Hello, this is Oslo calling

This week Man About Town - as I am also known to some - is Man About Oslo. Yes. I'm here for the Eurovision Song Contest. It's my ninth year at the annual circus of schlocky horror and dodgy dancing in the name of pop music.

It's not camp at all really. Take last night and the official welcome party at City Hall. We had to walk up a big pink carpet surrounded by paps and TV crews - it was like the Oscars, and some of the outfits were tackily Oscar-worthy. My pointy white shoes, by the way, looked particularly fine on aforementioned carpet.

Then we were entertained by first Norwegian winners Bobbysocks, who are completely faboo, and then a gay men's choir called the, er, Faggotkur. It couldn't have been more camp if the mayor had said "Call me Brenda".

Anyhoo, The Mark of Style was beady-eyed re the fashion. There were some horrors, I can tell you, and some of the performers were OTT as you might expect in Eurotrash mode. Though the style of the night for the average Euroboy seemed to be the  little blazer (H&M, Zara et al much in evidence), skinny jeans and tie, plus the occasional waistcoat. There was a handful of bowties (and you know what I think about those). Yours truly was in in slim grey jacket and waistcoat, white shirt with cutaway collar, black tie, faded black skinny jeans and my "occasion shoes" - shiny, white and pointy. Seemples but classy, I thought.

More of the contest and songs to come. Just don't ask me who's going to win!