Eurovision has come and gone again. And Malta has not gone through to the finals... again.

Why is it that we can’t live this charming yet-oft-demented contest to the full? Why has the fun always got to stop when we’re getting used to the sexist jokes, and the minute analysis of each act, and the hilarious commentaries.

Now, I am very much aware that Malta is divided into two kinds of people: those who love the Eurovision and can tell you what year Renato went there and even give an impromptu rendition of his song; and the snobs. These are the prudes: the ones who profess to be above the whole kitschy thing.

And there’s a lot of these puritans about – they’re the ones who invariably say they’re definitely never ever going to watch it, but then, oh, they just chanced up on it only because, cough, there was nothing better on television.

It’s a little game we like to play every year. Somehow we struggle with coming clean and admitting that we all keep the evening free and invite the razza u redika over to have a good laugh .

We don’t really take it seriously anymore – we just want Malta to make it through to the final as it’s the perfect excuse for another night of boozing and bitching. So I’ve been thinking: we really need a plan of action for next year.

As a nation we need to sit down and brainstorm and then hijack all online fora to debate and decide who we should be sending next year. We all agreed that it’s got to be something mesmerising, something fascinating, something dramatic, with a certain je ne sais quoi about it.

The problem is who to send? “Freddie Portelli,” screeched a friend. “With those side burns and that Elvis-the-pelvis thrust and that grubby towel around this neck... God! It’s perfect Eurovision kitsch. I can just imagine the whole arena, singing Mur ħallini u itlaq ’l hemm,” she said.

Another (male) friend suggested we should send Ira again. “It’s boobs we need up there. She’ll go there, strut her stuff and wow them all with her assets. All European men will be on the phone voting for her before we know it,” he said.

Another friend was slightly less biased, but more passive: “What about Enzo Gusman? He always wanted to go and we kept denying it to him. Or could always send Tristan B,” he mused. “Then he could stay there and our courts will be a happier place.”

Past performers kept cropping up. Everyone mentioned Chiara, but “definitely not Lynn” because “she’ll probably take her daughter up on stage with her”.

Mike Spiteri was also mentioned but there was a general fear he might be tempted to let that pony-tail and bald-head combo grow again. Everybody agreed however, that Faniello should give it a miss, and “go and play football or something”.

“Tiffany!” said another one. “How about we send Tiffany! The British would vote for her again, she could easily win it.” Erm, aren’t we forgetting the minor detail that …she doesn’t sing?

“No matter. There are loads of models-turned-singers. Take Carla Bruni. In fact: this could be her break. She’ll become Malta’s next Bruni.”

Another suggested we should send Clare Agius, the television presenter of that programme about planes. “With those curls, she’s the perfect image of the Maltese woman. And did you see the pictures in the Sunday Circle. She got married to that Brit? They’d make quite a contrast on stage and they can both do some amazing yoga postures, get the audience to meditate and they’d all vote for us,” said the pro-Ira friend.

Please do excuse my friends. It’s the Eurovision – it brings out their inner, ahem, insightfulness.

Really, it’s very clear that we need a song with such a phwoar crescendo that it allows for the four elements of the earth to fall on the stage if possible: fire, wind, water, shooting stars. Now throw in a brass band and you get our trademark speciality: Mediterranean briju.

So this brings me to (drum rolls Etnika. I know that probably the band members, if they had to read this, would have a minor heart attack, but just think about it: they have the edginess, the fun, the elements of Maltese music, the handsome Mediterrean looking men, the sexy flamenco dancer and a front lady with a powerful voice. In short: the works.

The Eurovision stage would be turned into one huge festa, and we’d be sure to wow them all.

Douze points would not be given, but showered at us. And that would be a nation’s dream come true. Finally.

krischetcuti@gmail.com