Apparently, this Saturday the pain of Eurovision is celebrated, a tacky festival that reminds me of that speech by General Patton, reintegrated into World War II in 1943 after slapping a wounded soldier. He anticipated what the Germans would think of the return: "That son of a bitch Patton again!"

Once again this European festival of joy, the cuchipanda and the acrobats who take over the stage to hide their musical limitations!

I have nothing personal against the Eurovision Song Contest, which is to music what the series is to the seventh art. Worst ways I know of to spend a Saturday night! I can understand that it is funny to see how the Moldovans put the Armenians to shame –it is an assumption– or the Spanish and the Portuguese reissue the Iberian pact.

I already understand that a Saturday night with Eurovision hides marital boredom, allows you to scrounge some pizzas at the home of some Eurovision geek and even make sexist, nationalist or Scandinavian-phobic comments that in any other situation no one would dare to make. It even allows you to miss Abba, who, like Real Madrid, always come back!

The problem is that this year, it seems, Europe feels compelled to pay tribute to Ukraine, represented by the unarmed band of the Kalush Orchestra, whom we are supposed to vote for in order to show, from the sofa, that our hearts and our points are with the people attacked by Russia (I imagine that they will not participate, a pity because it would have allowed, finally! missed Georgie Dann).

Will a potential Eurovision victory for Ukraine change the course of the war? I imagine not, but I would not rule out that some commentator sees an injection of morale and a show of empathy, value on the rise, in such a toast to the sun. The hypothesis has a fast-paced climax because if Ukraine triumphs, it would have to organize the 2023 Eurovision Song Contest, perhaps among the photogenic ruins of Mariúpol or Borodianka.

The magic of Eurovision!