Time stands still

It might be a perspex double piano but this is not Lady Gaga and Elton John. It's Romania, and they're 'Playing With Fire' apparently. Hope that piano's insured. The two singers look like they should be hosting a daytime talk-show, not belting out a dance ballad in a leather catsuit and bomber jacket combo. That's Eastern Europe for you.

Holy knitwear Batman, it's Russia. Looking like they just rolled out of a trawler net, they're a melancholy bunch and are switching between their native language and English. It's curiously melodic, and is one of the better songs of the evening - even if it makes me want to drink until I forget. Nice falsetto on the lead singer, but that could just be some kickback from the wind machine.

Armenia is represented by a young lady with gargantuan breasts - a smart move given the number of heterosexual men who religiously follow Eurovision. She's got cheap hair extensions, but to be honest, she could shave her head during the key change and nobody would notice. It's not every day you hear a song dedicated to an apricot stone. For which we should all be thankful.

Representing Germany - it's Lena. She's not really singing or dancing - it's like she's invented a new musical form. That's a lovely anchor tattoo on the inside of her bicep - she's officially the world's prettiest Popeye impersonator.

Another pretty lady, this time singing for Portugal. Dull piano ballad. We have a bad case of Evita-arms, like she's trying to read a broadsheet newspaper without smudging her nail varnish. Only two to go, and then Spain will be performing again because their first attempt was interrupted by an unruly audience member.

Our penultimate performance is from Israel, sung by a handsome young man with a very thin head. This is definitely the year of the forgettable ballad. There are a lot of phlegmy sounds, someone should have had a pack of Strepsils in his jacket pocket. Good grief, if you think this is hard to sit through, you should try blogging about it.

Come on Denmark - here's hoping you can end on a high note, and maybe more than about eleven beats-per-minute. This is written by Thomas G:son who is something of a Swedish songwriting legend, so it should be half-decent. The duo singing look like Myleene Klass and Michael Bolton's ghost. It ain't pretty, but it's OK as mid-eighties rock ballads go, like a Berlin b-side.

Well, that's your lot. Hope you enjoyed it as much as I did. Which isn't very much, but what else are you gonna watch on a Saturday night? Ant and Dec? Thanks for sticking with me through that - a problem shared and all that...

Miles to go before we sleep

In a splendid all-white display, here's a bunch of dancers who seem to be accompanying their dad on stage to represent Greece. Somebody needs to act his age and have a nice sit down. I'm sure there's a song in here somewhere, but it just sounds like a lot of erratic beats and Kevin Costner's pudgy brother shouting Opa! a lot.

Quick, go put on the kettle - it's Britain's turn. The song sucks like Gillian Taylforth - ironically entitled 'That Sounds Good To Me' (i.e. it doesn't). Josh is singing pretty well, but the backing singers couldn't carry a tune in a rucksack. They're screeching like freshly-neutered cats on an uncomfortable fence. The last note just breeched the Geneva Convention.

Another ballad. Hurrah. We're already on song 13 - isn't this just flying by? Here's a pretty lady from Georgia accompanied by two more shirtless men in white suits and very heavy guy-liner. This feels like the kind of performance that an over-earnest 14-year old drama student might choreograph, in between bouts of poetry-writing and self-harming. Speaking of which, where's that razor?

Turkey takes to the stage next, with an act that is successful outside of Turkey. That's how Dima Bilan managed to romp to victory a couple of years ago, despite having the worst song of all time. The singer is wearing an odd outfit - he looks like a pilgrim in fetish gear. Oooh, an angle grinder.

You know, you'd never guess that last year's winner was a violinist, given how many string instruments we've seen on stage this year. It's like when Bucks Fizz won in 1981 - for years after the Eurovision was like amateur strip search, with more ripped skirts than a footballer's hotel room. Albania have got a thumping dance number and some big hair. On the scale of awfulness, it's pretty low, therefore this viewer has a new favourite. Unfortunately these are kinds of songs that fall down the back of the sofa when people reach for the phone to cast their vote.

Iceland should do well, the gays have been loving their song for months now. It's like we're back in 1995. Where's that Corona CD? Hera Björk is wearing a big red dress that makes her look like a huge, damp lampshade. Huge key change, arms raised aloft, and a waft of poppers across the auditorium. the audience seemed to enjoy that - could this see a turnaround in the world's perception of Iceland?

There aren't too many people who can carry off a black hood, flesh-coloured dress and boots that look like they're made out of Lego. And Ukranian singer Alyosha isn't one of them. If you put Shakira, Fergie and Kelly Clarkson in a bag and gave them a good shake, you might get something a bit like this song. Or a bag full of sick. Same difference.

This is odd. French songs are usually as much fun as watching the intermission act, but this is chirpy dance pop. There aren't really any words, just a lot of booty shaking and jumping around. Someone's shirt came off but I missed it because of my dedication to the blog. Take note.

The music never dies

Moldova next, with a spinning electro-fiddle mullet extravaganza. Those are words you don't often see together. The lead singer has very special eye makeup, like she was peeking through someone's letterbox while they were spray-painting their door. They're all dancing like it's happy hour in the local gay bar, throwing the kind of moves not seen since Boyzone first debuted on the Late Late Show.

Here comes Cyprus, represented by a young Welsh man with a very hairy belly - I know because he lifted his shirt (not like that) to show a crudely scribbled message dedicated to his mum. Bless. It's a very soft rock ballad, but pleasant in an inoffensive sort of way. If you heard it in a dentist's waiting room, you wouldn't walk out.

Bosnia now, complete with a strobe lighting warning. The singer isn't very good at 'doing' anger - his forehead is strangely frozen, like he treated himself to a blast of botox before he went on stage. I've already forgotten it and it hasn't even finished yet. The backing singers look like they've got a progressive dinner party to get to.

Belgium must be cutting costs this year, with a man and a guitar. Singing about a man and a guitar. Don't go looking for subtext - this is Eurovision after all. Or did you think that Boom-Bang-A-Bang-Bang was about the Vietnam war. Oh, his trousers don't seem to fit - maybe he's got a job interview after this. Hope he gets it.

Serbia is rocking an awful haircut that wouldn't even be tolerated in Balamory. This is what headaches sound like. Thank God that's over.

It's time for Butterflies from Belarus. We just got a peek backstage and saw up close how much make-up the lead singer is wearing. I guess it's a he, but it's a close call. The women have really odd hair, like the applied their hairspray just as someone tested out the wind machine. Wow, butterfly wings and a key change - this is where the magic happens.

Niamh Kavanagh is back where she belongs, spilling out her dress for Ireland. From some angles she looks as though she's wearing stilts, or maybe it's just the worst-fitting outfit ever seen in HD. At least Ireland are taking it seriously for once - this beats Dustin the turkey puppet from a couple of years ago. If she crams any more key changes into this song, only dogs will be able to hear the ending.

Nul points

I'd like to say that the Eurovision Song Contest is the TV highlight of the year, and that it's all anyone's been talking about for the last eight weeks. But that would be a lie.

As the nation points its apathetic indifference at the gogglebox, we wait to see what sonic joys the Norwegians have in store for us tonight. The bookies' favourite is apparently Azerbaijan, but I'm not sure whether that's because of the song or the fact that a mis-spelled betting slip will be null and void if the punter wins. They'll be quids in.

According to Graham Norton's voiceover, 120 million people are watching right now, although they're probably also scouring pots, tidying the sock drawer and painting the architraves. Anything to distract them from the tuneless screaming, surreal choreography and awkward presenter links.

Alexander Rybak has just reprised his song from last year, complete with fiddle and a troop of chaotic dancers. He looked like a happy little goblin up there, but the song was memorably forgettable. We've got 25 songs to get through, so bite down hard on something and brace yourself for a spectacular of feverish cheese-dream proportions.

Let's kick off with Azerbaijan and their song Drip Drop. The singer looks like Dannii Minogue (original version with her first nose). The vocals are strong but flat, and there are some pretty blue outfits to distract from the random ballet dancer who's just appeared looking like an Italian waiter. Someone just turned on the wind machines - hang on to your false eye-lashes love.

Spain are up next, with a singer who looks like Sideshow Bob in a cheap suit. If you fell asleep on a carousel in a cheap fairground, this might be the music you'd hear as you slipped into REM state. The dancers are dressed like hideous dolls - I'm just waiting for Chucky to arrive and kill them all. A second singer has just arrived - maybe his bus was running late. Punctuality is very important when you're representing your country.

Here comes our host nation, Norway. Hope they haven't put too much effort in, given how much it's cost them to stage this one. Didrik Solli-Tangen is singing about sunsets behind mountains - epic. He's rather handsome in a Hollyoaks sort of way, but the song sounds like something Josh Groban would cough up after a night on the beers. He looks a little pleased with himself, even though his voice is wobbling like Beth Ditto on a treadmill. Key change and lighting effects, but no goosebumps. Maybe I'm dead from the neck down.