Congratulations

Seasoned viewers of my Alcúdia and Pollensa blog will be aware that there are certain annual events that are given particular prominence on that blog for no particular reason and, in the case of the Eurovision Song Contest, there is no reason for it to even be mentioned - ever, by anyone, anywhere - except of course it is hugely entertaining for all the wrong reasons - blatant xenophobia that even the North Koreans would be hard-pressed to match, appalling songs, appalling artists and for the excuse for travel guides with which the host cities hope to entice weak-brained weekenders. This year it's Belgrade, a place I recall, albeit with the softened memory of strong beer when I was there, as being as charmless as, oh I don't know, West Bromwich, and the only reason for this comparison is that the one time I went to West Bromwich it seemed to be smouldering. Mind you, I was only in Belgrade in the good old days of Tito, i.e. before Milosevic. Hmm. Probably not much better then.

Anyway, talk of one dictator leads me to another, and it probably has not escaped your attention that Spain's former hard man, General Franco, apparently conspired to rig the vote in 1968, thus denying the deity that is Cliff his chance of Eurovision heaven. The Generalissimo was seemingly under the impression that a bit of old-fashioned fascism wasn't necessarily in tune with the peace-and-love and right-on chimes of the time, so he set about using a tune in order to make totalitarianism groovy and, literally (through even more tourism), to give it its place in the sun. He could have gone about things differently, like changing the system, but he chose a bit of bribery and corruption instead. But I'm not sure that many, even in the year following the summer of love, paid much attention to Spain; they were too busy agonising over American imperialism in Vietnam. Those who did were probably those who had already discovered the costas and Majorca as places of considerable heat and considerable amounts of cheap cold drink. That there was a political system which was a quaint relic of what was otherwise a fairly shortlived phenomenon in Europe merely added to a sense of a country of "greasy" foreigners, which was how most people in Britain would have then perceived Spain: that, or as some kind of banana republic at the edge of Europe, albeit that it was most certainly not a republic.

Nevertheless, the Generalissimo sought to curry favour with European neighbours by, apparently, greasing their palms with pesetas (not that they would have gone very far) for TV shows which in return would guarantee votes for whatever trash Spain had in mind for the '68 Katie Boyle-athon. And this succeeded. Not only did Cliff come away with merely the silver, the "La-la-la" lilt had those yet to discover that summer holidays did not have to entail miserable wet afternoons and Watneys in Bognor, beating a path to the doors of the nearest travel agent to sample happy sunny afternoons and Watneys in Benidorm - or Arenal. I should know. 1969. It had to be Arenal.

So I have General Franco to thank for the first time in Majorca and also to thank him for preventing victory by what was, even by Cliff's standards, an affront to European musical culture. "La-la-la" may have been even more dire, but Cliff should have known better. But he didn't. And he lost. "Congratulations, General."

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