Results tagged “Eurovision” from GoFugYourself

VICTORY IN OUR TIME! We got our grubby hands on some Eurovision pictures, so we can share the assorted horrors of the international song contest with you. This is how the prospect of this post makes me feel:



Incidentally, this man is Greece's entry, Sakis Rouvas. His Wikipedia page describes him as both a musical act AND a former pole-vaulter. He also reportedly ripped open his shirt as part of his performance.... and yet he's seriously one of the more BORING people from the night.

For instance, this is NOTHING compared to the thunder brought by Albania:

The greatest and saddest time of year for us is when the Eurovision Song Contest comes around: Great because we get to see photos of the random international singers wearing, like, houses and beer steins and monster death masks, but sad because we don't get to WATCH any of it from the comfort of our living room couches (I'm one of those quaint types that still hates watching stuff online), nor hear the juicy rumors resulting from the fact that it's also essentially a big drunk fiesta that even involves the Eurovision people setting up their own nightclub for a week.

Some years, our image sources don't even have the pictures, so we can't always share the glory with you. But this year, a few rehearsal photos for the semi-finals have appeared, so I figured we might as well celebrate now just in case we can't do it later. Plus, how could I possibly resist sharing this?


[Photo: Splash News]

This woman, Susanne Georgi, is the Andorran entry. She is also 32, which is not maybe what you'd expect to hear given that she's dressed like the Disney Princess version of one of the Peldon sisters.

I hope she gets hammered and hooks up with this man:

According to Variety, the scribes behind the Borat movie just got signed to make a comedy film about the Eurovision Song Contest.

To that we say: Oh HELL yes.

We're not entirely sure there needs to be any kind of parody -- just turn the cameras on, and the funny seems to write itself -- but that doesn't mean we're not thrilled that this bastion of musical lunacy will get a big-screen tribute. The clothes will be a marvel. And we can only pray that the freedom of being able to create fictional countries will bring the glories of Moldavia back from its post-Dynasty hiatus from existence. Maybe Joan Collins can play the musical act representing that fine fake nation, performing a stirring tribute -- complete with interpretive dance, a lion, some jugglers, and of course Carrot Top -- to the tragic wedding-day massacre after which the entire Dynasty cast almost took an eternal dirt nap. [Thank god beautiful Steven Carrington lived, because without him, we would have no Horned-Rim Glasses on Heroes, and that would be the real tragedy.]

Hopefully the movie will drum up interest in broadcasting the original. Not that we don't want the film itself to be awesome. Clearly, we will try to procure some work as extras by shooting audition tapes of ourselves wearing aluminum foil, or carrying swords made of red-velvet cake, or slapping people in the face with slices of bologna -- you know, typical Eurovision backup-dancer stuff -- to prove that we're qualified. But mostly we just want BBC America to realize that nobody will get the movie unless they have watched the show in all its neverending, arduous, pervy glory. We need to hear Terry Wogan getting progressively drunker while being asked to commentate for the BBC's telecast, and without having to stare at our laptop screens.

It's that time of year again: time to wonder with a hefty dose of bitterness, and more than a trace of righteous rage, why we are missing out on all the fun just because we live in America.

I am referring, of course, to the Eurovision Song Contest. Just because we're not invited to the party -- just because we're cursed with geographic undesirability -- doesn't mean we shouldn't be allowed to press our flushed, thrilled faces against the window and gawk at the delicious theatrical, colorful, cross-dressing antics happening inside. Why, this year alone, the semi-finals featured sword-wielding backup dancers, male nudity, a rock opera called "Vampires are Alive," and a man who started chucking his own underpants around the stage. And while many of us simply call that "Tuesday," there are still loads of people for whom this is a glorious, intriguing novelty.

In my heart, it's impossible to top the brilliance of last year's winner, Lordi, a man disguised as a monster whose battleaxe conveniently shoots off fireworks. Indeed, this year's winner -- some short-haired balladeer who resembles nothing so much as an androgynous Winnie Cooper-- neglected to give good photo. Blessedly, the second-place finisher, transvestite singer Verka Serduchka (a.k.a. a man named Andriy), stepped up to the plate in honor of his/her native Ukraine.

I desperately hope our Ukrainian readers are sitting up tall in their seats going, "Yes! If I ever have to explain the essence of Ukraine to American bitches, THIS is the way!" Were Elton John to perform in Oz, these hybrids between the Tin Man and the Village People would be his entourage. No. 18 up there looks in serious danger of splitting his mylar pants. But who would notice? There's a gold-dipped man in knee-socks playing a sparkly accordion and a human disco-ball with a star hat singing lead vocals. Who's even paying attention to No. 18's trousers?

Danish delight Drama Queen, also a cross-dresser, went with a more understated approach.

Every year at about this time, all of Europe goes insane for the Eurovision song contest, cheering for each country's entry into what could be termed a one-night international American Idol marathon with more language barriers, loud and drunken reveling, culture clashes, crazy clothes, and camp value.

What happens is, the participating countries hold their own national contests to determine what musical act will represent them at Eurovision, and then (as of 2004, anyway) there is first a semi-final and then a final hosted by the country that last won. There is some sort of voting process that I believe is viewer-driven. Famous past winners: ABBA with "Waterloo," and Celine Dion, singing for Switzerland for some reason. Although the genius of the contest is better examplified by the Belgian act that came in second in 2003 by singing a song in an imaginary language. It's awesome. Just try and imagine Katharine McPhee getting anywhere by standing before Simon Cowell and crooning in tongues.

The reason for my rambling: I am devastated that nobody in the U.S., not even BBC America, televises any of Eurovision. Because that is why I missed the live display -- as opposed to the welcome yet not-quite-the-same blurry YouTube version -- from this year's Finnish winner, Lordi:

Lordi dresses itself -- primarily with the aid of reindeer fur -- as different monsters from different eras. Although presumably even the undead have an enduring sense of patriotic pride, as evidenced by the zombie whose face is rotting off, yet whose head is adorned with a kicky little Finland top hat, as if he is threatening here to break into a series of cabaret-style high kicks before he flosses his teeth with your intestines. And Mummy Of The Bride over there just seems so endearingly thrilled to be clutching that bouquet of spring life in his decaying arms. Fantastic.

Crushingly, iTunes hasn't figured out how to let me buy things in Euros (please, iTunes, get on that immediately), or else I'd be all over Lordi's album -- titled, of course, The Arockalypse, and filled with kicky death metal songs entitled "The Night Of The Loving Dead," "Chainsaw Buffet," "Bringing Back The Balls To Rock," "It Snows In Hell," and of course the Eurovision-winning tune, "Hard Rock Hallelujah." And Finland is going insane for these guys -- four different versions of "Hard Rock Hallelujah" are in the Finnish iTunes Top 10 Songs list. I absolutely cherish the idea that the Finnish people want the world to see five huge guys dressed up as punk Skeletors and think, "Oh, man, that is so Finland." I secretly -- okay, not so secretly -- love Lordi deeply even though they look completely insane.

By contrast, here is what contestant Jane Comerford from Germany wore:

She is Glinda the Good Witch as portrayed by the ghost of Tammy Wynette (which, if that were true, would at least give her something to talk about with Lordi: death). Jane is part of a band called Texas Lightning singing a country song. She is actually Australian, too, which just makes me love that fug hotspot even more. I'm unclear on why exactly she is representing the Germans, but that's the best thing about Eurovision: Who cares? All I know is, I never trust a woman with marabou straps unless her name is Alexis Carrington Colby Dexter Rowan and she is threatening to take away my South China Sea oil leases.

Severina, the Croatian entry, opted for a marginally less modest ensemble.

Lil' Kim would be proud. Then she'd be hopping mad, having been beaten at her own game by a randy brunette singing with four members of a Croatian boys' choir. Then she'd punch the wall of her cell, and then she'd sit through a few weeks of prison-sponsored rage therapy, wherein she would learn to conquer her rising bile not through violence, but by vowing to call Severina's stylist as soon as she is sprung from the slammer and hire her to create a wardrobe for the Lil' Kim freedom tour.

The point of my rambling entry is, I suppose, that whatever your particular tastes are in fug, Eurovision will cater to them. And that is precisely why it's so upsetting that we don't get to see it ourselves in the beautiful clarity of broadcast TV. Sorry, but broadband video snippets aren't quite the same. Where are the random, barely programmable cable stations when you need them? Snap to it, MTV9! Come on, VH-2! I can TiVo it if you burn it off in the wee hours. Just please don't deny us a place at the fug feast.

I think that says it all, don't you?

I wonder if they do weddings. Brangelina, any interest?