When in Rome

There is only one excuse surely that can allow a guy in a kilt, representing Greece, to grope, fondle, hug enthusiastically and gurn for the camera, a guy in a bedsheet toga, representing Italy; a Eurovision party...

As the British part of the local expat community we do feel it our responsibility to induct those non European expats into the slightly bizarre world of Eurovision and this was the second such party. Every family attending chooses a country to suppport and then comes dressed as appropriately and bearing food from that country, this does necessitate listening to as many of the entrants as possible in order that you are not totally embarassed on the night by your adopted country's catwalling.

We went as France, I would have done the patriotic thing and been the U.K. but Bonnie's overuse of fillers put me off and I opted for France. I had listened to a few of the songs before making my decision, or at least I listnened to as many as I could before my ears started to bleed - if you don't believe me you should listen to the Romanian and he made it through the semis into the final!

It was a fun evening, but now we are left with a problem. In Eurovision the winning country hosts the following year's festivities and so it should be for our expat do too, except that Denmark won, and no-one had chosen to represent Denmark...

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