Boys' night out

'Who are you voting for,' he says, rounding off our call before dashing out the door with his rowdy friends. I say televoting's a waste of money. But I don't tell him I almost succumbed to sending a few votes towards good old Brian Kennedy. That would be silly, after the slagging we gave him only minutes earlier.

'He's not aged well, has he?'

Have we?

Brian was quite a dish back in the day, a Northern troubadour with Van the Man's approval in his pocket and the voice of an angel to boast. There was a time I had his song 'Captured' (mp3) on repeat. He must be desperate for a gig, why else would he be representing Ireland in the Eurovision? A quiet gem among those amateurs, despite that dreary tune's he's wrought. Every song is a cry for love? Oh, Brian.

'Sorry', he says,'My mates are here, I have to go, I'll call ya in the morning.'

I hear his old pal's familiar growl and the line goes dead just before the fucker gets the chance to grab the phone.

Woman yields to boys' night out.

I watch the voting with half an eye. My country's pathetic trio won't make it. But Brian's through.

Unexpectedly my heart swells.