Eurovision Song Contest
The Eurovision Song Contest is a poem, a stink, a grating noise, a quality of light, a tone, a habit, a nostalgia, a dream. The Eurovision Song Contest is the gathered and scattered, tin and iron and rust and splintered wood, chipped pavement and weedy lots and junk-heaps. Its contestants are, as the man once said, “Whores, pimps, gamblers and sons of bitches,” by which he meant Everybody. Had the man looked through another peep-hole he might have said, “Saints and angels and martyrs and holy men,” and he would have meant the same thing.
(Well OK, so Steinbeck did not write that about the ESC.)