BULGARIA, a nation whose chief exports appear to be yogurt, rose oil, and now a terrifyingly upbeat pop star. Dara, the victorious Eurovision songbird, touched down in Sofia yesterday to a reception that resembled a prison riot at a Justin Bieber concert. Screaming. Crying. Several people had to be restrained by security as they attempted to throw their own offspring at her tour bus. It was, in short, the most British thing to happen in Bulgaria since the invention of the package holiday.
Let us pause to consider the sheer absurdity of this spectacle. Eurovision, that glittering elephant autopsy of continental culture, has been pronounced ‘creatively resurgent’ by a gaggle of British producers who probably also think London is the centre of the universe. Dara, a woman with a voice that could shatter glass and a smile that suggests she knows something you don't, has become the unlikely standard-bearer for this new dawn. But what does ‘creative resurgence’ actually mean? It means a 3-minute song about peace and love with a key change that would make a lesser pop star spontaneously combust. It means pyrotechnics. It means voting blocs so predictable they could be mapped by a drunken pigeon. In other words, business as usual.
The British producers, heads swimming in the heady fumes of Brexit-era nationalism, are crowing. ‘This proves Europe still respects our musical output!’ they bellow, conveniently forgetting that the United Kingdom hasn't won since 1997, and that our last entry was a man dressed as a giant tea bag. Dara’s victory is not a triumph of British songwriting; it is a triumph of cynical choreography and a damn catchy chorus. It is the musical equivalent of a McDonald's Happy Meal: you hate yourself for enjoying it, but enjoy it you do.
And then there are the fans. Oh, the fans. They are the true grotesques of this opera. Grown adults weeping over a woman who can hold a note for five seconds. They speak of Dara in hushed tones, as if she were a religious icon. ‘She represents hope!’ one woman sobbed into a BBC microphone. Hope for what, exactly? That next year's entry will have even more dancers? That the stage will be on fire for longer? That the interval act will involve sheep? This is not hope. This is escapism dressed in sequins.
Meanwhile, in a parallel universe, the Bulgarian government is probably using Dara’s triumph to distract from the fact that their country has the highest rate of vodka consumption in Eastern Europe. ‘Look!’ they gesture, as the nation collectively nurses a hangover. ‘Our girl won! Everything is fine!’ Spoiler: it is not fine. But that is the magic of Eurovision. It is a temporary, glitter-covered respite from the grim reality that we are all hurtling towards a future of environmental collapse and political turmoil. For three glorious minutes, we can pretend that a pop song can save us.
So yes, hail the creative resurgence. Hail Dara, the high priestess of manufactured joy. And hail the screaming fans, the true heroes of this farce. They remind us that, no matter how bleak things get, there will always be a Eurovision winner to adore. Until next year’s winner, of course, when we will all forget her name and move on to the next shiny thing. Such is the cycle of life. Such is the power of a key change.
God save the sequin.
Biff Thistlethwaite, reporting from the edge of sanity. And a very large gin.
