I Just Saw Eurovision.
It seems Australia has migrated to Europe. And let’s not even start on the people dressed like intergalactic circus acts. What an elitist, woke glitter tornado.
Australia? That’s a long story—one involving their public broadcaster (SBS), decades of loyal viewership, and the European Broadcasting Union deciding that logic is optional if ratings are good. Eurovision isn’t about borders; it’s about glitter, key changes, and politically awkward voting blocs—neutral as a rainbow shot through a disco ball.
Countries vote for their neighbors, artists wear costumes stitched together by sleep-deprived theater majors, and somewhere amid the chaos, an accordion solo wins hearts. The show flirts with inclusion, makes occasional political statements, but if I’m looking for a genuine socio-political movement, maybe I shouldn’t start with a singing contest that once featured dancing Russian grandmas, a bearded lady, and the actual Dracula from Romania.
Weird people in weird outfits? That’s the entire premise. I sit in front of the TV every year expecting tuxedos and string quartets—and instead I get a glitter bomb thrown by someone yodeling in LED pants.
It’s bizarre, messy, dramatic. Eurovision is what happens when musical theater and international diplomacy get drunk at the same wedding.
So fine—Australia is in. But if we’re inviting random continents, why not North Africa? Why not Morocco in a sequined jumpsuit, yodeling about heartbreak next to Estonia? A valid question, no?
Because here’s the thing: Eurovision isn’t actually about Europe.
It’s run by the European Broadcasting Union (EBU), and any country with an EBU-affiliated broadcaster can join. That’s why Israel competes, why Australia was let in like an enthusiastic party crasher, and why Morocco actually showed up once—in 1980. They came, they sang, and then ghosted like a bad Tinder date. The reasons are mostly political, including Israel’s involvement. The darn Jews again! Because of course, even disco comes with geopolitics.
Technically, North African countries could join. So could the U.S., China, Japan, or India—they’re all associate members. But participation hinges on media alliances, historical baggage, cultural polish, and perhaps a fear of being judged by Moldova and the fat guy from Belgium.
It’s called Eurovision, remember. You must look at least European. You don’t just show up. You get invited, vetted, and expected to deliver a performance with deep emotional angst, at least one pyro blast, a shirtless backup dancer in a bear suit, and a vocalist who can scream like their rent depends on it.
Until then, North Africa remains tragically absent from this LSD karaoke pageant.
Maybe one day. For now, we’re stuck with Balkan power ballads and techno elves from Scandinavia.
Eurovision is a pan-European fantasy where everyone is somehow vaguely Slavic, vaguely androgynous, draped in rhinestones, and inexplicably sings in English. Diversity? Sure—but in the Eurovision sense. Like: “Yes, we’ll take a trans performer, but only if she hits a C5 while ascending on a hydraulic lift as doves explode in the background.”
The show loves inclusion—so long as it’s choreographed, auto-tuned, and safe for the voting blocs. There’s a clear vibe: acceptable foreignness is okay. Think exoticism with subtitles. But if you bring unfiltered African or Middle Eastern aesthetics without a Euro-friendly gloss, you risk being labeled a novelty act. You have to sell your culture like it’s a costume, not a reality.
So no, Eurovision isn’t racist in the tiki-torch sense. It’s more like that aunt who says she loves diversity but only listens to French techno remixes of African drums made by Swedes—and insists she had a Black friend in college.
The whole thing is a sparkly, overcaffeinated talent show run by amateur geopolitics and professional glitter wranglers.
One of the three presenters proudly declared tonight: “I’m the woman who refuses to wear heels!” That was peak Eurovision: a moment hailed as feminist revolution—delivered while standing next to another presenter in a glitter-pasted, half-naked version of modesty.
That’s Eurovision feminism: performative enough to trend on Twitter, inconsistent enough to make your eye twitch. One woman rejects arch support; another is airbrushed, spray-tanned, and vacuum-sealed into something technically classified as a dress. All flanked by performers who raise the eternal Eurovision question: “Is that a man? A woman?” Who knows? Who cares!
Meanwhile, the audience roars—like they’re watching the fall of the patriarchy because someone wore flats. Stunning. Brave. The bar just keeps getting lower.
But that’s the magic of Eurovision, I guess. It pretends to be profound while being, essentially, glitter-coated chaos with LED screens. It tries to smuggle in progressive values like gender equity and cultural inclusion—via fog machine.
What we got this year was a heel protest standing next to a human glitter popsicle.
Honestly, the real star of the night was irony. And maybe the guy dressed like a sentient disco ball spinning for freedom in the background.
He was a guy, right?
The other one definitely wasn’t.
Maybe.
Whatever.
