Mrs X has always loved the Eurovision Song Contest, from the days when you could win by just having an easy-to-remember name like Lulu or Dana or Dana International.
If you were none of these you could just take your shoes off, show your bunions and be laughed at like Sandie Shaw. Or take your skirt off like each girl in Bucks Fizz. Or be Cliff Richard.
Back then it was judged on the music and performance, and gimmicks and camp frivolity, instead of now when judges and other nations want to grovel to their pals. She remembers her excitement watching the final and running round in circles. Not because of Eurovision but because she had a scooter when she was very young.
One of her legs is stronger than the other so when she ran or rode a bike, she just went round in circles. Mrs X still does it when she’s excited – you know, really excited. Nah, haven’t seen her that excited in a while.
However, she still does it when she is angry. Our health regime was put on hold for Eurovision. Although we mostly now eschew chocolates and toffees and instead chew nuts and spinach, there are some events you just have to celebrate with a nice bottle of red.
On Saturday night Eurovision in Tel Aviv promised a glitzy soirée, more political bias and general awfulness towards the UK. Oh, and a lady from the 1980s called Madonna, or as some of us Hebrideans knew her, Murdina.
So I said I would get the messages. “And I might even pick up a bottle of that pinot we like,” I said, knowing that would mean brownie points for someone in the Maciver household.
In the supermarket, after choosing the nibbles and dips, what did I espy on special offer but a bottle of pinot? That’s the one for me, I thought. It went straight into the basket before I raced along Sandwick Road thinking I am up for major kudos when I get home. Alas, not so.
The next word on the label after pinot was grigio. Funny foreign brand names, eh? However, I forgot, or maybe did not know, that greeshio, to give grigio its Great Bernera interpretation, does not mean red in Italian.
Nope. Grigio does not mean white, either, but grey. That’s what Italians call wine that is, er, not red. Grey? It is not about the colour of the actual wine but is named after that lovely grape which has a grey-blue hue.
Herself was livid. She went on and on about her giving me just one task. One job and I blew it. Not my fault. It wasn’t Italian I did in school but French. Pardon moi, madame. As far as getting the points for her favourite red wine was concerned, how did I do? Nul points. She was circumnavigating the living room rug like a dog chasing its tail while shouting: “You had one job, just one job, just one job . . .”
After that, events in Tel Aviv could only be a bonus. The Czech Republic fielded a boy band called Lake Malawi. They sounded as if they were from Essex. A bald dentist from San Marino sang a song which just sounded like Na, Na, Na, which he claimed to have written in five minutes. Really? Na, Na, Na way.
I was confused and then mesmerised by Australia – a lassie in a hat with spikes. I bet if you plugged that hat into the back of our telly it would pick up more channels than the one in the roof. Then she and her mates began to slowly sway in a CalMac ferry kind of way. Ooer. I thought to myself that the Pinot Grigio must be quite strong.
Then I noticed Mrs X was going round in circles and shouting that the Aussies had poles going up their skirts. Of course, I wasn’t trying to figure out where those poles were going. I just thought their song was catchy. It was a cross between yodelling and the whoops you hear from girls in Stornoway late on a Saturday. “Yodel-hey whoop-whoop-whoop. Take another selfie. Yodel-hey whoop-whoop-whoop.”
And what a disappointment Madonna was. I could not believe it. How could she? She was not as I remember. She was flat. And she didn’t sing very well, either.
Radio presenter Scott Mills apparently joked about one of the contestants having an uncanny resemblance to Lorraine, of morning TV fame. He got laldies for that from Lorraine. The queen of the mid-morning box had a go at him on Twitter, and everything.
For the last few years I have been jesting in this column about Lorraine’s uncanny resemblance to another star, one who works at Stornoway Airport.
I shall not mention her name again, as I too got laldies from her for doing that. Aw, she is so nice – my dear friend at the airport, I mean. Really lovely, she is. And she is forgiving. Very, very forgiving. Exactly like Lorraine, in fact.
