In a move that has sent shivers of delight down the spines of sequin-hoarding televisual alchemists, Canada has announced its intention to join the Eurovision Song Contest in 2027. British producers, those barons of glitter and key changes, have hailed this as the end of cultural isolationism, presumably forgetting that Canada already shares a border with the United States, a nation that treats the contest with the same bewildered disdain as a vegan at a hog roast.
Yes, the land of maple syrup, moose, and inexplicably polite hockey players will now be forced to endure the glorious, chaotic spectacle that has united Europe in a shared state of mild embarrassment every May. The news came via a statement from the Canadian Broadcasting Corporation, which was hastily followed by a petition from the Irish delegation demanding that Canada’s entry be performed exclusively on bagpipes.
One can only imagine the sheer terror gripping the Canadian music industry. Panic meetings are already being convened in Toronto, where executives are desperately trying to figure out how to top the sheer lunacy of past entries. Will they send a folk singer in a canoe? A troupe of lumberjacks performing interpretive dance to a Celine Dion medley? Or will they simply apologise for twenty minutes and then set fire to a fake beaver?
British producers, of course, are thrilled. “This is the greatest day for international relations since the invention of the handshake,” declared Sir Nigel Fotherington-Smythe, a man who has produced exactly three things in his life: a Christmas panto, a bad back, and a persistent sense of entitlement. “Canada brings a certain... je ne sais quoi? No, that’s French. They bring a certain ‘sorry, eh’ to the proceedings. It’s exactly what Eurovision needs to counterbalance the grim reality of Brexit.”
But let’s not pretend this is about culture. This is about television ratings. The BBC has been desperate for a new audience since the Queen stopped waving at telly cameras, and Canada’s 38 million citizens represent a fresh pool of potential voters for the UK’s annual twelve-point charity to Cyprus. Meanwhile, the EBU is rubbing its collective hands with glee at the prospect of a transatlantic time zone nightmare. Viewers in Vancouver will have to wake up at 4am to watch a man in a silver catsuit sing about potatoes. This is progress.
The contest’s rulebook has already been quietly amended, with clause 47b now reading: “Any entry from North America must contain at least one reference to poutine, and may not feature any actual bears unless they are trained to dance.” This seems a sensible precaution, given that Canada’s wildlife is famously unpredictable. One misguided entry featuring a live moose could spell disaster for the stage’s structural integrity.
Yet there is a darker undercurrent to this announcement. It is a deliberate, calculated move to distract from the fact that the UK’s own Eurovision entries have been, to put it kindly, a series of gently escalating disappointments. Our last entry involved a woman in a frock singing about rainbows while a backing dancer fell off a podium. Canada’s inclusion is a desperate plea for relevance, a cry into the void that says: “Please, Lord, let someone else be embarrassing for a change.”
As the news sinks in, one can only salute the sheer audacity of Canadian ambition. They have conquered the ice hockey rink, the curling sheet, and the maple syrup factory. Now they are coming for Eurovision. And God help us all if they win. The next contest will be held in a hockey arena in Saskatoon, with interval acts performed by geese. Dread the thought. Embrace the chaos. This is the new world order.
Biff Thistlethwaite, filing from the edge of sanity.
