Tonight, I’m going to a small party. We’ll eat, drink, and chat while 25 songs play in the background. As the night goes on, we’ll tune in more closely for the finale, when the world votes and someone wins a trophy. Yes, it’s Eurovision time.
For as long as I can remember, Eurovision has been a regular part of my spring, not because I take it seriously, but because I don’t. Or maybe I take it seriously in a not-so-serious way, if that makes sense. But this year feels a little different.
I remember watching Johnny Logan, Bucks Fizz, and Bardo (still my favourite) back in the 1980s. By the 90s, when Ireland kept winning, we’d throw parties in our university flats—mostly as an excuse to drink and laugh at the bad songs. That was the fun of Eurovision.
In the years since then, it’s got bigger. More countries, qualifying rounds, and adjacent cultural showcases. And, for the host country, a week or more of events, stadium-filling crowds, excitement, and expense.
Back in the 80s and 90s, the big Eurovision controversy was what we called “political voting”—the idea that countries voted for their neighbours and friends instead of the best song. Terry Wogan talked about it more and more, especially after the UK got its first nul points in 2003, and it became the main story in the British media. By 2008, I was frustrated enough to write something in response. The Scandinavians had always voted for each other. We always expected Ireland to vote for the UK, and vice versa. It wasn’t corruption; it was just neighbourliness, shared musical tastes, and cultural ties. Eurovision academics (yes, they exist) have mostly agreed, finding that what looks like political vote-trading is usually honest voting based on quality and cultural closeness, not politics. Greece and Cyprus giving each other twelve points is no more suspicious than Ireland and the UK doing the same. As I called it then, it was “wonderfully silly entertainment in the best sense.”
Maybe, as we get close to the 70th show, that old innocence is gone. In 2021, I missed the show, but when I got home from dinner, I learned James Newman didn’t get a single point. In 2022, Sam Ryder’s Spaceman brought us a fantastic second place. Then, in 2024, I was annoyed to see people online go back to the usual complaints after Olly Alexander’s Dizzy didn’t do well, even though we almost won just two years earlier.
But 2026 in Vienna is a whole new situation. Five countries — Spain, Slovenia, Iceland, Ireland, and the Netherlands — have withdrawn from the competition (and, in some cases, won’t be broadcasting it) in protest at Israel’s inclusion, representing the largest politically motivated withdrawal in Eurovision’s history. The 2024 winner, Nemo, returned their trophy after Israel was cleared to participate. There is military-style security around the venue. There is organised booing whenever the contest’s executive supervisor appears on screen. Broadcasters cited a “blatant double standard” by the EBU, drawing comparisons to the swift 2022 suspension of Russia. I don’t know if I agree or not, but it’s a serious argument, and serious arguments are what Eurovision was never meant to be about.
The difference from our old complaints is striking. What we called “political voting” was really just people feeling warmly toward their neighbours. That kind of politics isn’t really politics; it’s just being human. This year, politics means something else. The contest is being asked to judge a war and decide whether singing for three minutes makes someone complicit.
I still believe in the silliness of Eurovision, in our cupcakes and cocktail menus and the terrible interval acts. But I find myself thinking back to chiding Sir Terry Wogan for losing his sense of humour over Denmark voting for Sweden. How quaint that all seems. How I wish that were still the most political thing about it.
