There comes a point, usually somewhere between the third shrieking key change, a dancer dressed as a metallic woodland creature, and a voting sequence that appears to take longer than some constitutional reforms, when one begins to ask a simple question:
What on earth am I doing with my evening?
Television, at its best, can entertain, inform, provoke and even inspire. But increasingly, much of it feels disposable. Loud. Hyperactive. Determined to grab your attention while offering remarkably little in return.
And then there is Eurovision.
A spectacle of noise, glitter, strategic neighbourly voting, questionable lyrics and performances that often feel as though they were conceived during a particularly feverish brainstorming session involving energy drinks and very little sleep.
For some, it is glorious nonsense. Fair enough.
For others? It is three or four hours of sensory assault wrapped in sequins.
Now compare that with a book.
A proper book.
Not content designed to be half-watched while scrolling on your phone. Not something shouting for your attention every nine seconds.
A book asks something different of us. It asks us to come in. To settle down. To engage. To imagine.
A television programme shows you what a castle looks like.
A book lets you build it yourself.
Television tells you what a character sounds like.
A book allows that voice to emerge in your own mind.
Television races to the next advert break.
A book takes exactly the time it needs.
And here is the extraordinary thing: reading is not passive consumption. It is collaboration. The writer provides the architecture; you furnish the rooms.
That is why books endure.
A truly good book can transport you from a Norfolk beach to a wartime bunker, from Victorian London to deep space, from the private heartbreak of one human being to the triumph of another. It can make you laugh aloud, pause in reflection, or quietly re-read a sentence because it landed exactly where it needed to.
Try getting that from a man in luminous latex singing about existential longing while suspended from a rotating illuminated cube.
Books also offer something television increasingly struggles with: silence.
Not literal silence, perhaps, but mental space.
No flashing graphics. No panel of instant experts. No dramatic music insisting that this moment is IMPORTANT.
Just thought. Story. Language.
And in a world that grows noisier by the day, that feels less like indulgence and more like necessity.
Publishing matters because stories matter.
Reading matters because imagination matters.
And while television can occasionally offer brilliance, there remains something gloriously rebellious about choosing a book instead of surrendering an evening to synthetic spectacle.
So yes, if Eurovision is your thing, enjoy it.
But if you want genuine escape, intellectual stimulation, emotional connection, adventure, suspense, wonder, insight, history, humanity and the chance to emerge feeling richer rather than merely overstimulated?
Pick up a book.
Always.
