It's Still Life

The Cat Conquers EuroVision
(Or: A Feline Bid for Continental Glory)

The cat sits before the TV,
tail curled in concentration,
watching a man in sequins
sing something unidentifiable
while a woman in a flying saucer
plays the violin —
or possibly weeps.
It’s hard to tell.

“Old Woman,” he says,
“what is this Eurovision
and what is a Bulgaria?
Is that a fish?
Can we buy some?”

She sighs.
“It’s a singing contest, cat.
Countries compete.
Everyone votes.
And… we came last.
Again.”

The cat’s ears flatten.

“Last?
England?
We, who invented the mic drop?
We, who gave the world The Beatles
and that one bloke
who yodeled in the rain?

Last?”

He leaps onto the sofa,
puffs out his chest,
and declares:

“I can win this contest.
I will restore England’s pride.
Forget the outposts of Empire —
they can find their own cat.
I am the weapon.”

The Old Woman blinks.
“You’re going to sing?”

“I am going to perform
wearing a cape,
in mysterious lighting.
I will open my mouth
and let out a note
so pure, so piercing,
so utterly feline —
that Europe will have no choice
but to give us twelve points.”

He demonstrates.
It sounds like a teakettle
and a crying baby
and a slightly offended owl.

“See?” he says.
“Artistry.
Boldness.
Soul.
They will weep.
They will applaud.
The French will send sardines.”

He sits back,
already planning his acceptance speech.

“I shall call my song:
‘Purr-haps, Purr-haps, Perhaps’.
It will be about tuna
and longing
and the injustice of wet weather.
It will change the world.”

The Old Woman pats his head.
“You can’t even
reach the sardines
on the top shelf, cat.”

“Irrelevant.
Staging will be involved.
Dancers.
Dry ice.
A very large
chandelier.”