tiffanys110

And, better than election night, the whole thing was over in a measly three hours and we came out of it with one conclusive winner Ghd pink.

I've long thought Eurovision, far from being the outdated and irrelevant cultural car crash many believe it to be, is actually a great, albeit distorted, barometer of our times.

It's like viewing the music industry through a circus mirror, or maybe a haze of morphine Ghd hair straighteners.

For starters, Lady Gaga references were all over the shop, which was no surprise.

It is only natural the woman who once performed on a giant toilet will find her spiritual home among the Boom Bang-a Bang clan.

Meanwhile, the Serbian entry presented a glimpse of a future where Jedward advertise GHD straighteners, while Spain gave us that most glorious of things, a stage invasion far more entertaining than the performance itself cheap Ghd mk4.

Far more worrying, though, are the acts you genuinely like.

It's just like clothes shopping on holiday, when the oddest items ever committed to Lycra suddenly start looking chic and interesting next to all the other dross.

You buy them, get them home, hold them up on British soil and realise you've purchased something Su Pollard might wear to clean the bath.

And so it was on Saturday, when I found myself listening to Belgian entry Me and My Guitar, saying "this is EXCELLENT. I am truly, deeply moved. I might have it as the first dance at my wedding".

Then there was our offering cheap cheap Ghd iv styler

By picking a song titled That Sounds Good to Me, I can only assume we've moved beyond national fondness for irony to a point where we're just handing the Continent a ready-made gag-on-a-plate.

Up and down Europe, people were sitting in front of their tellies saying "nah… too easy".

It didn't help they'd dressed him as a first-year Durham law student out on the razz (suit, semi-unbuttoned shirt, shiny, square-toed clown shoes), or that his backing dancers gave him the appearance of an embarrassed husband who's been pulled up onstage at Priscilla Queen of the Desert.

But the worst crime was choosing a song that just didn't sound like Britain.

There was no whine, no grumble, no shades of grey or threat of a rain shower or tinge of Marmite-infused melancholy.

With its cheery brand of Bublé-lite pop, it was like watching one's Dad try to pronounce items off a Spanish menu.

It smacked of trying to be something we aren't.

There might as well have been a bidet onstage cheap Ghd pink.

So, until we get to a point where election night features David Dimbleby in a sequinned catsuit, I'm not sure we'll ever be able to play the Eurovision game.

But, as I like to remind whoever will listen, year after year, it's okay – we had The Beatles.

They can never take that away from us.

The World of Lauren Bravo is published in the Herald and Gazette series every Thursday.