There was an exciting announcement this week when our entry for the UK’s Eurovision Song Contest winner was revealed.

The exciting bit is, get this, that apparently not only are we deemed to be in with a chance of actually winning with one Ms Molly Smitten-Downes but the danger of achieving humiliation across Europe by scoring nil point has virtually been ruled out.

The good news, so they say, is that this year we’re not rolling out one of our much loved, once-was-great artists or a novelty act, we’re trying another tactic – raw talent.

I don’t know a thing about her and I haven’t yet heard a single note she’s ever sung, and it won’t come as any great surprise if I don’t until the night of the contest, but I’m already waving my flag for her.

Despite growing up in a family that watched the contest as religiously as the Morecambe and Wise Christmas show, it never truly held any real magic for me until a few years ago. Now I love it.

If you had told me at the age of 20 how much I would look forward to the event in later years I probably still wouldn’t be talking to myself.

It is glorious for its complete and utter campness and for the hours of opportunity to comment constructively – oh okay, make catty comments – on exotic prey.

To enjoy the spectacle properly though, you have to make sure there are no hormonal young people in the immediate vicinity.

Like myself at that age, teenagers tend to be idealistic, self-righteous and politically correct. The mere hint of any unfair criticism is not only met with sighs, exchanged glances and rolled eyeballs but also with snapped verbal retorts and challenges.

Familiar haughty comments range from “Well, I actually think he’s a great dancer” and “Her bum does so not look big in that. Really, why would you even say that?” to “Well, maybe you should consider entering yourself next year”.

Of course they’re absolutely right, but they do seem such enormous killjoys. But I remember being frustrated by my grandmother’s critical running commentary on just about everyone who was brave enough to appear on the screen in her living room.

You don’t want to become the kind of person who hurls negative comments at the TV but once you hit 40 you do feel you’ve earned the right.

Another way to describe this urge is to admit that you’ve become bitter and twisted, but guess what? I prefer the former explanation.

Another highlight of the contest is the way the commentators wickedly cover the show. I always adored Terry Wogan’s delightful quips and witty observations and was gutted when he hung up his mic. Fortunately, Graham Norton fills his boots perfectly – except his heels are probably a tad higher.

It’s just as well the acts can’t hear us – they wouldn’t be saving their kisses for anyone!