The Eurovision Song Contest: the indigestion-inducing triumph of stomach-turning kitsch.

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Let's be clear right away: I have nothing against kitsch. Sometimes it's even fun. I also have nothing against "low" culture, i.e., popular culture, and I'm certainly not against entertainment. But there's a limit. Too much is too much .

Is this über-competition still about real songs? I mean, the real deal. Sometimes I just long for a man with a guitar, baring his soul, or a woman behind the piano, making your dreams come true. Being moved by genuine emotion. Or a group that rocks the house, so you can't sit still. But no, Eurovision is all about "the whole package": lighting effects, flashy visuals, ridiculous costumes and gadgets, unnecessary stunts, and attention-grabbing gimmicks. Francis Bay, come back! And sorry, Peter VDV, but the commentary doesn't make it any better.

I remember two years ago, he made an announcement about an artist with the interesting information that his cleaning lady wore pink suspenders. This is even going too far for Dag Allemaal. An insult to my intelligence. I can already hear you thinking: "That man thinks too highly of himself." Hmm, no, I'm open to anything. I'm just trying to explain why the Eurovision Circus and I aren't a match. "Don't watch then," you say? You're right, I have to do that to save myself the frustration. But the problem is the lowering of standards and the drastic downsizing of culture and entertainment that is becoming increasingly pathetic. And I want to understand everything.

Those presenters constantly harping on about "What a great show this is!" Self-righteousness, self-aggrandizement. Two years ago, I found Hooverphonic a breath of fresh air with their understated performance and a song that really hit the mark: "You're in the wrong place" (sic). You'd expect the panel of judges to gasp for breath after some of those visually stunning, deafeningly flashy, spectacular numbers that flash so brightly they mask the song itself. And then there are the costumes; some look like they've come straight out of a carnival parade. You're left shattered, gasping for breath, with massive indigestion. And apparently, we can't live without bare bottoms and plunging necklines.

The presenters look like they've stepped straight out of Barbie, with their meaningless, repetitive cackles. What's next? The Full Monty? Gaping vaginas? No, I'm not a moralist, far from it. Anyone who knows me knows that. But what else can be done? We've already had a woman with a beard. We've also seen a horde of zombies or wild cavemen, and I could go on and on. Even in Belgium, there used to be more fuss about the knee-swing, the Sergiosalto, or Geike's Swarovski dress. Always searching for something that hasn't been done yet. Low-brow effects. Non ho l'Eta, Poupée de Cire, All Kinds of Everything... all that is a thing of the past, a distant memory. That goes without saying. But now it seems that lighting companies, image projectors, costume designers, makeup artists, hairdressers, acrobatic dancers, and gimmick creators have the upper hand.

Popular entertainment is fine, but this televised, over-budgeted marketing and bam-in-your-face event is drifting further and further away from what it should actually be about: a good song, a strong voice, and a great performance. Because let's be honest... I mentioned it before: indigestion. Next year we'll get more of the same, only bigger, more expensive, more "spectacular?" God help us. And now, quickly, some Andreas Scholl .