There’s something golden in the state of Israel:
OK, so we consider ourselves to be pretty principled people with high ethical standards. Meaning we will never drink wine coolers, pay under the table, go to a Judas Priest concert, wear beige or support anything related to not so fine gentlemen like Benjamin Netanyahu and Vladimir Putin. All in the name of love, of course. Hail the unstoppables!
Only in Eurovision we have to admit this has become a bit of a problem. Every once in a while, or shall we say once a year, we find ourselves drunk on free booze from Azerbaijan, drooling over a Belarusian candy in lederhosen or draped in a Russian flag on a stage we can only hope is not being caught on camera. In a beige dress! It is all very embarrassing, of course, but we guess we can say it happens to the best of us.
And what do you know? As we speak a spunky golden boy from Israel appears out of nowhere. Smiling like he never denied anybody their human rights (probably Nadav Guedj didn’t either. He looks like the kind of person that traps insects in milk glasses only to let them out into the free air instead of killing them).
We have to admit we were completely blown away when we first heard this. There was nothing to do but to finally reach the climax so longed for while suffering along with five hundred ballad singers pretending to be (but certainly not being) Celine Dion, John Legend, Adele, Lana Del Rey, Frank Sinatra or all of the above.
Song writer Doron Medali, who by the way also worked with our former dirty pleasure Harel Skaat, did a tremendous job here. He nailed everything the Eurovision crowd wants in one song, meaning lots of rhythm, just the right amount of fun lyrics, a dash of Arab and Bollywood spices and a shiny bloke for good garnish.
Bless Nadav the garnish. He claims to be the king of fun, and of course we believe him. We love his little hand moves, making him appear more royal than a certain forthcoming baby. And don’t get us started on those hips delievered directly to you from a certain grave in Memphis, Tennesse. We also love that he forgets to tuck his shirt and wears red trainers with his suit. Oh, and that he looks at us like we were the last two attractive women on earth (We are, Nadav, of course we are. And we don’t break hearts either.). All in all there’s so much to love, we’d tear down a wall or two just to blow off some steam.
So there goes our last piece of integrity. In 2015 it’s time to cheer for Israel. Did we mention Nadav is French anyway?
Vive la Tel Aviv!