I had barely shaken the dust of my native heath from my hobnail boots when, in 1971, BBC radio sent me back to Ireland to commentate on my first Eurovision. Amid great rejoicing, Ireland had won the contest for the first time the previous year, with a gentle ditty sung by a pretty young lady who went by the name of Dana, a name purloined years later by the Israeli winner, Dana International, of whom more later.  The 1971 contest was staged in the Gaiety, a Dublin music hall. By the time that they’d crammed the small theatre with cameras, lights, sound, commentators boxes and a full orchestra, there was hardly room for an audience. But then only 15 countries took part – a far cry from today, with innumerable contestants stretching from here to the Urals.  And who could have predicted Ireland’s domination of the event, which culminated with three wins in succession in the 1990s? The huge Point theatre by the Liffey became the Eurovision stage. In 1997, I was driven there by a police motorcycle escort, whizzing through red lights, rocketing through roundabouts to the shriek of sirens. I emerged from my car somewhat dazed, in time to see my escort smartly roar away – to collect the president.  A few years earlier, I had another motorcycle escort, through the windy little roads of Kerry and Cork, to the little town of Millstreet, where, for reasons that were never fully explained, the Eurovision Song Contest was to be held in an equestrian centre. The entrepreneur who pulled off this extraordinary stroke insisted that the good people of Millstreet (population 1,500) paint their houses, fix their roofs, tidy up their gardens, so that the place would be a credit to themselves, and to him.  There’s always a begrudger. If his house was good enough for his father before him, he didn’t see why it wouldn’t be good enough for a load of foreigners. A raffle was organised, with the prize of an all-expenses-paid weekend in Dublin. Stangely, it was won by the difficult villager. When he came back, he found his house freshly painted…  The Point was where the most exciting act ever seen in the contest was performed. Riverdance was a triumph of musical spectacle, the only pity being that it was the interval act.  The only comparable performance was that of Abba, who sang “Waterloo” in Brighton in 1974. That was a very good year, with the UK represented by a star, Olivia Newton-John. When she came in only fourth, I remember wisely predicting that it could be a major blow to her prospects. She immediately went to Hollywood, starring with John Travolta in Grease.  When Abba won, I was commentating on BBC radio, and as soon as the thing was over, we crowded them into our little outside broadcast van. The first interview, with a group that were about to become superstars! Even as I put my first question, the lights went out, never to return. The TV producer, eager for a reviving brew, had ordered all the plugs pulled out. I never got close to Abba again.  Despite putting the kibosh on a boy broadcaster’s dreams, that producer and I were friends, and worked together on many a Eurovision. I remember he and I, neither of us small men, jammed into a tiny commentary box in Malmo, Sweden, as we watched, near to suffication and hysteria, an interval act based on the legend of William Tell. You know, the one with the arrow and the apple. This interpretation involved flashing lights, as the arrow flew its circuitous route through a tunnel, finally to impail the golden apple on a little chap’s head. It worked in rehearsal, but on the night, the arrow missed. Nobody died, thankfully, and the director had shrewdly kept a recording of the successful rehearsal. Seconds after hundreds of millions of viewers had seen it miss, we saw it strike the apple fair and square. And I still get asked if I really liked doing the Eurovision.  In 1998, following a rare win for the United Kingdom by Katrina and the Waves, I presented the Eurovision Song Contest on stage from Birmingham, along with the lovely, lively Ulrika Jonsson. Since I was also doing the BBC’s television commentary, this involved introducing the acts from the stage, and then running smartly round the back to a commentary booth. I lost weight that night, not least because the winner for Israel, the aforementioned Dana International, decided to change her costume to receive the Grand Prix, leaving me to make it up as I went along for several minutes in front of half of Europe.  The following year, the fates took their revenge. Sitting at a table on a warm night in Jerusalem, watching Manchester United win the European Champions League, the match back-projected on to one of the Old City’s ancient walls, was hardly as satisfying as the night of the contest itself. Not the singers, not the songs, but the finale. The prize was to be presented by the previous year’s winner. Dana International teetered forward on six-inch heels, and as she reached the podium, staggered and fell. Fearing a terrorist sniper, four members of Mossad immediately flung themselves on top of her. Poetic justice, I thought it…  Terrorism was on everybody’s mind when the contest was held in Luxembourg in 1978. Palestinian terrorist group Black September was the threat, and security was everywhere, in and around the venue: special forces with Uzis at the ready, armoured cars, and inside the hall an extraordinary warning that if a member of the audience stood to applaud, they could be shot. Pursuant to the BBC policy of belt and braces, I had a news reporter just behind me, in case an untoward incident necessitated him taking the microphone from me, the skittish hobbledehoy, to deliver the balanced, serious BBC view. Nothing happened and, again, nobody died.  The only other markedly political event I can recall was in 1975, in Stockholm, when the Portuguese made their entrance carrying guns, each of which had a red carnation in the barrel. It wasn’t until later that this was used as a signal to the rebel soldiers for the peaceful overthrow of Portugal’s dictatorship to begin.  Then, of course, there was Kiev in 2005, celebrating another peaceful political victory for democracy. Hard to believe that the old guard are now back in power, and the heroine of the revolution in jail.  So many memories… During the 1991 final, in Rome, I remarked to producers that their set looked like rusty corrugated iron. Laughing, they reassured me that under the lights, it would resemble marble. On the night, it looked just like rusty corrugated iron.  I’ll remember Rome for the performance not of any song, but the presenter, Toto Cutugno. He was flaky from the start, as indeed many of the presenters are, but he took it to the wire, arguing the scores with the national juries, and taking issue with the judge. It wasn’t the most successful of evenings, and the Italians retired from the competition in a marked manner for many years.  I won’t easily forget Copenhagen 2001, when a couple of particularly silly presenters introduced every song in rhyming couplets. I dubbed them Dr Death and the Tooth Fairy. Little did I realise that half the population of Denmark was listening to the BBC commentary. The Danes, like many smaller countries, are sensitive to matters of national pride, and took my little joke as a foul slur on not only their song contest, but their country. I was beaten up in the Danish press, and to this day, whenever I visit Copenhagen, I do so in sackcloth and ashes, with a paper bag over my head.  Since my swansong in Belgrade 2008, and with an admitted tinge of regret, I now enjoy the wit of Graham Norton as he freewheels through the wonderful, impossibly grandiose event that the Eurovision Song Contest has become. Long may it continue.  For highlights from Eurovision history, go to www.bbc.co.uk/eurovision
The presenter whose sardonic commentaries were a defining feature of the   Eurovision Song Contest for decades offers his favourite memories of the   festival.