Yes, a month ago we were roaming the streets of Belfast on Eurovision night, an evening where the party city comes into its own. Could England’s best entry for 25 years actually ensure a play-off against North Macedonia in the Nations League ? (sorry, I don’t understand the promotion/relegation system).

Emma had picked Maverick (no real ale) in the north of town, just round the corner from the Sunflower.

On the way we popped down Commercial Court, which I now declare Belfast’s answer to Turk’s Head Yard.

Loads of little alleys “entries” in Belfast, all packed with young folk NOT drinking Madri. It will come.

Just past St Annes, with iconic spire upon which were once impaled the heads of folk asking for a taster of “real ale” in Spoons,

we reach the table Emma has reserved for us in Mavericks.

Why are we here before anything happens on the telly.

Oh, it’s Mistress Onya Becks.

What am I doing here ? Well, not drinking. I’m done, and in the dull bits of Eurovision (roughly 20:00-22:30) I pop out for a walk. The last time I watched the Euros Brotherhood of Man won for us, after a Panenka penalty.

But there’s no escape from the fact that Sam Ryder is winning this one for England in 2022.

Unless something REALLY goes on in the public vote.


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