The sixtieth Eurovision Song Contest aimed from the outset to be a grand affair. There was even an orchestra on hand for the intro and interval, in which Austria conscripted any noteworthy composer who'd ever set foot in its territory. The first song didn't appear for a good twenty minutes, but there was a De Groot -like arrangement of mirror-balls to keep us happy. When the songs did arrive, the emergent theme was one of moody ballads that kick off about a minute before the end, unleashing an explosive frenzy: Luxembourg on steroids.

Serbia are something of a case in point, though they make that point in a more up-beat way than most of the field. Their singer, Bojana Stamenov, is the sort to make Malta jealous, and her masked colleagues are marching with flags. But this one goes bigger in the hall than even the first two verses suggest: the standard-bearers strip off their Eyes Wide Shut garb for the full-on Gina G, while Stamenov growls with increasing fervour. Many other potentially great songs fell by the wayside by not pulling their rip-chord early enough.

Latvia come dressed as Diana Ross in the Chain Reaction video, but there the similarity ends. Eartha Kitt performing the 1983 Spanish entry on helium might come close to the moody eastern verse that could make Bat For Lashes drool. Then we crack open into a Euphoric chorus, and there's even a wub-wub break for the children. Also expressing disinterest in the Luxembourgian model were Belgium, back to their early '80s form (Pas de Deux would be proud): Loïc Nottet is like the rebellious third Jedward triplet... the one who grew up in a Eurovision kibbutz then somehow got into Kraftwerk and Carsten Nicolai. They've found a groove and some Playback-style moves, and given them the finesse of a classic Israel routine. Belgium, in other words, were typically Belgium, and Belgium at their best.

Europe's winners were Sweden, which pleases us if only for the promise of more Petra Mede. Måns Zelmerlöw begins deceptively, sat down and listening to some steel guitar noises. He then unleashes his gimmick, and we all love a good gimmick. His gimmick is a choreographed back-projection animation with which he will interact throughout the performance: fist-bumping a stick-man or punching out little farts of light. It's very much the sort of nauseating crap you'd get in a mobile phone ad, but it's well done. The chorus is overwhelmingly similar to "The Rhythm of the Night" albeit toned down a touch for the grannies. It's a competent song and they've put a lot of effort into the staging. Contrast this with the UK, whose waffly versatile swing-doop could've been an amazingly visual Strictly charleston fest, but instead they blew the budget on some naff costumes that light up: the resulting performance was very flat. They could've had Denise Van Outen entering on an elephant or something.

Also not pulling their weight were guest stars Australia. This was no Boom Boom Boomerang snadderdydang. Rather, they were still trapped in the Ricky Martin infested waters of over a decade ago. They might've put some effort in.

Imagine if BBC4's early-medieval art specialist Janina Ramirez got to raid Servalan's wardrobe for a performance of King Lear. Georgia did. Complete with an out-of-control smoke-machine, Georgia eschewed the formula in favour of some banging repetition. The backdrop cries mercury tears for she has no more worlds left to conquer (one suspects she has Ruslana's head on a pike somewhere in all that smoke).

By the time the last act, Italy, took to the stage, we were pretty drunk, and frankly defenseless against their come-to-bed implorings. Their song demonstrates the evening's formula perfectly, but they've marinaded the whole thing in a typically Italian ragu (doubtless handed down in the Modugno family for generations) and the result is MacBusted at the Opera. We were swept away by these happy men: it was our favourite song of the night (though it was a close-run thing with Belgium). It was also the winning song with the televote.