contest this year since it'll be dull as a very dull thing without Wogan and since the magnificent French entry by Sebastien Tellier that I hotly tipped here last year performed so risibly thanks to the Eastern Bloc/Balkans cartel that now holds inexorable sway over the voting.

But then, partly prompted by Adam's Turkish delight, I had a Google through the entrant videos and stumbled upon this, which can only be described as a masterpiece in the finest traditions of the competition. I swear it brought a tear late last night to my sleepydust-silted old eyes.
I really can't better the description given to it in today's Guardian, so reproduce it here in full...

Language buffs might be drawn to the Eurovision Song Contest for its cultural plurality. A statistician might revel in the quirks of its voting system. A homesick expatriate might place an emotional stake in the success of his or her homeland, however justifiably (most former Soviet or Yugoslav republics) or foolishly (all points west of Prague). But for Britons, the contest represents one of the last outposts of that most devalued of currencies: high camp. And in this year's finals in Moscow, the camp comes no higher than Sweden's daring fusion of light opera and throbbing eurodance.

Graced with the voice of a song-thrush, the shoulders of a stevedore and the lung power of an industrial dehumidifier, Malena Ernman is an internationally acclaimed mezzo-soprano with serious chops: she's played Carmen and Dido, sung at Vienna and Glyndebourne, and worked with Barenboim and Rattle. Tomorrow night, equipped with little more than a feathery frock, a souped-up karaoke machine and a mask-flaunting dance troupe, she faces an audience of 100 million, whose unqualified respect might not be forthcoming. If camp's comedic power resides in the gap between intention and effect, then the gap here is one in which we may all gratefully luxuriate.

It won't win of course.
But enjoy.