Saturday night was Eurovision night. My favourite night of the year and my favourite tradition - better than Christmas, better than Easter, I'd even go so far as to say it's better than Pancake Day.
The Streatham Jury excelled itself this year - I crawled into bed at 7am on Sunday morning, and on close examination of my camera last night some bastard had taken photos of me passed out on the sofa after the Eurowheel of Doom had delivered up its 89th shot of pernod. I am so broken.
But it's a good broken.
The Streatham Jury excelled itself this year - I crawled into bed at 7am on Sunday morning, and on close examination of my camera last night some bastard had taken photos of me passed out on the sofa after the Eurowheel of Doom had delivered up its 89th shot of pernod. I am so broken.
But it's a good broken.
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