After foolishly getting quite excited about (and engaged with) the soul-sappingly predictable thing that was the general election, it's high time I turned my gaze from prosaic matters and focused on more important, magical …

Writing in Village (Feb 22nd, 2007) John Waters described how "hurtful and confusing" he'd found it when Joe Duffy read out (o'er the radio) Waters' lyrics for Ireland's Eurovision entry and "lined up a couple of cornerboys to slag them off."

While I part company with Mr. Waters on just about everything else he says, I couldn't help but feel some sympathy for his view that "without its melody, backing, arrangement and phrasing, a lyric is a naked thing, utterly devoid of its emotional content and context." Anyone who's ever rolled their eyes at ludicrous, pseudo-academic debates like "Is Dylan as good as Keats?", will probably admit that there’s a good dollop of truth buried in Waters' wounded complaints.

Having said all that, and acknowledging that I too pitched in with the cheap digs, Waters' words still stink to high heaven, even when reunited (through Dervish's performance) with their "emotional content and context". They did not, of course, stink much more badly than many (or any) of the lyrics on show in Helsinki tonight, but given Ireland's rock bottom placement (24th out of 24) it seems, to paraphrase the rats from Fraggle Rock, that "The Cornerboys have spoken".

Given that Ireland were only saved the ignominy of a nil pois catastrophe by the kindly (5 point) intervention of our loyal Celtic brothers Albania, it's reasonably likely that Mr. Waters is even now putting pen to paper, furiously criticising the canny "political" voting of Eastern Europe's pop lovers. If he's cross and cranky, he's not alone.

A quick glance at the BBC News "Have Your Say" pages reveals a mass outpouring of outrage and indignation (after the UK entry joined us in the competition's basement). A

Back in our conker-playing, football sticker-collecting days, my primary schoolmates and I were in clear and enthusiastic agreement as to the funniest thing ever dreamed up by humankind: The campfire farting scene in Blazing Saddles. It had no serious …

And so it ends. After 18 days of squinting at shifting, swirling, pixellated blobs of colour and light on the lousy bbc.co.uk feed, the World Snooker Championship packs away its balls and white gloves …

A few snippets from last weekend to reinvigorate a slumbering blog.

29/04/07 - 4.18 P.M.

I’m not a fan of Sundays, particularly heavy, sticky, oppressive Sundays like this one. "Muggy", I believe, is the mot juste, and cranky is how such days …