Forgive me for being so naïve, but I was under the impression that the XFatctor was a talent contest. Admittedly, since show number one, when my raison de viewing (a dance school buddy in FYD) was unceremoniously booted off, I have avoided the saccharine warblings of the primped up barbie dolls and snakey dance moves of men better suited to replacing their hips rather than shaking them. That was until last Saturday, when I had the dire misfortune of tuning in to Beatles week. After the first half an hour I felt like doing a dance of joy for the lovely boys of FYD as I came to the realisation that they had escaped a fate worse than death: having to share a house with Wagner. More specifically, having to listen to Wagner practice his ritual murder of not just one, but a whole medley of Beatles songs. If I were John Lennon I’d not just be turning in my grave, I’d be bursting forth from the very ground to haunt his ass all the way back to Brazil, where we may never have to hear him “sing” again.
Not only that, they had escaped the bratty death-stare of Cher Lloyd, queen of chavs, and most certainly in need of some kind of medication for all that nervous twitching and weight shifting she does. Bizarre. Watching Cher go about her business was like watching a woozy bee in Summer: angry, a tad disorientated, garish in colour, and a right nasty sting on her.
They just kept coming. This wasn’t talent. This wasn’t even music. It was ‘entertainment’ in its most base form. XFactor has become Big Brother Live on Stage. Not even content to be confined to the stage, all participants are insisting on bombarding us in day to day life. If I have to see another picture of Katie Waisell’s £90-an-hour escort Gran, posing in her 15den hose and parasol, I will personally book her up for the rest of the year, just to put a halt to this incessant advertisement.
Bah humbug to it! The sooner it’s over the better. I never thought I’d see the day when I said this, but…. Bring back Steve Brookstein. Sure, he had all the personality of a whelk, but at least he could sing (enough), and you didn’t see his Granny in heat offering her ‘Grand Dame’-like services. He was just a happy wee chappy who was pretty chuffed that he got to sing on TV for 12 weeks. Ah, the good old days…