EUROPEAN DIARY: As national humiliations go, Ireland's failure to qualify for the Eurovision Song Contest on May 25th is fairly painless.
But it will be a little sad to be left out on the big night in Tallinn, not least because the contest is the only contemporary ritual that comes close to uniting the European family of nations.
By the time of last year's debacle at Copenhagen, Ireland's serial success at Eurovision had become embarrassing to many Irish people and seemed to jar with our new, nonchalant, national self-image.
The discomfort may have been deepened by the arrival at Eurovision of unfashionable, impoverished states in central and eastern Europe whose candid enthusiasm for the contest reminded us of how we felt in our own years of innocence. When Estonia won last year, the prime minister interpreted the victory as a politically important event.
"We are no longer knocking at Europe's door. We are walking through it, singing," he said.
Four cabinet ministers sit on the organising committee for next week's contest, including the foreign minister and the minister for finance. The cost of staging the show - more than €2 million - is formidable for a small, poor country but the Estonians have calculated that it is worth paying.
Estonia's victory is a reminder of how closely the history of the Eurovision tracks the story of European integration and its uncanny tendency to anticipate events. When the contest started in 1956, there were just six participants but it has now expanded to more than 30. To keep the show to a manageable length, the nine countries that poll the lowest votes are disqualified for a year but are guaranteed a place the year after.
Although all participants are equal and enjoy equal influence in voting, the Eurovision, like the EU, acknowledges that some countries are equal in a different way. Thus Germany, France, Spain and Britain are guaranteed a place at each year's contest, regardless of how poorly they poll. This is because these big countries have so many television viewers that excluding them would frighten away sponsors.
The fifth big EU member-state, Italy, no longer bothers to take part in Eurovision. Throughout Europe, there are small pockets of enthusiasts who claim to enjoy the songs but for most of us, Eurovision's appeal lies in the voting. This is where the ritual is at its most enduring, with its almost liturgical refrains of "Royaume-Unis, trois points, United Kingdom, three points" and "Merci, jury".
Apart from the tension that mounts towards the end, Eurovision voting offers a fascinating snapshot of European political attitudes. Ireland's increasingly generous voting record towards Britain in recent years has matched progress in the Northern peace process. And Israel's award of 12 points to Germany two years ago was a sign that relationship between those two countries may be escaping the shadow of history.
The introduction of telephone voting has added a new edge to the voting procedure, seizing control from elite juries appointed by national broadcasters. In keeping with the principle of subsidiarity, countries are free to choose their national entries any way they like, as long as the song is an original composition that has not previously been released commercially.
Most allow viewers to choose but some have more complicated systems. Slovenia, for example, has an electoral college divided between television viewers and a panel of experts.
The Slovenians ran into trouble earlier this year when most viewers chose one song but the panels' votes ensured that a transvestite group called Sestre (Sisters) won. There followed a storm of protest, with church leaders joining pop fans to express horror at the idea of sending three transvestites to Tallinn. The television network stood firm however and Sestre, whose lead singer studies farm economics, will take the stage next week.
When more than 50 million Europeans will tune in next week to Eurovision, they will be participating in a celebration of the continent's diversity. For three hours, Europeans will take a good look at each other and have a good laugh at one another.
The best book about Eurovision, by the German journalist Jan Feddersen, takes its title from Germany's entry in 1975: "Ein Lied kann eine Brücke sein" (A Song Can Be A Bridge).
Next week, for the first time, this curious, European bridge will stretch to eastern Europe. The pity is that, not only will Ireland not be there but nobody will care.
