IT’S a truth universally acknowledged that the older you get, the quicker the Eurovision Song Contest rolls round each year.

OK, maybe that’s just me, but really, has it been a whole year since the last one?

It seems not a blink of an eye since a raft of ‘artists’ you’d never heard of (and will never hear of again) performed ‘songs’ from around Europe. And, these days, Australia, bizarrely.

Yet, inexplicably 12 months have passed, and, on Saturday night, we had to endure it all again.

You may be getting the idea that I’m not a Eurovision fan.

I mean I do think it’s harmless fun - except for the fact that it’s not actually fun.

It’s hours and hours and hours of instantly forgettable drivel with the occasional ‘this one’s not too bad’ thrown in to keep you going.

At 26 finalists, there are too many songs. But that’s not even the worst of it.

You then have the incessant recaps and snippets afterwards and the interminable voting process.

It’s a bit like a long X-Factor - which has been stretched out for an entire evening.

You might call this sour grapes but the fact that the UK never wins, usually struggling to move away from the last place spot doesn’t help.

A series of nil points - or a derogatory one or two - usually leaves us wallowing in what football fans would call the relegation zone.

(If only there was a relegation zone in Eurovision we might actually be able to escape the tedium one year.)

Even a stage invasion during our performance this year couldn’t garner us enough sympathy points to rise above the heady heights of third from last.

Instead we are still raking over past victories including Bucks Fizz - who won it in 1981. Oh please.

The worst thing about Eurovision, though, is that I appear to be firmly on my own on this one.

Social media throbs with excitable chirruping throughout the evening.

The show - much like tacky Christmas jumpers - has entered the realms of so naff it’s good.

That means you don’t have to be embarrassed about watching it any more. You are being ‘ironic’ or too cool to care about whether you are uncool.

Whatever the attraction, it’s passed me by. Thankfully, for another year.