For years I was content to watch the Eurovision Song Contest on TV with mates, getting drunk and slagging off the acts. But by 2013 spectating wasn’t enough anymore. I wanted to be part of the freak show. So I decided I'd write a song ... for Europe.

I enlisted the services of an unwitting musician mate, Jamie who hates Eurovision and whose musical tastes are left-field to say the least. On the day I plucked the courage up to ask for help, I arrive at his home to find he’s recording the workers renovating his flat for a 'piece' he's planning. With such avant garde preferences, I’m wary when I ask: 'Fancy writing a song for Eurovision?'. Miraculously he agrees.

We begin by trying to ascertain if there's a Eurovision formula. 'Research' reveals we need a female singer - 24 winners. Wear white – seven winners, more than any other colour - and perform bare foot, five winners. A professor of critical musicology at the Leeds University's School of Music wrote a tune in 2011 based on his identified formula that songs should have a “serious political and moral message guaranteed not to offend anyone". He called his 'Be Nice to Nice People'.

We ditch the science and focus on melody. I stumble on one which I play over a 120 disco drumbeat I've goggled and Jamie adds a funky bass line.

But what should it be about? Going through airport security - like the UK’s entry in 2007? Hydro-electric power station construction like Norway's in 1980? Genghis Khan like West Germany's in 1979? Maybe not.

By now it was Spring 2014 and Scotland was in the grip of referendum fever. As a couple of lefties planning to vote Yes, we decide to use Eurovision to bring down Britain, and with Westminster in mind, pen lyrics about a woman leaving her partner because they’ve changed for the worst. It's a kind of a cut price ‘I Will Survive’. With a hook which goes 'Liar Liar' I call it 'Pants on Fire'.

Despite our best efforts, it becomes clear our subversive anthem won’t be ready and we mothball it. The referendum passes - and we lose. Damn, if only the people of Morningside had heard our song.

Come September 2015 I'm ready to make my submission for this year's 2016 Eurovision. Acts are to film themselves performing live and a panel will pick the best six for the public to decide. Pants on Fire is fished from the depths of the musical linen basket and laundered.

We need to record it and like many people, I’d rather have an appointment with a drunken dentist than sing. I ask a friend who's an actual proper singer – Lorraine’s sung on a Stevie Jackson of Belle and Sebastian album. She seems genuinely delighted and agrees.

Another problem. We can’t use the downloaded drumbeat as it would breach copyright. An opportunity emerges when Jamie out walking his dog, hears drumming from a house. Walking past, he sees a middle aged man beating along to ACDC.

How do you begin to explain to a complete stranger you want him to play on your Eurovision song? Roy is not only remarkably polite but programmes four different beats for us which Jamie layers to make one 'superbeat'. But we still need a singer.

The only time the band can get together – Jamie and Lorraine haven’t even met – is deadline day and I book a studio for the video.

Lorraine arrives with her seven year old daughter Patti who she’s taking swimming later. After quick introductions, Patti is given protective head phones and does her homework – or so we thought.

Before recording, me and Jamie embrace the Eurovision spirit and dress for the occasion. I opt for subtly in the shape of a red neck scarf. Jamie emerges from behind an amp wearing an old lady's dress, a grey wig and a pair of dark sunglasses.

We record five versions before Lorraine has to leave. Reviewing them reveals the real star. Unbeknown to us while performing, Patti has been interpreting the song behind our backs. We’ve been upstaged by a seven-year-old.

Despite this, I pick a version, upload it and the wait begins. For many, Euro rejection comes in the shape of 'nul point' from Azerbaijan in front of 200 million TV viewers. Mine came via a polite BBC email effectively telling me Pants on Fire was ... well, pants.

The deflation was only compounded when I watched the six tunes preferred to ‘Pants’ – okay, I did tap my feet to Joe and Jake, the eventually UK entry.

So alas, this Saturday it’ll be back on the couch with mates, wine and insults. But I’ll continue to dream that one day...I’ll be receiving them.