Those crazy European guys, they really know how to have one helluva a crazy time.
We know they're "crazy guys" and we know they know how to have "one helluva crazy time" because they can't stop telling us. And then telling us again.
Anyone bullied into watching the Eurovision Song Contest, as I was, will know what I mean.
I have been abroad many times and am continually struck by the brusque fortitude and amiable detachment of our friends across the Channel. They are not a bad bunch, all told.
Why is it then that they turn into grinning, gibbering imbeciles when TV microphones appear? Are they all on something? Is there an iffy European fund, like the one that subsidises French farmers, that is used to dole out pharmaceuticals on Eurovision night? No one, unmedicated, can be as relentlessly "up" as the presenters, the audience and the performers inside the Hartwall Arena in the crazy Finnish capital of Helsinki.
Or as relentlessly weird. Madames et Messieurs, I give you Marija Serifovic, the Serbian chanteuse with the grace of a prop forward and the personal styling of wee Jimmy Krankie.
Ms Serifovic entranced Europe with her toe-curling power ballad, Molitva, which in Serbian means Prayer and is not to be confused with the alternative translation of "I've got a lovely bunch of coconuts".
Anyone tuning in late to the Eurovision extravaganza and did not know what they were watching could have been forgiven for thinking they had hit on a soft-porn lesbian flick, bizarrely narrated by Terry Wogan.
There can be no other explanation for the fact that ten million Brits watched the show.
In her impassioned song, spectacle-wearing Serifovic was backed by some lusty ladies wearing chaps' clothes and pleaded for the return of an estranged lover. I can't imagine why he/she legged it. The song contained the McCartneyesque lyric, delivered without any sense of irony: "It seems I'm losing my mind/As I don't even notice reality."
There are reputedly nine versions of Molitva, including an English version and a Russian re-mix for those crazy cossacks in Moscow.
Serifovic truly believes in the power of her music, telling the world's media after her victory that a "new chapter has opened for Serbia".
Which tells you everything you need to know about the ambition of some of our European counterparts.
It should be stressed that these are not the comments of a sour loser – well, not on this occasion. I tapped my feet to Sarbel, the Greek nation's London-born answer to Ricky Martin, gesticulating in the wild way you do at a sangria night promotion on the Costa del Sol. Sweden's gender-bending lead singer Ola Solo also turned in a rattling good display of spandex pop.
Neither do I feel aggrieved by the territorial block voting that some believe is tarnishing the integrity of Eurovision. Who cares that Serbia were awarded the maximum score by five of its eight neighbours? Frankly, a win for Serbia is not a kick in the Balkans.
And the reason is this: the Eurovision Song Contest demonstrates how truly un-European we remain in the UK. We dance to a different tune, we're not really like them. Our entry, Scooch, including former Sutton Coldfield schoolgirl Natalie Powers, garnered a mere 19 points, 12 of which came from Malta. That is about as uncool as it gets in Euroland and is a thing to be cherished.
Long may we continue to bomb at Eurovision.