23.05.05 – By James Allan: All right, I know I’m going to get a hard time for this article, but I couldn’t stop myself from writing it. It’s Saturday night; I am sitting in the house, lounging around on my favourite chair. I have a beer in one hand, my wife is reading a magazine and the kids are arguing with one another, again. I am about to enjoy the most addictive television show in the world, the Eurovision Song Contest hosted by the Ukraine.
Stick with me people; I’ll get to the point soon. This annual treat highlights not only the worst in European music, but also which countries like their neighbours the best. No one likes the UK. We always put out the best song, but we are now destined to finish either last or very near last every year. Anyway, after two hours of listening to utter drivel, the half-time ‘entertainment’ comes on. The presenters tell us that they have two very special guests, the most famous men in the Ukraine. I think to myself, who can it be. I don’t think there are any famous Ukrainian’s, and then suddenly, from out of nowhere appears, you know who it is now don’t you, yes you are right, Wladimir and Vitali, the Klitschko brothers.
How could I not know it would be them, I asked myself. I know I don’t really think of fighters’ nationalities, I only think of how good, bad or indifferent they are in the ring, but to miss that one! What now follows is ten minutes of the most surreal and magnificent television you are ever likely to see. First the caption underneath them reads “Wladimir and Vitali Klitschko. World famous athletes”. This immediately gets me started. Why not World famous boxers. I know boxers are still athletes, but anybody who has watched Wladimir and Vitali lumber around the ring, would be hard pressed to imagine them as graceful, fleet footed runners.
From here on in it just gets better and better. Standing between them is a sort of Xylophone thing. Wladimir, who does most of the talking, informs everybody that they have ten minutes to phone in their votes for their favourite song (or country, take your pick). He and Vitali then proceed to batter the living hell out of this thing with their little Xylophone sticks to announce that the lines are now open. They are then quickly shuffled off the stage as the cameras sweep back to the main presenters. Surely that can’t be their entire contribution I say. You don’t bring over your two most famous ‘athletes’ just to get rid of them after 30 seconds. Thankfully not, the brothers did indeed return, after being forced to watch the Ukrainian army choir, a body contortionist, and some drum players, we go back stage where Wlad is talking to last year’s winner, a very pretty Ukrainian girl.
You see whichever country wins the contest; they get to host it the following year. They engage in some mindless banter, before the girl takes a playful swipe at Wlad’s chin. I am almost certain that for a second Wlad’s eyes glassed over and his knees buckled. Even my wife looked up from her magazine to say that with Wlad’s porcelain chin they were taking a bit of a risk. Just as the ten-minute voting period is nearing it’s end, Wlad and Vitali come back on stage.
Again some more mindless banter follows, so mindless in fact I can’t even remember what was said. They then have a ten second countdown to finish the voting time. When it is over, Wlad and Vitali hammer the Xylophone again, before Vitali utters the night’s most memorable line “You cannot vote anymore”. This is priceless TV I say to myself. Twenty years from now people will be asking each other where they were, when Wlad and Vitali appeared on Eurovision. They stick around for another few seconds, before they are once more shuffled off stage. And that Ladies and Gentlemen is their lot.
While their appearance probably lasted no longer that 90 seconds in total (no jokes about the length of Wlad’s fights please), it was without doubt the best piece of television I have seen in years. What is obvious is that Vitali is the straight man in this partnership. Tommy Cannon to Wlad’s Bobby Ball. Ernie Wise to Wlad’s Eric Morecambe. Stan Laurel to Oliver Hardy (all right that’s enough now). Once the brothers have finished their boxing careers, as far as I am concerned there is only one true vocation open to them. A season in Blackpool must surely await.