Ukraine was robbed. Any fool who follows the Eurovision Song Contest must know that Verka Serduchka’s song Dancing Lasha Tumbai should have won.

Silver tinfoil costumes, a meaningless catchy tune warbled in four languages, a transvestite front-erm-person — what could more encapsulate the glorious naffness of the competition? Yes, Ukraine was truly robbed by Balkan chicanery, and I’m as sick as a parrot.

The Eurovision Song Contest is the gay world’s FA Cup. It is the only time that the BBC gives over three hours of primetime just so that the bars of Old Compton Street can fill up with gay boys and girls who want to shout derision and encouragement at big TV screens.

What’s not to like about an event that is camper than a row of sequinned tents? On what other occasion could you thrill to Dmitry Koldun from Belarus, whose vivid spray-on tan left an orange fuzz on my TV set for more than an hour? And was there not fun to be had watching Kenan Dogulu who, despite the evidence of his own mirror, hip-wiggled and cavorted under the misapprehension that he was Turkey’s answer to Ricky Martin? (If he was the answer, the Turks misheard the question.)

Did you not find yourself in awe of the curling tongs that created the iron-clad hairdos of the Serbian backing singers? Where else could you see such style as Germany’s Roger Cicero, who dressed like Frank Sinatra trapped in a snowstorm? And did you guess how many seconds before the Irish entry would go all Riverdancy? Let us honour Scooch too, who understood the spirit of the competition and sung appropriately off-key double-entendres about “blowing”. These moments — the time when taste runs for the hills — deserve to be televised.

Of course, the event reveals some terrible regional backscratching. But who cares? We don’t want to win a contest in which Serbian hairdressers or the legions of continental David Hasselhoff fans have a vote. Eurovision isn’t about winning; it’s about the absurdity of our great continent set to tinny music and decked out in fabulous costumes.

But one sobering thought. We in Britain regard it as a celebration of silliness, but does the rest of Europe? Nations unblessed with Woganian irony might regard Eurovision as a serious pop-cultural highlight. I have this terrible feeling that this year’s winner, Marija Šerifovic, is going to be the biggest thing in Sarajevo since Gavrilo Princip let loose his bullet on Archduke Franz Ferdinand.

Perhaps that’s a good thing. The best jokes are the ones that not everyone is in on.

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