Sam Ryder is another by-numbers Eurovision entry for the UK – why can’t we reboot our mindset?

We live in a very changed Europe from that of just one year ago. Old Eastern Bloc alliances have been shattered and redrawn. Britain is no longer the pariah it was in the wake of its selfish and exclusionary Brexit. And the stakes have never been higher. It’s time we knuckled down, came together, reignited our fighting spirit and accepted the tough truth of our situation: Eurovision is no joke anymore.

In 2022, the most recent winners of what was once a clownish annual parade of pop novelty, gimmickry and cheese – namely Italy’s Måneskin – can win an MTV Europe Music Award, bag respectful nominations for Brits and NME Awards alike and shift four million singles en route to Top Tens across the globe. Eurovision suddenly got very serious indeed, and the rest of the continent, bar Russia, now banned from 2022, knows it.

Finland has rolled out the big guns, recruiting one of the country’s most successful bands ever in The Rasmus to represent them with the bombastic “Jezebel” this year – the equivalent of us sending, at the very least, Led Zeppelin. And most other countries, recognising that the game and its rewards has been significantly upped, are gathering the best or most entertaining musical gladiators they can muster, determined to get douze points from the Montenegro jury or die trying. But not Britain – if today’s announcement that TikTok star Sam Ryder will represent the UK is anything to go by.

Italy hope to capitalise on Måneskin’s success by fielding 2019’s runner-up Mahmood for a second shot at glory, this time with a passionate and shiver-inducing duet with BLANCO called “Brividi” which, if the subtitles are to be trusted, is about being driven to drugs by a cruel, viper-eyed tempter who’s only impressed by suitors on “a diamond bike”.

Iceland look set to send a bunch of flag-waving techno goth Spice Girls on scooters called Daughters Of Reykjavik. San Marino are clearly chasing the Måneskin dollar with a raunchy and OTT electro-rock rampage from Achille Lauro called “Stripper”, played by sci-fi S&M punks who, behind their lascivious glam guitars, might already be trouserless.

And the UK? Um, will another over-egged electro-soul bellow ballad do? Something to prove conclusively to the world, in case it had started caring, that Britain is the world leader in bearded white blokes wailing by-numbers R&B? There was a tangible sense of desperation and defeatism to Radio One’s Greg James imploring his listeners to really get behind the Jack Garrett-like Sam Ryder and his Rag‘n’Bone Man-ish “Space Man”. Because Greg knows we’ve long since given up on our ‘Vision.

Having thrown such auspicious names as Blue, Engelbert Humperdink and Bonnie Tyler at it in recent years – with decidedly inauspicious results – and suffered a humiliating run towards the bottom of the table since 2018, including a last place for Michael Rice in 2019 and an actual, crushing nul points for James Newman last year, enthusiasm for the contest in the UK is at an all-time low. Frankly, we appear to be one more snub from Sweden away from throwing a strop, picking up our Graham Norton and going home. Instead, like Mickey Rourke’s wrestler, we plug away in the lower leagues year after year, chasing our long-faded glory days and deluding ourselves that we’re still Bucks Fizz fit.

As one of the “Big Five” countries that always qualify for the Eurovision final thanks to their major financial contribution to the European Broadcast Union (at least until Nigel Farage starts arguing we could spend that money on mining Dover beach instead), we’re required to turn up. And it shows. For some years, the UK has approached Eurovision like Tim Henman approaches Wimbledon, Lord Buckethead runs for Parliament or you and I tackle a quordle. We dutifully give it a go, but success has become pure fantasy. When Eurovision claims it’s a non-political event, it’s a bit like Boris Johnson claiming that the champagne fountain and pounding Major Lazer didn’t tip him off to the fact there was a party on the go. So, knowing how hated and derided we are by our former EU comrades, we tend to sidle in like we’re there to collect the kids from our ex-partner’s wedding.

The threat of a mortifying defeat at the hands of a cackling continent, and subsequently being burned at the stake by jingoistic mobs straight off the plane, has made Eurovision look like certain career suicide for our established stars. Were they to sign up, they might as well end their performance by disappearing into a 20-foot redcoat. Thus we’ve been left with a cowed and lowly attitude towards our competitive pop abilities abroad. But politics has shifted, Europe has united, Brexit is marginally older news, and meanwhile Eurovision has grown in respect, becoming an international platform for genuinely relevant contemporary music. As one of the world’s leading musical nations, we should be owning this thing, but it will take a total reboot of our Eurovision mindset.

Now, on a purely tactical level, playing an inexperienced sub like Sam Ryder this year while keeping Sheeran on the bench makes a lot of sense. The 2022 contest is already sewn up for bookie’s favourite the Kalush Orchestra, Ukraine’s entry. But next year, by hook or by cheque, we need to conscript our finest talents and biggest stars to the cause of reinstating Britain’s elevated pop culture standing; nothing less than a Stormzy, an Adele or a LadBaby will do. The ideal act would already be popular in Europe, have a dedicated fanbase that could shrug off a nul points with ease, have territories they still need to break and be more flamboyant and fabulous than Eurovision itself. Yes, Years & Years, your country needs you.