Eurovision 2025: A Glorious, Glitter-Soaked Mess Many Simply Can't Escape

Somewhere between a diplomatic summit, a bad acid trip, and a flaming roller disco lies Eurovision — that annual fever dream where Europe (and random tagalongs like Australia) pretend that unity can be achieved through wind machines, key changes, and someone from Moldova in a space suit playing an electric flute.

This year, the madness descends upon Basel, Switzerland — land of neutrality, fondue, and now, presumably, flaming piano solos and Albanian power ballads with choreography that looks like someone’s nan trying to do tai chi on a trampoline.

Let’s not pretend we watch it for the music anymore. Eurovision hasn’t been about songs since about 1973. These days, it’s three hours of “What in the glittery hell am I watching?” followed by an hour of painfully slow voting that reveals more about global politics than the United Nations ever could. And we eat it up with a spoon.

The music itself? Mostly sounds like it was generated by ChatGPT under duress. You’ve got lines like “Together we fly through fire of dreams, unity explode!” belted out by someone who looks like they lost a bet at Burning Man. There’s always a guy with a smoke machine who thinks he’s summoning spirits, a woman in an LED dress powered by the tears of her exes, and dancers who flail like they’ve been tasered mid-zumba.

And let’s not forget the ballads. Sweet mother of suffering, the ballads. Every year, someone turns up barefoot, in a fog of dry ice, singing to a fictional lover who either died, left them, or turned into a metaphor for Europe’s fractured identity. It’s always heartfelt. It’s always pitchy. And it always ends with a key change so dramatic it could tear open the fabric of space-time.

Then there's the commentary. We used to have Terry Wogan – the man could disembowel a performance with one eyebrow and a sip of sherry. Now we’ve got polished hosts trying to act excited while pretending not to notice that the Icelandic entry just licked a flaming baguette while singing a techno version of their national anthem.

Malta, bless our hopeful little hearts, approaches Eurovision like it's the bloody Olympics. We hold auditions that last longer than most marriages. We send off singers like battle-hardened champions and then act shocked when we come 22nd because, shock horror, people voted for their neighbours instead. Every year, we scream at the screen, "Why didn't Belgium give us any points?!" Maybe because we sent someone dressed as a golden moth singing in broken English on top of a rotating hamster wheel?

And don’t even get me started on the voting. Eurovision voting is less about musical merit and more about unresolved historical grudges and holiday alliances. Greece and Cyprus swap 12 points like they’re passing a joint at a wedding. The UK, fresh out of friends and still smelling faintly of Brexit, usually ends up with a big, fat zero. Meanwhile, Malta gives 12 points to Australia, because we’re just that kind of weird.

Despite all of this — or because of it — we watch. We scream. We tweet. We pretend we’re above it, but deep down we know it’s the closest thing we have to a European religion. Eurovision is ridiculous, over-the-top, politically suspect, and often completely unlistenable. But it’s ours. It’s chaos with sequins. It’s diplomacy through dance. It’s the only night when you can shout “SING, YOU SPARKLY POLISH VAMPIRE!” and no one even blinks.

So here’s to Eurovision 2025. May the key changes be high, the costumes unhinged, and the voting as bitterly hilarious as ever. And Malta — don’t worry. We’ll be back next year. With a bigger wind machine. A more confusing outfit. And probably a live octopus.

Because we’re not here to win. We’re here to traumatise Europe into submission.