Wrong on Eurovision: Why Malta’s 14th-Place Sting Hurts More Than Ever

Wrong on Eurovision: When Malta’s Heartbeat Skips a Note
By Hot Malta Staff

Valletta’s Republic Street was still echoing with cheers at 02:47 last Sunday when the WhatsApp groups flipped from celebratory GIFs to a collective groan. “We were robbed” became the national mantra faster than you can say “douze points,” as Malta’s Eurovision entry—17-year-old phenom Thea’s power-ballad “Loop”—crashed out in 14th place in the semi-final. Within minutes, #WrongOnEurovision began trending locally, morphing into a catch-all for every grievance: from suspect running-order placement to alleged bloc-voting, from wardrobe lighting that “ate” Thea’s sequins to the price of pastizzi at the watch-party bar.

But beneath the memes lies a deeper Maltese ache. Eurovision isn’t just a song contest here; it’s the island’s annual referendum on identity. We are the nation that has never won, yet keeps returning like a romantic teenager outside an ex’s door. Our 33 failures have become folklore: the fireworks that misfired in 2016, the wind machine that gave Ira Losco a Marilyn moment, Chiara’s three attempts, three trophies still missing from the cabinet. Each spring we convince ourselves “this is our year,” and each May we process communal heartbreak in the same way—by arguing over ħobż biż-żejt at Marsaxlokk Sunday market and calling in to Jon Mallia’s podcast to demand a public inquiry.

The morning after, Café Cordina was a parliament of armchair juries. “They put us between two ballads in minor keys; of course we disappeared,” insisted 72-year-old Etienne, who still owns the vinyl of “Little Child” he bought when Kevin Borg represented us—except Kevin was Swedish, a fact Etienne waves away like cigarette smoke. At the next table, junior-college students debated whether TikTok could have saved Thea. Their teacher, Ramona, admitted she streamed the song 47 times on five devices: “I used my nanna’s tablet. She thought I was praying the rosary online.”

Tourism Minister Clayton Bartolo promptly announced a €250,000 “post-Eurovision debrief” fund, prompting eye-rolls louder than the Ċittadella cannon. Yet the figure underscores what Eurovision costs—and earns—Malta. Hotels in St Julian’s reported 92 % occupancy during Euro-week, Air Malta added six extra flights to Liverpool, and Lovin Malta’s live-blog drew 1.2 million unique readers, more than our population twice over. The economic bounce is real, but so is the emotional investment. Psychologist Dr. Marilyn Spiteri warns that repeated near-misses create “a national schema of almost-good-enough,” feeding an island-wide inferiority complex. “We externalise the loss, blame geopolitics, then do it again next year. It’s addictive.”

Still, the contest stitches communities together in ways no policy could. In Għargħur, the parish priest livestreamed the semi-final on the church façade; in Birżebbuġa, scouts sold ħelwa tat-Tork to raise funds for Thea’s staging. When the teen landed at Malta International Airport, spontaneous clapping erupted at baggage reclaim—yes, we clap when the plane lands, and we clap when our singer merely lands. Thea herself told NET TV she’s “ready for 2025,” proving the Maltese superpower: turning overnight heartbreak into next-year optimism before the suitcase is unpacked.

So was Eurovision 2024 “wrong on Malta”? Maybe. But maybe the glitch is the gift. In an age of algorithmic playlists, Eurovision remains one night when three generations huddle around the same screen, shouting “Għaxxi!” at Greek votes and hugging strangers when Denmark gives us eight points. The day we finally win, we’ll lose that beautiful annual ritual of shared disappointment. Until then, the flags will stay folded under the bed, ready for the next spring, the next chorus, the next loop of hope we wouldn’t trade for all the crystal microphones in Europe.