I woke this morning in a hot sweat. Well, I say “woke”. I came to from an experimental blend of Moruga Scorpion Chilli and crow adrenaline. I’m using “woke” to mean the point at which I managed to finger my left eye back into its socket, and became aware of the soft hooting noise that was coming from my face.
1) I hadn’t complied with competition deadlines
2) I had no idea what country I was from
3) It wasn’t so much a song as three swear words
4) My balls, as feverishly as I was playing them, could not be considered a musical instrument
Instead, I took to hurling myself at the windows of the Eurovision venue. Baku in summer is clammier than an incontinent arsehole, and a profuse and oily sweat coated my skin and infused the fabric of my jeans and T-shirt. As night fell, this had dried into a foul-smelling tacky paste. In retrospect, this must be how I stuck to the window, where I remained, smiling benevolently, for all 42 songs.
Inside, I could see Loreen, squatting in the Sweden pen. Her hair was billowing like a carrier bag full of farts, and she was clapping sarcastically with her elbows at the other acts, to the delight of her entourage. I tried to manipulate her breasts my blinking hard at them, but after ten minutes of failure I was forced to that admit that Loreen’s breasts weren’t subject to the effect in quantum physics by which observing an object alters its state. Quite simply, Loreen’s tits were photon-proof.
The thought of elementary particles bouncing without consequence off Loreen’s bosom caused me to moan erotically and headbutt the window. It finally shattered during Ireland’s vote, and I landed in Denmark’s video paddock. I reached into Denmark’s basket of complimentary Gummi Toksvigs and lobbed a topless, laughing edible Sandi Toksvig at Loreen’s head.
Loreen turned to face me, her lips pressed together so firmly that they flattened out into an alluring skin beak. It was all the encouragement I needed. I shook a weeping Humperdinck from my shin, threw all my clothes at Loreen, and raced them there. It was a dead heat, and I arrived in the Sweden enclosure as clothed as when I’d left. Always the gentlemen, I cleaned my teeth with the slice of lemon in Loreen’s drink, and leant in with my lips puckered. I tasted the familiar tang of lemony crow adrenaline, and the next forty-seven hours will have to be pieced together from CCTV footage.
Well, enough dwelling on the past. I’ve got a bed with a human-shaped lump in it to expertly service with all my accumulated sexual savoir-faire. I think I’ll play it safe. Work myself to the vinegars,Work myself to the vinegars, whip off the covers and blort on whatever’s there. Back in a mo.
It was Jedward. They seemed pleased enough, but you can never tell with them two.
By Jon ‘Log’ Blyth
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