And it certainly makes more sense that putting Australia on the Eurovision leaderboard, wedged in between Armenia and Austria, and fielding inevitable and awkward questions about where on the European map we can actually be found. Anthony Callea is one of few talent show stars who have had commercially viable careers. Credit:Scott Barbour It's also a perfect fit for SBS, particularly in terms of its brief as a multicultural broadcaster. It's perhaps no more appropriate than Eurovision itself, though it would be a truly local production, but it's also a gentle reminder, as sections of the broadcaster's schedule now feature English-language programming, that it was born with a nobler purpose. And few purposes are as noble as kooky pop songs, batsh*t-crazy artists and a scoring system which makes the Brownlow Medal Count look like the cutting edge of theoretical mathematics.

Perhaps the bigger cultural question is‎: do we actually need another TV talent show? Conchita Wurst (or Conchita 'Sausage'), who won Eurovision in 2014. The answer is, that probably depends on the kind of TV talent show you're referring to. Or, in short, hell yes. How can this not be a brilliant idea? Particularly if it gives Australia's reigning Eurovision deity Lee Lin Chin - or another approved star of equal wattage - a chance to utter the words: "Hello Beijing, this is Sydney, can we have your points, please?". Jessica Mauboy performed at Australia's first Eurovision venture, but did not compete.

The beauty of Eurovision is that it transcends borders at a time when everyone (okay, not everyone, just basically Donald Trump) wants to replace little imaginary dotty map lines with actual walls made out of bricks and mortar. Like its parent competition, Australia's pan-Asian Eurovision would be a beautiful exercise in soft diplomacy at a time when supposedly more serious tendrils of the diplomatic octopus are curling into knots. Backstage at the European competition, there is a gentle majesty to watching delegations from countries whose political relationships are fractious engage with one another on a cultural, and human, level. As ridiculous as Eurovision sometimes seems, the power of such interactions, and the lasting impact on those involved, cannot be understated. It also doesn't sucker itself into the fundamental lie at the heart of other TV musical talent shows: that the winner, and anyone else who strikes the right musical note along the way, is destined for commercial greatness.

Though Australia has had a wealth of shows in the genre, pushing out artist after artist, the brutal reality is that few of them have gone on to enjoy lasting, lucrative careers making music for a commercial return. And of those who have, the lion's share - Guy Sebastian, Anthony Callea, Jessica Mauboy and Rob Mills spring to mind here - all date back to the earliest iteration of Australian Idol, and not the multitude of shows which have sprung up since. Even The Voice, which prides itself on placing more emphasis on musical artistry than on the manufactured gimmickery of lesser programs ‎has frankly struggled in the same way. Eurovision's stars come pre-baked. The ones with really bad tans come actually baked. As a competing country, you can send along someone famous, someone not so famous, or someone you find in the corner shop humming a few bars of "Ring Ring" while she slices deli ham with a machete and a wicked glint in her eye.

We could send Madonna. Or Megan Gale. Or Maria Venuti. And the madness, brilliance and beauty of Eurovision - or its planned Australian step-child - is that all of them, more or less, have the same chance of winning. And that folks, without ‎a doubt, would be the greatest TV talent show of them all.