Iceland's Pollapönk: Tolerance is Bliss
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Boom Bang-a-Bang: Eurovision has a fine record for predicting political tensions

Strikingly, Britain’s last victory was in 1997, the year of the electoral apotheosis of Tony Blair and the Irish peace talks that led to the Good Friday Agreement.

It may comfort some, in these tense times, that the entries for the 2014 Eurovision Song Contest include an anthem to international compassion: “Sending out a message up above/Telling all the world to show some love.” Unfortunately for the TV sing-off’s hope of winning the next Nobel Peace Prize, this is the entry from Russia, which should probably expect nul points from the jury in Ukraine, whose song, ominously for those who fear that the dispute between the two countries may preview the Third World War, is called “Tick-Tock”. (Reassuringly, the reference turns out to be not atomic but romantic: “Can you hear me go tick-tock?/My heart is like a clock.”)

The Foreign and Commonwealth Office would doubtless claim to have better things to do than tune in for the final from Copenhagen on 10 May but Eurovision has an impressive record of predicting geopolitical tensions. Last year, the BBC’s Graham Norton noted that Russia and Ukraine had given each other lower marks than usual.

Eurovision’s reliability as a political baro­meter may be explained by its origins: it is a near-twin, in aims and birthdate, of the European Economic Community. The annual battle of poor English badly sung was launched in May 1956, nine months before the Treaty of Rome began moves towards European unity. Post-Second World War and mid-cold war, both institutions had declared aims of cementing stronger European ties, although clearly the projects have had different effects: the EU probably has greater respect in the music industry, while Eurovision has done more to foster peace.

As one of the few occasions on which populations are invited to vote for and against other countries, Eurovision efficiently reflects international sympathies and hostilities. Strikingly, Israel won two contests in a row (1978 and 1979) when perceived as a victim in the years after the Munich Olympics massacre, but since the prominence of the Palestinian issue has recently struggled even to qualify for the final.

In a musical equivalent of the belief that a green passport may save your life in a hijack or hostage situation, Ireland has proved the country least hated by others, winning seven times and having to resort, during the recession, to being represented by Jedward to avoid any risk of winning and having to pay for next year’s contest.

Strikingly, Britain’s last victory was in 1997, the year of the electoral apotheosis of Tony Blair and the Irish peace talks that led to the Good Friday Agreement, but subsequently the UK has suffered from an unforeseen consequence of the end of the cold war – nascent nations from the scattered Soviet Union and Yugoslavia forming powerful Eurovision voting blocs – while itself belonging to a political alliance (the EU) increasingly containing enemies.

With Ireland trying not to win, Scandinavian nations, guaranteed high marks from their neighbours and generally thanked for Abba, have become the safety option. Norway, Sweden and Denmark have all won in recent years and the Nordics are among the bookmakers’ favourites again.

The view that Eurovision songs have a limited range is supported by frequent doublings of subject matter. Pyromaniac inspiration unites Austria’s “Rise Like a Phoenix” and Azerbaijan’s “Start a Fire”, while another pair of alphabetical neighbours – the Netherlands and Norway – go nautical with “Calm After the Storm” and “Silent Storm”, respectively. Perhaps reflecting the international impact of The Great British Bake Off, there’s a patisserie theme in Latvia’s “Cake to Bake” and “Cheesecake” from Belarus.

None of these titles, incidentally, is in translation: bad English has become the Esperanto of crap pop. Of this year’s original 37 entries, 32 are sung in Shakespeare’s tongue or at least a variety of it. Many of the songs sound as if the lyricists have been tricked by cruel tourists into believing that strange phrases are common idioms in Britain. “I’m tired of your sweet cheesecake,” croons the Belarusian contestant.

In the style established by Abba, lyrics often feature recognisable English expressions, oddly positioned or stressed. “All the rules well known, they mean nothing,” laments the Finnish singer. And in “Mother”, the Belgian Axel Hirsoux pays tribute to his mum for being “my shoulder, my shelter, my satellite”, a trio of attributes unlikely to feature on many UK Mother’s Day cards.

The British hopeful, Molly, seeks to reverse the 17 years of hurt since the victory of “Love Shine a Light” by Katrina and the Waves with “Children of the Universe”, which, imploring “power to the people”, is one of a number of entries seeking to tap into the mood of voter protest around the world, although there is some ambiguity about whether Greece’s song “Rise Up” refers to elections or erections.

The Icelandic group Pollapönk make the baldest political plea: “Let’s do away with prejudice/Don’t discriminate, tolerance is bliss!” The sentiment is hard to argue with (though not as hard as it must be to sing) but will certainly be ignored by the juries, which, whatever the dreams of the competition’s founders, take pride in prejudice. Voting patterns in Copenhagen will give Cameron and Putin a useful clue to European attitudes towards them.

The 2014 Eurovision Song Contest final is on BBC1 and BBC Radio 2 on 10 May from 8pm

Mark Lawson is a journalist and broadcaster, best known for presenting Front Row on Radio 4 for 16 years. He writes a weekly column in the critics section of the New Statesman.

This article first appeared in the 08 May 2014 issue of the New Statesman, India's worst nightmare?

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7 things we learned from the Comic Relief Love, Actually sequel

Even gay subtext is enough to get you killed.

After weeks of hype, the Love, Actually Comic Relief short sequel, Red Nose Day, Actually, finally aired tonight. It might not compare to Stephen’s version of events, but was exactly what you’d expect, really – the most memorable elements of each plotline recreated and recycled, with lots of jokes about the charity added in. So what did Red Nose Day, Actually actually teach us?

Andrew Lincoln’s character was always a creep

It was weird to show up outside Keira Knightley’s house in 2003, and it’s even weirder now, when you haven’t seen each other in almost a decade. Please stop.

It’s also really weird to bring your supermodel wife purely to show her off like a trophy. She doesn’t even know these people. She must be really confused. Let her go home, “Mark”.

Kate Moss is forever a great sport

Judging by the staggering number of appearances she makes at these things, Kate Moss has never said no to a charity appearance, even when she’s asked to do the most ridiculous and frankly insulting things, like pretend she would ever voluntarily have sex with “Mark”.

Self-service machines are a gift and a curse

In reality, Rowan Atkinson’s gift-wrapping enthusiast would have lasted about one hour in Sainsbury’s before being replaced by a machine.

Colin Firth’s character is an utter embarrassment, pull yourself together man

You’re a writer, Colin. You make a living out of paying attention to language and words. You’ve been married to your Portuguese-speaking wife for almost fourteen years. You learned enough to make a terrible proposal all those years ago. Are you seriously telling me you haven’t learned enough to sustain a single conversation with your family? Do you hate them? Kind of seems that way, Colin.

Even gay subtext is enough to get you killed

As Eleanor Margolis reminds us, a deleted storyline from the original Love, Actually was one in which “the resplendent Frances de la Tour plays the terminally ill partner of a “stern headmistress” with a marshmallow interior (Anne Reid).” Of course, even in deleted scenes, gay love stories can only end in death, especially in 2003. The same applies to 2017’s Red Nose Day actually. Many fans speculated that Bill Nighy’s character was in romantic love with his manager, Joe – so, reliably, Joe has met a tragic end by the time the sequel rolls around.  

Hugh Grant is a fantasy Prime Minister for 2017

Telling a predatory POTUS to fuck off despite the pressure to preserve good relations with the USA? Inspirational. No wonder he’s held on to office this long, despite only demonstrating skills of “swearing”, “possibly harassing junior staff members” and “somewhat rousing narration”.

If you get together in Christmas 2003, you will stay together forever. It’s just science.

Even if you’ve spent nearly fourteen years clinging onto public office. Even if you were a literal child when you met. Even if you hate your wife so much you refuse to learn her first language.

Now listen to the SRSLY Love, Actually special:

Anna Leszkiewicz is a pop culture writer at the New Statesman.