I AM thinking of buying a sparkly jacket. I am going to Liverpool tomorrow to join in with the final of the Eurovision Song Contest. I won’t be in the actual Arena with the Euro-stars, but I will be in a hotel near by, watching on a giant screen, glass of fizz in hand; so a bit of sparkly attire might be appropriate.

The news of this has taken my friends by surprise. When I received an invitation to a flat-pack performance of La Bohème in our church, and turned it down because of Eurovision, my hostess at first thought I was joking. You can see why.

Eurovision has been a bit of a joke since the days when Cliff Richard was beaten by a Spanish song whose lyrics, as I recall, consisted chiefly of “la, la, la” — and when it was rumoured that several of the juries who voted for it had been bribed by General Franco. Mind you, the UK jury once awarded nul points to Abba when they sang “Waterloo”. So these things cut both ways.

Indeed, the whole enterprise was downgraded to such a reductio ad absurdum song that, a few years ago, a team of Dutch academics used early Artificial Intelligence algorithms, based on the melodies and rhythms of 200 Eurovision classics, to create a number of songs, one of which mystifyingly produced the lyrics “Kill the government, kill the system.”

Until recently, UK viewers regarded the whole naff spectacle through the lens of delicate irony perfected by the late, great Sir Terry Wogan. When a British academic conducted a survey (which found that people living in Eurovision countries were more likely to be satisfied with their lives than in countries that don’t take part), the general response was to deride the myopia of academia rather than to exult in the song contest.

Irony appears to have spread outside the BBC: this year, the contest famous for its cheesy songs is being sponsored by, inter alia, the cream-cheese-maker Philadelphia.

In part, that is a sign that Eurovision is now a big-money enterprise. Tickets for the final sold out within half-an-hour of going on sale. Liverpool is hoping that the competition will bring a £40-million boost for the city — which I can well believe, when I look at the outrageous mark-up on the drinks menu at my hotel.

But it is also because Liverpool is hosting the contest on behalf of last year’s winner, Ukraine (Television, 20 May 2022). The idea of doing something to foster European unity takes on a new gravity when the continent is being torn apart by a terrible war on a scale not seen since 1945.

Liverpool is twinned with Odesa. All through this week, joint events have been taking place in Liverpool and Kyiv. In the Royal Albert Dock, bars and restaurants are serving recipes by Ukrainian chefs. Twelve illuminated singing nightingales — Ukraine’s national bird — have appeared in the city. Sandbags have been placed around city monuments, in emulation of those routinely placed to protect statues in Ukraine, where Russian drone attacks have increased in recent days.

Eurovision is now a gesture of defiance and of solidarity. We will cheer for the UK’s entry, but we’ll cheer even more loudly should Ukraine win again.