Dan Keenan experienced the mayhem of Eurovision night in Mickey Harte's home town of Lifford, Co Donegal
It seemed as if a fair percentage of Eurovision's 100 million audience was crammed into Harte's bar in Lifford, Co Donegal. Outside, the Tricolours and bunting hung lifeless in downpours best described as biblical. Inside, the blue haze of God knows how many TVs lit up a clinging fog of smoke which had been inhaled, exhaled and rehaled many times.
It was a lager and alcopop fest. Tidal waves of the stuff sloshed over the counter to sweating hordes of mostly 25-and-unders, churned out by flushed bar staff. The till oozed crumpled notes. Fresh crates of longneck bottles arrived at the bar, carried over heads as if by ants. Glasses? Hah!, plastic was the order of the evening.
The crowd swayed this way and that in the crush, reminiscent of soccer crowds in the days of the terraces. It was possible to faint in here and not hit the floor. Lifford was having a night out - and this was the place to be.
Everyone knew everyone else, except this reporter of course. Everyone drank, everyone smoked and everyone sent text messages - except for the more elderly man in the suit, complete with pioneer pin. Was he lost?
The din, like the humid heat, was claustrophobic. Excitement bubbled, and yet it was still only 7 p.m. and the young faces tilted up towards the screens were inexplicably absorbed in Winning Streak. Derek Mooney's professional enthusiasm was inaudible.
A TV camera appeared, compact camera flashes popped to whoops and screams. Arms waved, bottles were held aloft in hands adorned with kingsize.
It got better (unless you're over 40 and alone). The Eurovision symbol appeared on the screens and the sound was turned up - yes, it was possible. It seemed the noise would threaten the foundations of the State.
Two presenters, young things in ridiculous technicolour outfits, whisked us around the place once part of the USSR. And it looked as if they drank, smoked and made noise there too.
Then came the tedious part - the music. Iceland came on stage and Harte's pub settled into mere cacophony and we waited for Mickey Joe.
It didn't take long. Perhaps it was the flash of Irish Tricolour that did it. The sound accelerated like a nuclear burst; the sort of noise you feel in the ribcage. And we sang - or rather they did. Like a lost Catholic in Sandy Row Rangers Supporters' Club, it's remarkable how quickly you can pick up a song when you have to. What a classic. How could Europe not agree?
On screen, Mickey mouthed like a goldfish. We couldn't hear him, but there was a strong possibility he could hear us. We danced like mad things deranged. Body parts jiggled - so much flesh, so little lycra.
Mickey strummed his final unheard chord to a triumphal roar that would have levelled the walls of Jericho. Thankfully, the workmanship is better in Donegal. It was back to the beer or off to the toilet. Twenty-three songs to go - there was just enough time in a pub this packed.
Nervous anticipation settled as the voting began. Not even David Trimble could get this poll suspended. In the best Ulster tradition, the people in Harte's voted early and often. With Strabane just tottering distance away, mobile phones picked up British networks - all of which goes to explain how the UK gave Ireland "douze points".
No amount of electronic electoral fraud, however, could save the night. A series of twos and threes punctuated by nothing-at-all proved that tasteless Europe loved lesbian Russians or Turks dressed like Dr Who's daleks more than our Mickey Joe. The people had spoken, the bastards.
Outside in dripping Butcher Street, the teenagers who hadn't a mission of a Barcardi Breezer inside, watched a large screen as Mickey struggled for his quota and the British lost their deposit. The party fell limp with disbelief. As things go it was all foreplay but, alas, no sex.
Ah well, no harm done then. And at least we avoided Terry Wogan.