It was a ligger’s dream: an all expenses paid weekend in wonderful Copenhagen, and all I had to do in return was to attend the Eurovision Song Contest. Five days of craic and Carlsberg in the Danish capital; five days of shopping, sightseeing, fine dining and watching fit Scandinavian girls go by; and just five hours at the Parken Stadium in Copenhagen, in the company of 38,000 Eurovision freaks. That was the deal. The question was, could I endure this annual celebration of sonic shite, in exchange for a free trip to Copenhagen and all the Carlsberg I could drink? What, me? The rock critic with the Irish Times? Here, in Copenhagen, at the Eurovision Song Contest? With my reputation for impeccable musical taste and admirable modesty? Oh, go on then, twist my arm.

The main reason for this trip was to write a travel piece about Copenhagen, but the organisers thought it would be a nice bonus to bring us all to the Eurovision, just to top off our brilliant stay.

My companions on the press trip were 20 or so journalists from Sweden, Norway, Germany and the UK, with three Danish girls in charge of the itinerary. Discussing the Eurovision was a handy way of breaking the ice, so pretty soon we were all in heated debate about who was going to win this year, and who was going to disgrace their country with nul points. It was generally agreed that Sweden were in with a good chance, because their entry looked like Hear’Say and sounded like ABBA. There was also unanimous agreement that Ireland, despite having won the contest seven times, would not be making it an even eight.

I was eager to establish my stance on Eurovision, just in case any of the Euro-hacks thought I might actually enjoy this kind of stuff. “I’m into real music, man, you dig?” I announced in my trendiest Dublin 4 accent. “The Eurovision is squaresville, daddio. It’s for grannies and gay people, not for cool, straight cats like me.” Or something to that effect. Methinks I protested too much, however, because one of our party, a Swedish girl named Kicki, started to slag me in a disturbingly deadpan way. “Admit it, Kevin, you are secretly liking it, aren’t you? Soon you will be singing along to the songs, and you will be wearing a dress. By Saturday night, you will be gay.”

As the countdown to Eurovision rolled on, I began to get sucked inexorably into this black hole of rock ‘n’ roll. I had been commissioned to write a ‘scene-setter’ for the Irish Times, a quick pre-contest hatchet job to demonstrate that the newspaper of record was above all this sort of thing, but could still smirk at it from a great height. I needed some colour to embellish my piece, so I began to make enquiries about meeting the Irish entourage and maybe getting a few quotes from our representative this year, Gary O’Shaughnessy.

As it turned out, my deadpan Swedish friend was heading to the Carlsberg Museum for a Eurovision-related reception: the launch of an album by last year’s winners, The Olsen Brothers. If you remember these old guys from last year, you’ll know that they made Paul Harrington and Charlie McGettigan look like Boyzone, and they sang a dreadful ballad called ‘Fly On The Wings Of Love’, which clinched the contest for Denmark.

When I got to the reception, the Olsen Brothers were in full flight, singing their Eurovision hit to a roomful of ecstatically happy Danes. I had been told that Johnny Logan was in attendance, so I circled the room in search of our own three-time Eurovision-winning legend. Alas, said a handsome, suntanned Danish woman who was in charge of the proceedings, Johnny Logan left early because he is playing a concert, but would I like to interview the Olsen Brothers instead? This Scandinavian siren then took my hand in hers and started to pull me towards a room at the back of the museum, but as I was being dizzily led into certain death – or at least definite embarrassment – I regained my composure, pulled away from her velvet grip, and fled.

Like The Olsen Brothers, Johnny Logan was grabbing the opportunity offered by Eurovision to plug his own product, an album entitled Reach For Me. He had booked a gig at Park nightclub, and the room was filled with Danish fans, all of whom were singing along to ‘Why Me?’, ‘What’s Another Year?’ and of course, ‘Hold Me Now’.

While changing out of his saturated clothes backstage, Johnny Logan told me that he was signed to Sony in Denmark, and that his new album had gone gold here. Sadly, he still hasn’t been able to get Sony Ireland to release it at home, and he blames the Irish meeja, who have branded him uncool and outdated. So we’re spot on there then. To be honest, I felt kinda bad sitting in Johnny’s dressing room, swigging his beer, and pretending to be his friend just to get a Eurovision story. He was a real nice guy just doing his job and trying to make a living; he may be starting to look eerily like Brendan Bowyer, especially around the cheeks, but his pipes are still pristine (he’s gonna be singing with the London Symphony Orchestra soon, fer chrissake) and he can still send ‘em home sweatin’. Buckets.

The great day finally dawned, and all of Copenhagen went Eurovision apeshit crazy. Our hosts had booked us into a restaurant near the Parken Stadium, from where we could watch the parade of people as they made their merry way towards the venue. This was the biggest event in the contest’s history, in a stadium the size of Lansdowne Road, with room for 38,000 punters. Tickets for Eurovision 2001 sold out in 40 minutes flat, around the same time it took U2 to sell out Slane. There was a celebratory atmosphere in the air, with young people milling towards the concert site, and the pubs around the venue filled to overflowing. I spotted scantily-clad Danish slappers, seven-foot transvestites, gay cowboys and biker queens – a typical Picture House crowd, basically.

Inside the stadium, we queued up for beer before taking our seats. With typical Danish efficiency, the beer line moved quickly, and our pints came in packs of five, in an ingeniously-designed cardboard carry-case. We ordered a five-pack each – it was gonna be a long night, and we needed to be numb by the time the Turkish entry came on.

If you thought the Eurovision was naff, be thankful you didn’t have to sit through the warm-up act which came onstage an hour before airtime. This was a big-budget affair, and the Danes had spared no expense in staging Eurovision 2001, so who did they get to warm up the crowd? Two camp buskers, one with an acoustic guitar, the other with a cardboard box and a pair of drumsticks. These two yahoos were like the gay Danish Chas ‘N’ Dave, without the beards, but with the same unerring ability to irritate. Together they performed a terrible version of Cher’s ‘Believe’, an even worse rendition of ‘Fly On The Wings Of Love’ (inasmuch as it’s possible to surpass peak crapness), and a version of the Danish National Anthem which should by rights see them tried for treason. They also told bad jokes in Danish – funny, that, how you can still tell it’s a bad joke even though you don’t understand the language.

At nine o’clock precisely, the house lights came down, the spotlights came on, and the Eurovision theme boomed out of the p.a. system. And there they were again, the fucking Olsen Brothers, singing ‘Fly On The Fucking Wings Of Love’ for the umpteenth time. For some reason – I don’t know why – they were joined onstage by four fillies in kilts, each one holding a set of bagpipes and dancing around like Jean Butler on Glenfiddich. Perhaps they were paying tribute to the sole Scottish journalist in our group, who had also come kitted out in full kilt and sporran.

Our two hosts then came on, a craggy guy and a blonde bimbo who proceeded to compere the entire contest using simplistic, Eurovision-style rhyming couplets. To their credit, they dispensed with the niceties fairly quickly, and got on with the, er, music. If you could guess the eventual winner from the reaction of the crowd, then Sweden, Estonia, France, Spain and Malta were definitely in with a chance. When Ireland’s Gary O’Shaughnessy came on in a sober suit and sang Without Your Love in his best Michael Bolton voice, you could smell the crowd’s indifference as they shuffled off in search of beer and hotdogs. Now if he’d worn a glittery, backless shirt and sang ‘Without The Flying Wings Of My Lovely Horsey Love, Dinge Dong Boom’, then he might have got their attention.

The Danish entry was last, a male-female double-act called Rollo & something (definitely not Sister Bliss), and when the duo came on to the strains of a Van Morrison-style harmonica intro, the home crowd went wild. When the voting began, it was clearly a contest between Denmark and the eventual winners, Estonia. It’s a pity the Danish entry didn’t win, though, because Copenhagen was ready to celebrate, and it would have been nice to have a few drunken Danish girls throwing their arms around you in victory.

When I got back to Dublin, the strains of Fly On The Wings Of Love still swirling around my hungover head, I ran to my stereo, put David Kitt, Ash and REM on the CD player, and began the long, slow process of musical detox.

I should be alright by the end of June, hopefully, but if you ever see me giving Steven Gately a good review in the Irish Times, then you’ll know I’m still contaminated.