Before the 2010 Eurovision Song Contest commenced, I said that even if we* had an act which blew used 50 Euro notes out of their backside – and urinated the Elixir of Life for good measure – we’d end up stone cold last, or as near to it as made no odds.

Unsurprisingly, we did finish stone cold last.

And you have to say that the song wasn’t last place, dig-your-own-grave material. It was vacuous and tepid and we were never talking a winning performance, but it was demonstrably better than some of the bilge on offer from our more outlandish continental companions.

The issue, however, is that the good old United Kingdom is the hated man in Europe and the contest – for us at least – long since stopped being about the music. We’re on the periphery of the party, glass of wine in hand, trying not to look like Billy No-Mates, but the rest of the guests want nothing to do with us.

* “We” in this context is coming from someone who avoided watching the tripe of the Song for Europe, or whatever the damned thing is called, like the plague. Still, it’s cheap and easy ratings for the BBC.