the fuck-it list

ahahahah FUCK IT list. Sounds like bucket list, but just that little bit more controversial. Gosh, it’s been so long, hasn’t it? Looking back at the last post, I was busy foaming at the mouth neight months ago. Well, as I’m not one to drag out the tension, here’s the new status quo:

  • I’m still hilariously obese. I prefer hilariously to morbidly because morbidly obese conjures up the images of those horrid amorphous blobs in America who get attached to settees and can’t wipe their own bum without a three man team and a scaffolding tower. I’m not that bad, although I DID pass the Big and Tall Man shopand found myself thinking that I could get away with a lumberjack shirt if only I was a lesbian.
  • I’m now married. Yes, the other half did the decent thing and made me an honest man out of me. Don’t worry, I didn’t have the nerve to wear white. Not that I was a slut before I met Paul, mind you. Partner count never went into triple figures and I can still make a noise when I fart. However, because of my sausage-esque fingers, I had to get my ring let out. Is that a wedding first? Even the jeweller looked disdainfully at me whilst he got the ‘special’ sizing rings. Bastard.
  • I’m now UNEMPLOYED. Yes. I left my previous job thinking that the security of a new job was more important than the paltry redundancy money offered. However, a day into my new job, I was told there would be big old cuts, and that my job role was going to be minimal. Super. They cheerfully gave me a decent redundancy package and I was on my way, again, with only the happy memories of the lovely people I worked with to provide me comfort.

So, unemployment. Given how difficult the job market is, I’m obviously a bit worried, but I’m not going to let it faze me. I’ve decided to take a mini-sabbatical anyway and get a few things nailed down that I’ve wanted to do but never had the time, which I’ll cover momentarily. Being unemployed and doing nothing would not sit well with me, not least because I don’t actually own a shellsuit, nor do I have a pram so full of black and white children that it looks like a barcode for 20 Lambert and Butler if viewed from above. No, I’ve long mocked the unemployed for their trampoline-filled gardens and slackjawed expressions, but now I am one…so, to stop myself falling into the above categories, here is my ten point ‘Fuck It’ list for the next three months:

  1. Appear on TV – something I’ve always fancied, though preferably in a positive capacity – I don’t want to be arrested for lewd conduct or something tawdry, and advertisers, if you’re listening, just because I’m unemployed does not mean I’ll star in a Brighthouse advert. I’ve got my dignity, plus my own set of teeth.
  2. Write more – yes, it’s a cliché, but I do love to write, whether it is a blog-post, complaint letter, bit of fiction or a videogame review. I need to express myself, and as Lady Gaga has already got the ‘bloke wearing a meat dress’ thing down, I need to find something else.
  3. Grow my hair – I’ve had the same Richard O’Brian / Jade Goody / Gail Porter look for over three years, and I’m sick of old ladies clutching their handbags close to their chests when I pass them of an evening. I’m not a thug, I’m just not gay enough for hair clay. However, in the spirit of trying new things, I shall let it grow. Not to the extent I had my hair a few years ago, when I had long black hair and looked like a fat, camp version of Snape from the Potter movies.
  4. Learn to drive. Ooh, this is a depressing one this. Paul and I want to be able to gallivant of a weekend, and having a car would assist this greatly. Having decided to learn to drive, I requested a copy of the provisional photocard licence I originally set up when I was 17. The photo on the card is me, but nine years ago. I look so fresh-faced and innocent (I wasn’t), and there’s so much I could tell young me.
  5. Speaking of Yung Mi, it’s out with the takeaways and in with the fucking baked beans again as I need to lose weight, especially if I’m to get on the television (preferably not on Supersize vs Superskinny, where gigantic-faced Dr Christian ‘Gay’ Jennsen showsmy weekly food intake in one of those giant tubes – I always think the fattie’s tube looks delicious – am I doing this wrong?). So today, I joined a gym, and I know enough about my diet to lose weight. I did consider taking Alli, the weight loss tablet, but apparently it makes you shit hot grease, and I don’t want to leave skidders when I’m sat in the Job Centre looking disdainfully at the shaking masses.
  6. Finally, find a job. However, I’m not going to rush into the very first job I can find. Paul and I are lucky in that we have no debts nor major outgoings, and can afford to take some time out. But a job doing what though? I’m not sure. All my working life I have been doing stuff for someone else, perhaps it is time to find a job where I can be a) creative and b) wear super-gay bright trainers. I’m hoping that something will come along and take my fancy, but we shall just wait and see.

That’s my list for the next three months. Hopefully, I’ll get there.

PS: I still think Simon Cowell is a wardrobe-sized vagina.


time to have the boyle lanced

there’s me and The Significant Other settling down to watch the next set of plebs fail dismally at The Cube, when suddenly. Harry Hill finishes early and SUSAN BLOODY BOYLE’s new video gets a primetime airing. And fuck me sideways, she’s only covered Perfect Day.

And oh, but what a musical miscarriage it is. Aside from the fact that Susan has a face like a trodden-on Lion bar, she does not have an especially strong singing voice, which you can tell by the fact Simon Cowell wheels out the old favourite Rent-A-Choir to drown out ‘supplement’ her voice. As it is, Lou Reed’s sublime original piece alluding to heroin addiction and his sexuality is trashed by having Susan strenuously bellow out each word, somewhat inexplicably standing atop a mountain like Enya’s never-spoken-about goat-herding aunt.

Now I know we are supposed to coo over her because she’s fat and has birds nesting in her hair, but I’m fat too, and I don’t get an award and an autobiography deal everytime I tie my shoelaces. As such, I refuse to buy into the whole debacle, and can only desperately hope that The Descent is real and Boyle can meet the same untimely death.

Incidentally, avoid The Descent 2 – it’s dire. Never a more unnecessary sequel since David Miliband plopped out.

In other news, I have now officially left my job, and it was terribly sad. I try and keep an unemotional distance from work but I couldn’t, and I dare say I even broke my no-contact rule with a few hearty hugs. Some fantastic leaving presents and my adamant plea that there should be no fuss was totally ignored, and I came in to find a load of helium balloons to my chair. I looked like a fat version of the old man from Up. Lovely, thoughtful presents only added to the day, and all too soon it was time to go. I will keep in touch, though. My evil successor gave me a lift home with all the balloons – but – sadly, Hindenburg Cat has a serious aversion to them so, after a day of scaring her, we had to let them go.

As you can see, we did the most sensible thing, and let them off in the street. Can you spot them?

Mind My Thumb

Apologies to any tangerine-faced harlots on EZY118 from Ibiza on final approach into Newcastle who were startled by some neon balloon with ‘YOU ARE LEAVING’ emblazoned on it passing by the window. I can only hope it didn’t distract you from completing the Heat crossword.

Thanks all.


where did you go, my lovely?

where did I go indeed. It’s been a month, I know, since I last spat venom all over my keyboard in a grubby attempt to justify my existence. However, I have a great excuse – I had malaria. The last thirty days have seen me fainting delicately onto a sofa, shot in grainy black and white, with runners mopping my brow and some orange man with a face like a broken chest freezer looming large over me, exposing his scouring-pad chest hair and atomic-ice teeth.

Alternatively, I’ve been busy and couldn’t be jiggered to write. Mr Cameron has been busy putting the N in Cuts and, as a result, my current employer is on its way out – in its current form. Now, because I’m the type of man who would use sick children as a primitive ladder to reach the last lifeboat on a sinking ship, I was one of the first to depart for pastures new. Luckily, given the current economic calamity, I managed to get the first job I applied for, and it sounds like a perfect opportunity to ‘shift up a gear’ and progress the career. So yes – a bit of change, and what with planning a wedding and the perfect honeymoon, it’s just been a bit of a whirlwind.

In fact, no – it’s been a journey. I’m wiping ice-cold tears from my rough-hewn face as we speak. We just need Leona Lewis neighing over the top and we’re done. She’s a dark horse, that one.

So – in the spirit of keeping things cheerful, here are three random things that MAKE ME SMILE. They WARM MY HEART. They stop THE URGES.

  • Easily LED


I have grown weary of not being able to see every single wiry hair on Lord Alan Sugar’s disappointed scrotum of a face. Thus, after spending 10 minutes in Dixons being ignored by the unusually inattentive teenage weekend staff – who normally leap on you the very second you step over the threshold like you’re holding the cure to their detestable acne – we left for Comet and were immediately sold this beauty. Never before has such beauty graced our home. We tuned it into The Cube in High Definition on Sunday and the brilliant white of Philip Schofield’s hair toasted my cheese sandwich as I ate, slackjawed.

I know it’s shallow to rave about such things but I CARE NOT – it even turns itself off if it detects no activity in the room for more than 30 seconds, which could be handy for when I lapse into a diabetic coma watching the last episode of The X-Factor.

  • Saw 3D

I love the Saw movies. I know they’re unequivocally shit in terms of class, film-making, plot direction and morals, but still, I can watch old arse-gob Hoffman dispatching people through hilariously over-the-top methods all day long. Me and The Significant Other went to see it on opening night at the new IMAX Odeon. Now, I like the cinema, and I enjoy the perks of premium tickets – but really? A silver platter of Quality Street? I was completely thrown by this bizarre dichotomy – it’s like serving the Queen a Rustlers burger, or using quail legs to scratch your bumhole. Quality Street should be served in a tin full of wrappers, the chocolate guide no-one reads and a few nut shells. A silver platter should be used to hand me my change and then promptly withdrawn when I ‘forget’ to tip. The movie was excellent mind, with a superb twist at the end.

  • I have seen the light when it comes to N-Dubz

Yes, finally. I don’t know what came over me, but I didn’t half go through a stage of nodding appreciatively at N-Dubz songs like the middle-class, grime-hating tosser that I am. For fucks sake. I wouldn’t mind so much if every video they ever do didn’t have the little one (the one who wears that stupid hat, which bunches up at the top, and looks like a penis with a very droopy foreskin) prancing about like he’s dancing on hot coals. As I punt from the Cambridge end, I can’t comment on how hot Tulisa is, but I can almost guarantee that at some point she’s had to think about whether to put her chips down during a bus-stop scuttle.

HOWEVER, I still like Professor Green. Yeah, I know. He’s just as bad. All that posturing and elongating every last wuuuuuuuurd. But…hmm. His duet with Lily Allen isn’t half bad – and it shows that Lily can at least carry a note.

  • Melt that LAAAARD

Diet isn’t going too bad, though I appreciate that I haven’t updated the Fat Tracker on the side for a while. However, me, Juuuuuuurdie and now The Significant Other are continuing to go to Slimming World. Three new girls have joined, and I’m sorry, but if you had to describe a chav, you’d have these three panting and sweating at the exertion of appearing in your thought bubble. I can say they are girls with absolute confidence given they always sit opposite me with their legs akimbo – every meaty detail pressed against their skin-tight like six fleshy snakes fighting under linoleum.

I have lost a further 8lb – albeit over 6 weeks – so I’m a bit behind schedule. However, I’ll switch to the alternative Slimming World diet of smack and laxatives if all else fails. Come hell or high water, I’m going to be breezing around Disney on a Segway like the camp robot from Lost in Space – see below.

Lost in Space


Juuuuuuurdie hasn’t been doing too badly, and I have decided to keep a video diary of her weight loss to motivate her. Sadly, as you can see from this video, our Slimming World instructor – Sarah – doesn’t seem to want Juuuuurdie (using her police given pseudonym, Joe Blackburn – manly name for a manly woman)  in the class anymore. I’ll keep you updated.

And that’s it. I’m back baby. Might not be as regular in the future, but subscribe if you have enjoyed what you have read. If you haven’t enjoyed it, then I promise not to cut myself if you tell me. It’s not that type of blog.


50/100 – week 2 results


Let me preface this quick post by apologising for the lack of X-Factor update – truth is, I can’t be done watching it anymore, but I will happily start writing when the live shows kick off. It’s just too fucking contrived and if I see Simon’s inane smug self-satisfied smile one more time, I’m liable to give myself a nosebleed.

So a quick post – week two at Fatfighters and the results are simple – I have lost another 4 and a half pounds, bringing my total weight loss to 9lb in 14 days – 41lb to go! Very pleased with it. I feel bad that I bitched on about one of the more bovine members of the group last week for having cracked heels – as – and this is manky if you google image it, I have managed to get pitted keratolysis on my feet from walking in damp trainers all day. To make it worse, I still have the mystery flesh-eating thingy too, so my foot now looks like the top of a supermarket lasagne. Mmmm!

Oh, you were wondering about Juuuuuuurdie? It would be churlish of me to give away her weight status, so if she feels like posting it in the comments, then by all means – however she did look radiant. Sadly, she left one of her ‘special photos’ in my man-bag in her ongoing attempt to seduce me – please find it below.

Readers Hives

It didn’t work. The Other Half on the other hand is weighing himself using Wii Fit, so I might stick his weight loss results on later. All in all a very uneventful week!

OH! One good thing. If you’re looking for something far more interesting than The X-Factor, then give The Amazing Race a shot. Wikipedia it if you like – it’s one of the best reality shows out there. Season 17 just kicked off in America and here’s a piece from the opening episode.

Seriously, what’s not to love? This is also how the carers prefer to feed Juuuuuurdie her fish finger and chips dinner, lest they get too close.

I joke of course, she’s beautiful really.


50/100 – week 1 results

The first week of the challenge is over, and my feet look like corned beef from all the bloody walking I’ve done. I clock a hefty eight miles a day anyway, so my fitness is surprisingly good for such a fat gopper.

Anyway, as it is lunch, just a very quick update. Juuuuurdie and I wobbled our way into Fatfighters last night, and it’s an excellent start:

Juuurdie: 2 and a half pounds off; and

Me: 4 and a half pounds off

Juuuurdie outside, bemoaning her weight loss

After consoling Juuurdie and reassuring her that her career as a Lisa Riley lookalike isn’t quite over yet, and blanching over the state of the feet belonging to one of the more statuesque of the members (like a pan of burst sausages), we were off home.

Feet of Fatty

Bit disappointed with the result as I was hoping for 5lb off but to be fair, I was still sloshing from the eight million cups of tea I had during the day and I hadn’t dropped the kids off, so there’s another lb right there.

I might stick a recipe online tonight for chicken kebabs, which The Other Half made for me, bless him. Tasty, yes, but not quite as tasty as ‘a different sausage every night’, like the Chawners have. Oh the Chawners. When WILL you get your moment to shine?


x-factor episode 5 – the hooker and the pimp

Firstly, I must begin with some terrible news – I have been banned from Digital Spy for 48 hours because I asked someone why they were up at 03.45 writing eighteen paragraphs about Phil Mitchell’s crack addiction on Eastenders. Apparently that’s not in the spirit of the site. Being banned from DS is like being told you can’t frap with your left hand when you normally use your right. Devastated as I was, I have soldiered on, and – a little bit later than normal – here is this weeks X-Factor review.

Only it’s not. It’s a bloody two-parter! So here is the first part of the Simon Cowell show, reviewed for your pleasure. Now, I know I say this every week but this time, I’m just going to review the acts in handy little chunks. Where there is a snappy bit of television in between the acts, I’ll mention it – but I’m just trying to keep it concise for y’all. Y’all, really? Too much watching The Middle. Anyway, here we go.

So we’re in Manchester, and with Cheryl ‘MEET US BY BYKAH METRUUURGH PET’ Cole up in court for fiddling incapacity benefit since her malaria episode, we’re joined by Nicola Scherzinger from The Pussycat Dolls. She seems inoffensive enough, but looks distractingly like a very good looking ladyboy. The obligatory shots of the judges arriving to, weirdly enough, Rhythm of the Night sang by a jaunty choir. I spot it straight away since I’ve downloaded a 90s Pop Classics onto my iPhone, and it’s  amazing. ANYWAY for fucks sake, I’m distracting again. ACTS:

Rachel Chu – singing Saving All My Love For You by Whitney Houston.

Ding ding (that’s me, not her sister) – our first hilarious act of the evening. You know as soon as she speaks that she is being set up for the ‘Haw haw, let’s all laugh at the Chinese girl singing’ joke, and I’m right. She says she is 44 (Beef Chow Mein). Dermot O’Twat stands backstage asking her family if she can sing like HE DOESN’T ALREADY FUCKING KNOW SHE CAN’T. Yeah, she’s terrible, and Simon dismisses her out of hand, saying she was screaming her way through the song. To be fair, Simon, she’s probably taken one look at your japs-eye-haircut and been petrified. It’s a no.

John Ashmore – singing Relax, Take It Easy by Mika

You can tell he is going to be bad from the moment he walks on. Remember Gareth from The Office? It’s him with slightly greasier hair and offensive teeth. His high notes sound exactly like my bum-sighs when I’m trying to be polite. Nope. Louis compares him to a helium balloon. Cheeky Irish tinker, it’s my job to do the comparisons.

John Coy – singing Angel by Shaggy

I burst out laughing when he came on the stage because his face looks like all of his features have slid into the middle, leaving a good three inches of blank face all around his head. Imagine if someone drew a face of a rapist on the side of a party balloon, tied it outside and you looked at it after three days of hot weather? That’s what his face looked like to me. Anyway, he sang Angel like he’d just had a stroke, and it was a no. Get off the stage…but first…I have to draw you!

Divided – singing Russian Roulette by Rihanna

Didn’t we already have a Divided already? Aside from one who looks like Ben Mitchell (gotta be careful, I’ll set someone off writing again on Digital Spy and get banned once more!), they’re ineffectual to the point where I yawned whilst drinking my coffee, which is hard to do. Nope.

Nicola: ‘Manchester is a freaky place’. Peh. Get the tramp down to Alert! You ain’t seen freaky til you’ve seen a row of leather-clad slaves with their mouths held open by dental devices acting as urinals in the gents. Mmmhmm!

Candy Rose – singing When I Grow Up by the Pussycat Dolls

Pfft. The Tricia Goddard Lookalike Society take the easy route of choosing one of the judges songs but it’s a no, even though I actually thought they were pretty decent. I long for the days when a duo decides to sing one of Simon Cowell’s other acts in order to suckle from his hairy nipple, and choose Zig and Zag. The sight of two men singing whilst being fisted by some cruel puppetmaster would be hilarious. And doubtless reminiscent for Louis.

Break – together with a new advert for Playstation Move. Oooh, you can realistically shoot targets in Archery (like the Wii), box (like the Wii), play table-tennis like a pro (like the Wii) and look like a complete twat doing party games (like the Wii). However, somewhat unlike the Wii, you’ve got to hold what looks like an enormous cock in your hand whilst doing it. Now THAT’s original.

And oh Christ, a trailer for Phil Collins – One Night Only. If that night is spent lowering him into a power-blender I’ll be happy. If, however, it is spent listening to Anthony Cotton screeching at him about being his biggest fan and having to listen to his shitty, shitty music, then I’d sooner die, thanks. Back to X-Factor.

Aiden Grimshaw – singing Gold Digger by Kanye West

Here is our supposed ‘Hunk’ for the episode. He’s 18 and from Blackpool and I bet he’s been taken up the tower many, many times. He’s all stonewashed denim and a little poncy-scarf for his neck, which gives him the unfortunate appearance of a particularly butch ‘fan of tennis’. We see the gayest ever 12 year old performing in Grease on a proper school and then met his relatives. Now listen. I’m not going to be mean for the sake of being mean but time has NOT been kind to Gillian McKeith, who has come along as Aiden’s grandma, Mary. Seriously. She’s got enough lines on her face that you could use it to direct an articulated lorry to the motorway through the town centre whilst avoiding the congestion charge. Blah – there’s enough reason to give up smoking. Aiden has decided that the most sensible facial hair he can do is to shave everything but a little strip under his chin. It looks daft and I want to warn him about the Velcro effect – if that gets caught on a hairy scrotum it’ll never end well. Simon asks what he has done in preparation for today, and I’m surprised when the answer isn’t ‘a delicate Evian douche’ but ‘a few gigs’. He sings, everyone screams, it’s a yes from the judges.. I don’t know why though – when he sings he looks impossibly self-satisfied and he’s doing that fucking awful slurred singing that seems to be big…never. A writer better than me pointed out that swing artists never sang in that rancid way where you drawl and it’s very true. A breath of fresh air? Oh fuck off Louis. He sounds like Eoghan Quim who sounded like Leon Jackson who sounded like Ray Quinn who sounded like every other unoriginal bastard that has ever swaggered through the door clicking their fingers like a super-smug dick dressed in whatever was on special in River Island that week.

OH – and this needs a mention too – his mother REALLY needs bigger trousers because her camel-toe is off the scale, despite her gunt trying to hide it. Seriously – I can almost make out the DNA sequence of her last gentleman caller. That is one HUNGRY MARY.

Nyom Nyom Nyom

The Huhas – singing Upside Down by Paloma Faith

The two girls found the lead male singer after a quick search on Facebook. They were lucky what appeared to be a denim-dressed lampshade turned up and not some obese 50 year old who lives with his mum and has egg on every cardigan he owns. They’re through.

Ade Bhadmus – singing Never Too Much by Luther Vandross

Hang on, isn’t this that Paije fellow from last week, just in Woody Allen glasses? He doesn’t need any more time devoting to him! Ade isn’t bad actually, got a pleasant, strong voice, and I’m glad he’s through.

John Wilding – singing Run by Leona Lewis

Now I’ve got three problems IMMEDIATELY with this little scamp. First, he looks like Kurt from Glee and ifuckinghateGlee. Secondly, he’s got eyes that can see both ends of a bus at the same time. And third – it’s Run by FUCKING SNOW PATROL – that stupid bassett hound of a woman covered it. It’s not her fucking song. Just because she caterwauls her way through it does not mean she owns in. GAH. Not sure how I feel about this one – he does sing well in that he sounds like Leona, but, his lips wobble too much like a fish flapping out of water, he does the ‘pushing back an invisible door’ thing with his hand, and sounding like Leona isn’t good – it’s like saying he’s got a fabulous moustache, just like Hitler. Anyway, he’s through.

Sharon Osbourne – singing Simply The Best by Tina Turner.

Mad drag act from Blackpool is next – Hazel Jackson who has come dressed as Sharon Osbourne, but she’s as rough as a two-pound handjob. Simon has the audacity to take the piss of her clothing, which is rich as he’s come in his grey t-shirt and stacked heels again. Obviousy, as Hazel is the ‘mad act’, she can’t sing, and they let her continue for far too long to really rip the value from her. She fancies Louis – that’s not going anywhere, Hazel love, trust me. The guy mines the Marmite like the best of us. It’s a no. Simon tells her they’ll be queuing at the door after the auditions – presumably with her pills and an ambulance ride back to the home.

Savannah Hammond singing Angel by Robbie Williams

Louis loses it over the fact she likes bellringing. I love Louis, even though I rip the piss out of him on here – he’s got a brilliant laugh and I think he would be a lovely person out of the studio. The correct term for a fan of bellringing is a campanologist, or a Simon. Anyway, Savannah and her mouth like a torn pocket warble their way through the song and bless her, it’s not good. Nope.

Valerie Roberts – singing (I think) Evening Falls by Enya

Second token mad act. Such a long shot but she looks like Nadine Cross from the end of The Stand, all white hair and tiny-faced. She’s wearing a superb t-shirt though – one of those ‘wolf’ shirts you see advertised in those magazines that drop out of Sunday newspapers, advertised alongside portable urinals and at-home-pile-poppers. Crazy bitch – it’s another no.

Stephanie Akakezi – singing I’m On Top Of The World by The Carpenters

PART-TIME legal secretary? Pfft. She wants to try doing it hardcore. She sounds like her microphone is fucked and makes Louis laugh, so I’m off. Right, we’re getting a run of bad acts, so just you wait, there will be a BRILLIANT act soon. She’s out.

Some fluff piece about how Louis fancies Nicole, including languid shots of them eating fruit (too easy) and admiring each others clothes. You can try to fool us but it won’t work.

Yuli Minguel – singing Falling in Love by Tina Turner (and Ike)

FINALLY an act I really like. Although she’s clearly come wearing every dress she owns (and she owns a lot, considering she runs Lisa’s Fashions – it’s Lisa from Sister Sister – HEY RAAAAY!) and she sucked up to Simon from the off, she sings tremendously and looks like a barrel of fun. Bingo-wings a-flapping and fingers a-clicking, she’s through! Excellent. My favourite act of the show so far. I have to confess, I did think at first that Audrey Chawner had minstreled up daughter Emma to get her onto the stage, but then I realised the only minstrels in the Chawner house come in packets. Or troughs. FATTY FATTY BUM BUM.

Here’s 10 minutes of Sister Sister for comparison.

Connor and Gabriel – singing Through the Grapevine by Marvin Gaye

Too easy to make an Ebony…and Ivory joke. The guy on the right is entirely pointless as all he does is click his fingers and look gormless. The guy on the left is your generic soulful singer. The backstage area looks like a student debating club. Meh. Through.

John Connolly – singing Haven’t Met You Yet by Michael Buble

DON’T PUT HIM THROUGH. There is nothing original about him except for the fact he’s a PE teacher and he ISN’T abusing children. He’s brought with him a proper politically-correct fanbase – there’s a girl in a wheelchair, black boy, white boy, effeminate looking one in a tight cardigan (Dermot)…just needs a butch-looking black woman on crutches and he’s got the full set. Still there can’t be worse.

Only there is.

Much, much worse.

Chloe Victoria Mafia – aborting Summertime

Where the FUCK do I start with Chloe Victoria (Mafia). I’ve got her face paused on the TV to type out her name and I’m speechless – I have genuinely never seen someone look so astonishingly unattractive. Hair like a gypsy’s pony. Eyelashes like she’s had her mascara applied by a drunk driving a roadsweeper. Teeth like an abandoned cemetery. Voice that makes you wish for death. Two black warts on her face drawn on using a Sharpie. A one woman advert for using contraception, coat-hangers paint-thinner or basically anything to make sure it will not happen again. She’s got a tattoo around her belly-button that says ‘I am nasty’ and probably another on her back that says ‘Available for hire, competitive rates’.

ARGH. I honestly can’t bear girls like this – common, trashy girls who have had their wombs scraped more times than an Artex ceiling. She says she takes three hours to get ready and I can well believe it – it takes me at least an hour to paintpod my living room, and I can imagine putting on that nuclear-orange foundation takes the same time. She says she dresses and looks like a star – you fucking don’t love, you look like Rosie Webster after four years of crystal meth and three years of hepatitis B. On stage, she says she wants to be more like 2Pac – well, get yourself down to the leather tanners for a couple more coats and you’ll be halfway there. Asked how she prepared for the audition, she says she hasn’t, but I BET she’s washed her clopper and hung a Magic Tree from her clitoris ring in advance.

Brilliantly, she’s singing Summertime. Now, I’m immediately biased against her, because I’ve had Summertime mooed at me by a drunken Juuuuuuurdie and it sounded terrific, even after the 47th time I heard it. Chloe is shit, so another song is chosen – a Shakira number. Simon cancels her and she kicks off, saying she hasn’t got a CD player to practice with (bet it’s pawned at Cash Converters). That’s alright love, just ask one of your punters to turn the radio on whilst you’re noshing them in the layby by Wakefield Prison and sing along – it’ll set you up just right for working with Cowell. I know she’s going through but here we go – she gets a third fucking try.

Oh here we go, the fake drama. Louis says no (he’s playing THE BAD JUDGE), Nicole says yes, and Simon thinks there is something there. Aye, probably yesterday’s load sliding down her leg. What a fucking joke. This just shows the show for being a pantomime even more so than normal. She can’t sing, she looks like a car-crash in Boots, and she’s through, whilst good singers get turned away.

Here, you want to see how trashy this repugnant, nasty cow is, watch her on Snog, Marry, Avoid. Burberry clad baby. Shithole of a house. Gigantic pram. Every stereotype about chavs rolled into one Red Leicester tinged mess.

Next act in this shitstorm of a show – Rebecca Ferguson singing A Change Is Gonna Come

The sob-story starts – single parent, always wanted to be a singer, means the world, sob sob, had to put it all on hold because she got knocked up, sob sob, people started saying she was useless, sob sob. Worse still, she’s from Liverpool. Ah, the money shot – tears! That’s it love, cry on camera, let us linger on your tears. Mmm. Whaddya know, she’s good, she manages to sing her ENTIRE song with some autotune, and she’s through. The whole thing stinks – it’s clear they have added this singer on the end to try and take the bad taste away from Chloe’s bit of the show, but it doesn’t work. Wrap the show up, guys.

That was terrible. The shows are getting worse – 75 minutes to show 18 auditions sounds good, but when at least 10 of those auditions are the bumpers between the ‘big acts’, you realise how much time is wasted. The next show is tonight but I can’t review it until later in the week as I’m off tonight and I’m a bit X-Factored-out. Feel free to publicise this on Digital Spy for me saying as I’ve been banned!

Oh, and finally, the Chawners are mobilising. Could they be getting an article of their own on here on Thursday or Friday next week? Could well be…



100 days to go.