Matthew eats… Eurovision Song Contest 2024

This is normally the post I look most forward to writing. My thoughts on a joyful four hours where I can bemoan the UK at being rubbish, debate the merits of the winner and just generally review whatever has occurred on the night.

But this year is different for obvious reasons. Firstly, there is the cloud over Israel’s participation. I initially thought many months back the EBU had taken the right decision allowing them to compete. But over time I came to question this. There was the attempt to send a deliberately provocative song, that was eventually watered down. Then there have been persistent rumours that the delegation had been unpleasant in their conduct to other delegations that had openly criticised them being allowed to compete. On balance, whilst Israel should have been allowed to compete, it perhaps would make sense know for everyone involved to ask whether it is the best thing in the long run for anyone involved to allow this to be repeated.

Then there was the Netherlands’ disqualification following an altercation with a member of the production team. It says something about how toxic the environment was this year that the rumour mill immediately sought to blame Israel. Personally, though I find it regretful, I do think that the disqualification was the right thing to do. If the act was indeed engaged in threatening behaviour then that is a breach of the rules, and it would be worse for them to have carried on and perhaps won and then be found guilty then to be removed and later found innocent.

So what about the show itself? Well, overall it was brilliant to see the breadth of genres. We seem to have moved far on from ballads and eurodance being all that is available with the odd token rock song. Ireland, Croatia and Switzerland in particular all learnt how to do ‘different’ right. Less so Norway and Finland. The former were handsomely rewarded with both healthy jury and public vote scores. Switzerland were deserving winners in my view – easily the best voice on the night, an excellently constructed song and clever staging.

The biggest shocks were the big votes for Ukraine and Israel. Yes, there’s sympathy voting, but I am tiring of a certain class of viewer failing to actually reward good songs. Although in terms of Israel, it perhaps shows that underneath a progressive veneer, the average viewer is still quite conservative and not interested in the plight of Gaza the way younger generations might wish them to be.

And the UK? Well, we came 18th, which is several places higher than last year, thanks to a jury score that fell for the pop hook. But no viewer votes. Again, in hindsight staging the song around a homoerotic encounter in a men’s locker room in space was not the strongest of ideas when you are pitching to an audience that consider Eurovision to be a family show (although no such issues with scantily clad women or hetero men dancing suggestively). The LGBT audience were busy rallying behind Switzerland and Ireland anyway.

Plus, Olly’s voice was not the best. It was very much a performance that seemed to be focused on dancing and the bells and whistles, rather than showing any vocal prowess. With so many countries delivering something close to flawless (again Switzerland, but also France, Germany and Latvia) you can’t get away with those kind of wobbles.

But there is hope. The song was so nearly there. The vocals were not a complete disaster. The staging showed the UK can be bold. If we can build on this we can climb the leaderboard. That’s something to hope for in a difficult time for the contest.

Matthew eats… Strictly Come Dancing

Last year me and the other half didn’t bother with Strictly Come Dancing. The celebrities were of no interest to us and in some case downright turn offs. But this year looked more interesting so we are once again invested in the format.

Of course, watching means you are reminded by all the things that irritate you about the show regardless of who is appearing on it. In fact, the list is so long that there are moments how you wonder this is such a hit, until you realise most of the viewers brush aside such quibbles to indulge in sequins and glitter after another week in a bleak world.

But just to go back to the irritations, let’s begin with the hosting. I will cast no clouds on Claudia Winklemen, who is a witty and engaging host, drawing out even the most reticent celebrity and having a the perfect quip to link into the next scene. Tess Daly, on the other hand, is clearly jealous of her co-host getting to be the funny one, and tries some scripted jokes herself. Sadly, she lacks the personality to carry it off. If she hoped post-retirement of Bruce Forsyth to become the lead presenter she must be disappointed; she is joint to Claudia at best.

Then there is the odd judging. All but Craig Revel-Horwood seem to be unable to locate the paddles that are below 5. To her credit, Motsi Mabuse has calmed down her judging and is better for it, not least as we are actually getting a proper critique. Angton du Beke is over-generous with his scores, but we do at least get a lovely bit of technical knowledge. The biggest frustration is for Shirley Ballas, whose scoring seems to fluctuate entirely on her personal opinion of the dancer rather than the dance. Pretty young women in particular fall foul of her.

Finally, you also feel sorry for some of the contestants. Unknown but good? Fine, you will get enough time for viewers to get to know you and you could even get the underdog narrative. Well-known but bad? Your fans will keep you in, unless you are Les Dennis, but he lost the ‘omg I can’t believe they are doing this’ to Krishnan Guru-Murthy.

But if you are bad and unknown? Don’t bother learning the route to the dance studio. There will be no love for you. Make that double if you have zero self-confidence. Nikita Kanda will barely be a blip in anyone’s memories.

Yet for all this the show is loved. Maybe it is because it is the balm to increasing autumnal evening, a dash of colour where everything is turning to grey. It is an easy watch and its charm has made it become quite revered. Any attempts by commercial broadcasters to copy it just look tacky. So yes, it has it’s irritants. But it is also the soothing cream.

Matthew eats… The Masked Singer

So I’m not going to lie, I have no idea if I have written on this show before. I probably have, so I apologise if I am rehashing anything, or if I’m even completely contradicting what I’ve said previously. But here it goes anyway.

The Masked Singer has become ITV’s January Saturday night event. It’s ideally suited to that post-Christmas dip. It’s light at a time when people are low and silly when any other kind of fun seems a long way off. If you need me to through the premise, here it is. Celebrities disguise themselves in costumes and perform songs. The aim is to guess who they are via video clue packages and their singing voice, although the latter is often disguised. Each week, one contestant is voted off and their identity is unveiled.

So as you have gathered it is hardly Mensa level entertainment. It is literally designed to take your mind off the dark nights. And it is actually enjoyable, so long as you can handle a large dollop of cheesiness in the presentation of the show. It is scripted pretty much entirely with puns and is, quite frankly, ridiculously loud.

The panel of judges is a fair mix. Jonathan Ross, Davina McCall and Mo Gilligan are all tolerable. Fourth member Rita Ora is less so, and mistakenly thinks being brash equals having a personality. Although to be fair, she is the source one of the shows best running gags, as she tries to make jokes that simply don’t work. I’m not entirely convinced her fellow panelists annoyance at her is fake either.

Joel Dommett is a reasonable host, although also falls into the trap of thinking shouting equals enthusiasm. Again though, he features on a decent running joke of being unable to make it across the stage without slipping thanks to his ridiculously buffed shoes. He could possibly exude more warmth, and his interactions don’t feel as natural as they could. I certainly would be reluctant to have him appear on something that involved dealing with the public. But he leans into the silliness of the show and just about avoids overselling it.

Is this amazing groundbreaking TV? No. It is a bit of froth that is in many senses instantly forgettable. But it also works. There is no sadness or anger, no grand point being made, nothing in it even for the winner. It is a distraction from the cold winter outside. And that’s all I want right now.

Matthew eats… The Masked Singer

There are moments where you just have to give into the madness. You spent so long sneering at it to to no avail so you end up joining in. It’s easier that way, as you no longer have to battle against the tide. So it is with me finally letting The Masked Singer into my life. Blame the fact that I am now required to be sociable with my other half on Saturday evening, rather than just disappearing into a quiet room

The premise, for anybody living under a rock, is that celebrities dress up in elaborate costumes and sing (or ‘sing’ as the case may be for the more vocally challenged). You then guess who it is, aided by clue packages. Each week, one identity is revealed, as the audience and judging panel whittle down their least favourite performers.

There are so many things that really should get under my skin about the show. Joel Dommett is an irritating host, full of cliched puns and scripted comments. The panel are also largely annoying, particularly Rita Ora, who clearly hasn’t got any better forming chemistry with co-stars since her disastrous stint on The X Factor. Add in bizarre audience voting decisions (shows like this will be what historians point to in the future when democracy fails) and the gladiatorial chanting as the celebrity is due to be unmasked then you have something that resembles either a dystopian nightmare or an extreme fever dream.

Yet it works. Dommett is actually the right host for the job, leaning into the show’s weirdness without making a complete joke of it. The panel are secondary on this, and Jonathan Ross does a good enough job of, like Dommett, reveling in the show’s eccentricities without overcooking it to make it enjoyable. It is quite cheesy, yet also somehow you don’t seem to care.

Above all else, you do end up getting involved. There is a weird thrill of seeing a former Wimbledon champion dressed as a set of bagpipes or a quite respectable pop star be uncovered as the real identity of a lion fish or poodle.

This is the sort of programming that makes the Reithian types froth at the mouth. It is silly, pointless and shallow. It does not educate or inform, and you cannot argue it makes you a better person for watching. But in an era of anger and division, 90 minutes of complete froth doesn’t go amiss. So give into it. It may be mad, but it also is the biggest salve to keep your sanity in this world out there.