The Mass Masturbatory Dream of the Hitler Youth

Anything I write about this weekend is bound to sound smug and a little poncey. I did no work of literary importance (some would argue, including me on days of despondency, I never do any work of literary importance). I did no research. I did not even attempt to catch up on a few strands of outstanding business. I did nothing other than have a good time. Judged purely on levels of enjoyment, it was incredibly effective weekend.

In fact, it has been another Saturday and Sunday where the only things that have been less than perfect have been a mildly disappointing choice of wine, having to buy the Independent on Sunday rather than the Observer and the fact it was raining too much today to go walking in Hampstead. I could also add to that the strength of the GBK dip accompanying last night’s chunky chips made me wake up feeling as if a garlic-flavoured rat had died in my mouth, but when you have to stretch to those levels to gripe, you know things are better than good.

Better than good this weekend included watching Doctor Who on Sunday morning whilst munching brioche, eating a Cherry Ripe in bed as it poured down outside and laughing at the car crash of international politics and tackiness that is Eurovision.

Even without getting squiffy or resorting to absinthe, the 51st Eurovision was mildly hallucinatory. It was also relatively in scary in places. Most disturbing was the Norwegian entry, which appeared to be the mass masturbatory dream of the Hitler Youth made corporeal. It also sounded like the sort of pop music that would arise from 50 years of pseudo-Aryan volk-culture in the wake of a Nazi victory in Europe. I voted for the Lithuanian entry on the grounds that being a New Wave pastiche novelty record 25 years too late showed at least showed an engaging sense of irony.