Watching the Eurovision is torture. Not because it is so cheesy or that every performer is incapable of singing without multiple dramatic air-grabs. It is torture because it should be me up there.
You see, I should have been a singer-songwriter. Everything about my childhood pointed to ‘popstar in the making’. I did a lot of dancing and acting. I needed to be the centre of attention in every situation. I entered every talent show that I happened to hear word of, even if I was not eligible to enter (“I know it’s an all-boys tap dance Fred Astaire look-a-like competition, but pleeease?!). And I was constantly writing ‘lyrics’, which I can now refer to as ‘bad poetry’.
I was made to be that member of an unsuccessful girl group who wore dungarees backwards and said funny thing during MTV news interviews, like “I’m really into orange eyeshadow right now.”
But alas I never could become the singer I was destined to be because, unfortunately, I was cursed with the terrible affliction of having no musical ability.
“That doesn’t stop Cheryl Cole, why should it stop you?” I hear you cry. But no, I am such a terrible singer that I couldn’t even get away with being the Posh Spice of a band. And a life of lip-syncing sounds a bit hollow.
I crave the kind of Adele-moment where I’m singing something so gut-wrenchingly beautiful and relatable that not only do I have tears streaming down my face, and every member of the audience is wailing, but my pianist is crying so hard that his fingers can’t keep up with the music because the piano keys are so wet with his tears. But, unfortunately for everyone, that will never happen.
The world will never hear the five songs I wrote when I was eleven all called Betrayer, because I thought that title made me sound clever. The world of pop will never be rocked by me yodelling into a microphone on Top Of The Pops. I will never get to star in a music video where a gay backup-dancer licks sweat off my arm as I snarl at the camera. This is something I will never get over. I refuse to accept that among the things I will never be, including surgeon, coal miner and patient, I can add ‘popstar’ to the list.
So although I love Eurovision with all my heart, a part of me seethes in jealousy as they prance around the stage wafting their arms in the air as though they are drowning in the wind-machine-induced-cyclone.
To make myself feel better about the whole thing I invited my friend Emily over to watch the glory-fest and made a feast to stuff into my mouth whenever I felt the urge to belt out a flat note.
Because the only way to get to grips with knowing your dream is never going to come true is to eat yourself happy. Which is why my mouth is always full of hummus. It makes it difficult to talk but it keeps me merry.
Until next year Eurovision. Until next year, you big ball of glittery hellish heaven.