50/100 challenge: day one

right, so my challenge to lose 50lb in 100 days kicked off today, and like Emma Chawner opening her third tin of Celebrations, I was full of excitement and eagerness. The main thing today was my first Slimming World group, accompanied by Juuuurdie, my spherical friend. I have attended Slimming World previously, normally in more salubrious locations, but I was persuaded through violence to attend a class that was a) near Juuuurdie’s home and b) more convenient for Juuuuurdie. Navigating my way through the spent syringes and broken WKD bottles that litter the path outside, I took my seat (and lowered Juuuuurdie into hers).

And my word, what a source of comedy the class was. Now, I’m not saying they were all common, but I’ve never before developed a superiority complex simply by having my own teeth and gainful employment. It was the usual (granted, informative) chatter and body therapy discussion where they single you out for five minutes, ask how you have done and natter on about syns and healthy extras. The Slimming World plan really does work though, so I can’t knock it. The whole thing was routine and the only standout bits were:

  • one particularly chunky lady saying she was going to stick a ‘fat’ picture on her fridge to stop her snacking. I couldn’t help but feel a heavy-duty bolt may have been more practical;
  • waiting for fifteen minutes whilst the lady checking me in ummed and aahed over how to spell my FOUR LETTER SURNAME despite me writing it out and giving it phonetically – and then asking me to type it in;
  • the aforementioned lady having a giant, throbbing coldsore taking over her face that was so large it probably had a syn value itself; and
  • one especially fetching lady doing the raffle whilst juggling a baby and shouting for someone to bring the pushchair loud enough to rouse Lady Di from her eternal slumber. She has cheerfully allowed me to take a picture of her femininity, below.

Would you like a raffle ticket?

Anyway, the better news is that I currently weigh a stone less than I originally thought when I dreamt up my challenge, so even if I don’t make it, I can make it to my target weight with ease.

Target weight loss for the week: 5lb
Miles walked today: 7.3

x-factor episode 4: rice ‘nd peas

My Sky+ started recording early and I have managed catch the tail-end of Celebrity Family Fortunes, hosted by Vernon Kay. I only wish one of the families had been the Rooneys as the question was ‘Name a way to pay for something’ – the answer would surely be ‘not wiping my cock on her skirt, mumbling a thank you and leaving £20 behind the Travelodge travel kettle’. Ho hum. X-FACTOR IN 6 MINUTES. Doesn’t Jennie McAlpine (Fiz from Corrie) look like Carrie’s mother from seminal horror movie classic Carrie? THEY’RE JUST BREASTS MOMMA. Now, I’m going to try and keep this more succinct, I’ll still rattle on about the acts I really dislike but if I miss the odd person out, it’s because they were just too bland or their name wasn’t mentioned. Deal with it. Mmmhmm. I’m doing a 5-point-star at YOU.

OK here we go. We’re in London and Cardiff, and the guest judge is Pixie Lott.

I’m overcome with relief when I see Pixie Lott, as I was getting her name mixed up with La Roux. I have nothing against Pixie Lott bar her pretentious name and the fact she looks like an emotional Cat Deeley, but La Roux I caaaaaaaaahnt stand! If you type her name into google images, you’ll notice that every single image on the first page she’s pulling the same face – trying so hard to look like a boy. She also looks terrifyingly like my ex.

La Roux

Straight into the acts, then. First act is Kash “Craaaaaig Rabid” Dholliwar (whose name is just one step too close to being a filthy racist joke), a permanently-engaged sales executive for T-Mobile who has mentioned how ‘flash’ he is about 600 times in his opening speech. He’s dressed all ‘stylish’ (i.e. he’s bought his clothes at Burton when there wasn’t a sale on) but with his fake diamond earrings and crappy aviators, he’s more Fred than Kanye West. A proper cock. He’s also got a cock-chin, which is where someone shaves a little line on their soul-patch, making their chin look like a giant cock-end. Anyway, he’s singing ‘Closer’ by Ne-yo, prefacing his singing by saying ‘Let’s make some music’, like some dodgy geography teacher DJing the school disco. He’s got a dreadful voice, like someone letting the air out of a novelty balloon, and Cheryl isn’t ‘feeling it’, which is unusual as she’s normally gasping, fluttering her eyes and flicking her bean over any act with a hint of ethnicity. It’s a no from all four judges. HA!

Alice Tinker from the Vicar of Dibley (Diana Zavina) is on next, singing I’m Coming Out by Diana Ross. The only thing coming out is her muffintop over her Bet Lynch leggings, and Simon after seeing the aforementioned muffintop. It’s a no.

Unnamed man singing Moon River now – only gets a mention because he has teeth like a street of condemned houses.

Danomic next, so called because it’s Darren and Dominic (clearly taking a break from masturbating and fiddling with their ankle tags) and thus a clever portmanteau, though this doesn’t work if you’re called Peter and Dot. They attempt Everybody in Love by JLS wearing clothes that their mother is still paying off the catalogue for. Nope.

A witch is booed, a red-faced jockey is waved through, and we have cut to Simon telling Louis how he would ‘love to be in his head for an hour’. Or his arse for twenty minutes, he’s not fussy. Simon eats soup like a simpleton too – hunched over his bowl and spilling it down his top. He’ll be picking oxtail pieces out of his doormat-like chest-hair for weeks now (and this is speaking from experience, one of the joys of being a hirsute male is that you can save shards of Pringles in your body hair for later).

Breaktime – IKEA have a great advert featuring cats.

Come on, how many awwws did you do? Right, back to the show.

The next act up is Tom Richards from South Wales and look, I don’t want to be unnecessarily cruel but he’s clearly shaved his chest ahead of the show to guarantee a yes from Louis, but all of his hair follicles have grown infected and he’s got big green spots all over his chest. Sometimes I hate having high-definition TV. But they’re well…rank. If you connected them all together like a dot-to-dot I bet it spells ‘Spunk here, Simon’. His mum looks like Angela Petrelli from Heroes and for whatever reason, they’re playing up the simple folk from Wales card. You know, usual guff about how it’ll change their lives if their son gets through – ASDA beans instead of LIDL, that kind of thing. He likes being on corners with boys? *cough* CIRCLE JERK *cough*. He’s singing The Script’s Man Who Can’t Be Moved…he’s not terrible but he’s doing my pet-hate – quivering his voice like he’s sitting on a washing machine. He has lovely boots, mind. Simon gives it the whole puff-piece (!) about singing another song because his style is so out of date (ironic coming from someone who looks like an 80s porn star), and whaddya know, the ‘random choice made up on the spot’ track that Spotty is singing is not only a) queued up and b) COMPLETELY different to his previous song. It’s a yes, after much whingeing and discussion. BULLSHIT. X-Factor, you’ve done this EVERY EPISODE SO FAR – making out like someone is on their last chance, changing their song, and letting them through after making them sweat (don’t fucking do that to the poor bloke, he’ll only block a few more pores). It’s more and more scripted with every series.

Anyway, Welsh Andrew Hayden-Smith leaves the stage.

Katie Smith attempts to cover ‘Use Somebody’ by Pixie Lott and because she’s breathy, she’s through. There’s only one person who has ever worn a beret on reality TV and got away with it and that’s Lucinda from The Apprentice. When’s that back? First week of October.

Lauren Francis, a barmaid from Plymouth, singing Heard It Through The Grapevine dressed as Peggy Mitchell, a barmaid from Walford. MEH.

Lee Vaughan, a pub singer, singing Come Together by The Beatles (I think) – he’s got a crap Mohican and a vacant, kind face. He starts humping the set, and I’m surprised that Cheryl’s Heaton genes haven’t kicked in as she doesn’t automatically get on her knees in front of a thrusting crotch. Girl is learning. He’s through.

The Cardiff auditions leave on a high, apparently. I still don’t see the point of having a guest judge, as Pixie Lott is bundled into a car after only 20 minutes of showtime and all I have learnt is that she has a mouth roughly the same size as your standard maths protractor and is capable of getting more rings on her finger than Louis during a Westlife contract negotiation.

Another break – now, is it just me, or is Joe McElderry currently starring in the Febreze advert with his brother where he has to ‘voosh’ his car? Evidence here.

There’s a splash for ITV2 which now has the tagline ‘You Know You Want To’. Want to what, lower my testicles into a deep-fat fryer to give me something more fun than watching your abortion of a channel? Seriously, they have a programme that they’re currently ‘casting’ called ‘The Only Way Is Essex’ – you can view audition tapes for this reality show online on their website. Never before have so many hymenless spunkbuckets paraded around in their bedroom in the vain hope of appearing on a TV show that by all accounts has the same amount of class as stopping for a quick shit in a motorway service station.

Yes, X-Factor then. What does Cheryl have tattooed on the back of her neck by the way – I presumed it was ‘OK I’ll swallow’ but I can’t make out the copperplate. Anyway, break out the hair lacquer and put Cheryl ‘THEM BLOODY FORUNNERS CUMIN’ OWA ‘ERE TAKING WOR JOBS’ on standby, as here’s a finger-clicking trio called Bun ‘nd Cheese. They compare themselves to Mary J Blige (pronounced Bliiiaaage) but they don’t come close. They attempt Listen by Beyonce but sound like a recording of a haunted church – all murmers and weird noises rather than words, which they seem to have forgotten. LOLZ. Who would have thought it? We can tick ‘Comedy Act’ off for this episode, at least. Bun ‘nd Cheese? Destiny’s Mild.

The next act (Nicolo Festa – curiously an anagram of Faces Lotion – spooky if he gets in Simon’s group) gets introduced by Dermot to the tune of ‘What A Man’ and I think we’re supposed to think he’s dishy. But CHRIST no. If anyone can remember the reference, he looks like Spider from Coronation Street. He’s got twattish hair and a coldsore because nothing says ‘Chart Number  1’ like herpes. Hey, if you get crabs, you’ll get yourself on the judging panel. He believes he can be an icon – perhaps Recycle Bin, because he’s full of rubbish. DING. TAKE THAT. KAPOW. About as sexy as picking your bum in a library. Sorry, anyway, his singing. He attempts ‘A Song For You’ (gonna guess at it being Michael Buble’s version) and he’s getting doe-eyes from Cheryl. He has a terrible voice though – it’s gone all lispy and plummy. I’m distressed by the girl hovering backstage who looks like Diana Vickers, and trying so hard to be different. Bleurgh. Simon likes him because he’s ‘weird’, and what do you know – he’s through.

Adverts now. Anyone else really dislike the ASDA advert where the snotty bitches from ‘the village’ all go round to ‘Valerie’s House’ to compare their shopping prices online? It’s the way the chunky mother with cheap glasses says ‘Well I wouldn’t normally shop at ASDA’ as if she’s above such places? Please. It’s clear from her rubenesque stature that the greedy cow would shop at Netto if she thought there was a doughnut in it for her. BAH.

Next act? F.Y.D covering ‘She Said’ by Plan B, badly. I’m not sure why but it’s as if they have one too many people in the band? Anyway, surely we are all over this crappy jazz / acapella thing they’re doing? They’re through but we don’t discover what F.Y.D stand for, do we? Surely not because it’s ‘Fuck You Doing’, is it? Let’s change it to ‘Fairy Yum Delicious’.

Raquel Thomas has a pop at Superwoman next. She works in McDonalds and Louis laughs at her, saying that it isn’t what she wants to be doing. What a creep. A job is a job is a job after all, and someone has to put double gherkins on my burger with a smile. Another one for boot-camp.

A very pretty girl is on next – Jo Beetlestone – and she’s the only act so far that I like. I think it’s because I’m a sucker for blue eyes, and hers are very pretty. Plus, she’s an ‘equine dentist’, which I took to mean she manages horses teeth, rather than she’s a horsey looking dentist. Didn’t catch what she was singing but because it had Simon’s Guaranteed Erection Giver (a gospel choir) she’s waved through. A good voice though, so fair enough!

Oh my, the next act has a great shirt on, so that distracts me from the off. Not only do I like blue eyes, I love bright tee-shirts. I’m so vain. Anyway, Paije Richardson is an usher during the day (and Sean Kingston during the night) and I’m guessing, with that haircut, he’s starring in all manner of 90s Nickelodeon teenage-drama shows. He actually looks like Mack from MC Kids for the NES. I’m hoping he’s going to do something different but OH NOES, it’s ANOTHER FUCKING VERSION OF FLY ME TO THE MOON, complete with Claire Sweeney jazzhands. A big giant meh. Gay as a sixpence too. Simon please, no more swing artists. Time for the decision. Louis says yes. Cheryl says no (first time for everything) and it’s over to Simon, who also says no. Louis tries his best and pleads for a reprieve but Simon’s holding firm. Paije walks off and the crowd boos, and then BANG, Louis is out of his chair to head backstage quicker than if someone had said there was a sale on at CloneZone. A little motivational speech from the Irish Charmer, and Paije is told to come back next year.

Which he will.

And he’ll get through, to the tune of whoever wins this year blasting over shots of Simon’s smug, hairy face. Predictable? Nah.

Ad – memo to Martine McCutcheon. We know you have dimples, you don’t have to shoehorn your colossal gob into every shot in your Activia adverts. I get the impression you could be explaining your advanced piles condition to an unsympathetic proctologist and you’d still be gurning away like a fucking ‘cheeky faced’ moron.

X-Factor is back and…wait for it…we didn’t even need to wait a year! No, Kenan Thompson is back (awwww here it gooooes!) for his second try and he’s only had a day or so to wait! He’s singing Man’s World by James Brown. For goodness sake. He comes out the first time, sings a jazzhands version of a Frank Sinatra (white) song, and apparently it’s the wrong fit. He comes back and sings a nice gospel song sung originally by a fat black man, and ding ding ding, we have a winner. He’s through, end of show.

Oh fuck off show. Fuck right off, you scripted, fake, apology for a show. For the record, he sings much better this time, but it’s all ringing so false. You can literally check off the scenes you’ll get in a show now:

  • A band or singer introduced by Dermot outside, who gives their story, has loads of confidence, then turns out to be a dire singer;
  • Someone given a ‘second chance’ at singing, when it clear the second song was what they were always going to sing and they just have to fluff the first song to create drama;
  • A Diana Vickers / Olly Murs clone who gets ushered through;
  • A shot of Cheryl’s battle with malaria which STILL hasn’t been shown;
  • A bit with Dermot looking sympathetic with the backstage help;
  • Simon Cowell winking at someone like the big throbbing cock that he is.

I’m really finding it quite difficult to write about the show now because a) I’m not interested in any of the acts and b) the acts themselves are so alike that my insults are running into each other. I might shake things up a little next week. I’m also sorry if this post doesn’t have the normal amount of piss and vinegar but that’s as a result of loathing the show so much.

But above anything else, we know what is truly wrong with the show. STILL no Emma Chawner. How I long for the day when that stage creaks loudly and she comes trundling out from behind the stage, pockets rustling with chocolate bars like a fleshy vending machine. Seriously people, if you can’t remember her, google her – she gets 14,800 hits. Mind you, there’s only 3700 websites, it’s just that she’s so fat that one page of ‘Chawner’ counts as four.

I love her really. Come on Emma, Audrey, Phillip and Samantha, put down those potato smiley faces with red sauce and get back on the X-Factor bandwagon. Your country needs your humiliation.

See: she’s not happy. Thanks all!

Daughter On X-Factor, Mother On Incapacity Benefit

My Sky+ started recording early and I have managed catch the tail-end of Celebrity Family Fortunes, hosted by Vernon Kay. I only wish one of the families had been the Rooneys as the question was ‘Name a way to pay for something’ – the answer would surely be ‘not wiping my cock on her skirt, mumbling a thank you and leaving £20 behind the Travelodge travel kettle’. Ho hum. X-FACTOR IN 6 MINUTES. Doesn’t Jennie McAlpine (Fiz from Corrie) look like Carrie’s mother from seminal horror movie classic Carrie? THEY’RE JUST BREASTS MOMMA. Now, I’m going to try and keep this more succinct, I’ll still rattle on about the acts I really dislike but if I miss the odd person out, it’s because they were just too bland or their name wasn’t mentioned. Deal with it. Mmmhmm. I’m doing a 5-point-star at YOU.

OK here we go. We’re in London and Cardiff, and the guest judge is Pixie Lott.

I’m overcome with relief when I see Pixie Lott, as I was getting her name mixed up with La Roux. I have nothing against Pixie Lott bar her pretentious name and the fact she looks like an emotional Cat Deeley, but La Roux I caaaaaaaaahnt stand! If you type her name into google images, you’ll notice that every single image on the first page she’s pulling the same face – trying so hard to look like a boy. She also looks terrifyingly like my ex, as per the evidence below. My ex had bad psoriasis though – perhaps the only sense that he was cracking in bed.

Straight into the acts, then. First act is Kash “Craaaaaig Rabid” Dholliwar (whose name is just one step too close to being a filthy racist joke), a permanently-engaged sales executive for T-Mobile who has mentioned how ‘flash’ he is about 600 times in his opening speech. He’s dressed all ‘stylish’ (i.e. he’s bought his clothes at Burton when there wasn’t a sale on) but with his fake diamond earrings and crappy aviators, he’s more Fred than Kanye West. A proper cock. He’s also got a cock-chin, which is where someone shaves a little line on their soul-patch, making their chin look like a giant cock-end. Anyway, he’s singing ‘Closer’ by Neo, prefacing his singing by saying ‘Let’s make some music’, like some dodgy geography teacher DJing the school disco. He’s got a dreadful voice, like someone letting the air out of a novelty balloon, and Cheryl isn’t ‘feeling it’, which is unusual as she’s normally gasping, fluttering her eyes and flicking her bean over any act with a hint of ethnicity. It’s a no from all four judges. HA!

Alice Tinker from the Vicar of Dibley (Diana Zavina) is on next, singing I’m Coming Out by Diana Ross. The only thing coming out is her muffintop over her Bet Lynch leggings, and Simon after seeing the aforementioned muffintop. It’s a no.

Unnamed man singing Moon River now – only gets a mention because he has teeth like a street of condemned houses.

Danomic next, so called because it’s Darren and Dominic (clearly taking a break from masturbating and fiddling with their ankle tags) and thus a clever portmanteau, though this doesn’t work if you’re called Peter and Dot. They attempt Everybody in Love by JLS wearing clothes that their mother is still paying off the catalogue for. Nope.

A witch is booed, a red-faced jockey is waved through, and we have cut to Simon telling Louis how he would ‘love to be in his head for an hour’. Or his arse for twenty minutes, he’s not fussy. Simon eats soup like a simpleton too – hunched over his bowl and spilling it down his top. He’ll be picking oxtail pieces out of his doormat-like chest-hair for weeks now (and this is speaking from experience, one of the joys of being a hirsute male is that you can save shards of Pringles in your body hair for later).

Breaktime – IKEA have a great advert featuring cats. Come on, how many awwws did you do? Right, back to the show.

The next act up is Tom Richards from South Wales and look, I don’t want to be unnecessarily cruel but he’s clearly shaved his chest ahead of the show to guarantee a yes from Louis, but all of his hair follicles have grown infected and he’s got big green spots all over his chest. Sometimes I hate having high-definition TV. But they’re well…rank. If you connected them all together like a dot-to-dot I bet it spells ‘Spunk here, Simon’. His mum looks like Angela Petrelli from Heroes and for whatever reason, they’re playing up the simple folk from Wales card. You know, usual guff about how it’ll change their lives if their son gets through – ASDA beans instead of LIDL, that kind of thing. He likes being on corners with boys? *cough* CIRCLE JERK *cough*. He’s singing The Script’s Man Who Can’t Be Moved…he’s not terrible but he’s doing my pet-hate – quivering his voice like he’s sitting on a washing machine. He has lovely boots, mind. Simon gives it the whole puff-piece (!) about singing another song because his style is so out of date (ironic coming from someone who looks like an 80s porn star), and whaddya know, the ‘random choice made up on the spot’ track that Spotty is singing is not only a) queued up and b) COMPLETELY different to his previous song. It’s a yes, after much whingeing and discussion. BULLSHIT. X-Factor, you’ve done this EVERY EPISODE SO FAR – making out like someone is on their last chance, changing their song, and letting them through after making them sweat (don’t fucking do that to the poor bloke, he’s only block a few more pores). It’s more and more scripted with every series.

Anyway, Welsh Andrew Hayden-Smith leaves the stage.

Katie Smith attempts to cover ‘Use Somebody’ by Pixie Lott and because she’s breathy, she’s through. There’s only one person who has ever worn a beret on reality TV and got away with it and that’s Lucinda from The Apprentice. When’s that back? First week of October.

Lauren Francis, a barmaid from Plymouth, singing Heard It Through The Grapevine dressed as Peggy Mitchell, a barmaid from Walford. MEH.

Lee Vaughan, a pub singer, singing Come Together by The Beatles (I think) – he’s got a crap Mohican and a vacant, kind face. He starts humping the set, and I’m surprised that Cheryl’s Heaton genes haven’t kicked in as she doesn’t automatically get on her knees in front of a thrusting crotch. Girl is learning. He’s through.

The Cardiff auditions leave on a high, apparently. I still don’t see the point of having a guest judge, as Pixie Lott is bundled into a car after only 20 minutes of showtime and all I have learnt is that she has a mouth roughly the same size as your standard maths protractor and is capable of getting more rings on her finger than Louis during a Westlife contract negotiation.

Another break – now, is it just me, or is Joe McElderry currently starring in the Febreze advert with his brother where he has to ‘voosh’ his car? Evidence below.

There’s a splash for ITV2 which now has the tagline ‘You Know You Want To’. Want to what, lower my testicles into a deep-fat fryer to give me something more fun than watching your abortion of a channel? Seriously, they have a programme that they’re currently ‘casting’ called ‘The Only Way Is Essex’ – you can view audition tapes for this reality show online. Never before have so many hymenless spunkbuckets paraded around in their bedroom in the vain hope of appearing on a TV show that by all accounts has the same amount of class as stopping for a quick shit in a motorway service station.

Yes, X-Factor then. What does Cheryl have tattooed on the back of her neck by the way – I presumed it was ‘OK I’ll swallow’ but I can’t make out the copperplate. Anyway, break out the hair lacquer and put Cheryl ‘THEM BLOODY FORUNNERS CUMIN’ OWA ‘ERE TAKING WOR JOBS’ on standby, as here’s a finger-clicking trio called Bun ‘nd Cheese. They compare themselves to Mary J Blige (pronounced Bliiiaaage) but they don’t come close. They attempt Listen by Beyonce but sound like a recording of a haunted church – all murmers and weird noises rather than words, which they seem to have forgotten. LOLZ. Who would have thought it? We can tick ‘Comedy Act’ off for this episode, at least. Bun ‘nd Cheese? Destiny’s Mild.

The next act (Nicolo Festa – curiously an anagram of Faces Lotion – spooky if he gets in Simon’s group) gets introduced by Dermot to the tune of ‘What A Man’ and I think we’re supposed to think he’s dishy. But CHRIST no. If anyone can remember the reference, he looks like Spider from Coronation Street. He’s got twattish hair and a coldsore because nothing says ‘Chart Number  1’ like herpes. Hey, if you get crabs, you’ll get yourself on the judging panel. He believes he can be an icon – perhaps Recycle Bin, because he’s full of rubbish. DING. TAKE THAT. KAPOW. About as sexy as picking your bum in a library. Sorry, anyway, his singing. He attempts ‘A Song For You’ (gonna guess at it being Michael Buble’s version) and he’s getting doe-eyes from Cheryl. He has a terrible voice though – it’s gone all lispy and plummy. I’m distressed by the girl hovering backstage who looks like Diana Vickers, and trying so hard to be different. Bleurgh. Simon likes him because he’s ‘weird’, and what do you know – he’s through.

Adverts now. Anyone else really dislike the ASDA advert where the snotty bitches from ‘the village’ all go round to ‘Valerie’s House’ to compare their shopping prices online? It’s the way the chunky mother with cheap glasses says ‘Well I wouldn’t normally shop at ASDA’ as if she’s above such places? Please. It’s clear from her rubenesque stature that the greedy cow would shop at Netto if she thought there was a doughnut in it for her. BAH.

Next act? F.Y.D covering ‘She Said’ by Plan B, badly. I’m not sure why but it’s as if they have one too many people in the band? Anyway, surely we are all over this crappy jazz / acapella thing they’re doing? They’re through but we don’t discover what F.Y.D stand for, do we? Surely not because it’s ‘Fuck You Doing’, is it? Let’s change it to ‘Fairy Yum Delicious’.

Raquel Thomas has a pop at Superwoman next. She works in McDonalds and Louis laughs at her, saying that it isn’t what she wants to be doing. What a creep. A job is a job is a job after all, and someone has to put double gherkins on my burger with a smile. Another one for boot-camp.

A very pretty girl is on next – Jo Beetlestone – and she’s the only act so far that I like. I think it’s because I’m a sucker for blue eyes, and hers are very pretty. Plus, she’s an ‘equine dentist’, which I took to mean she manages horses teeth, rather than she’s a horsey looking dentist. Didn’t catch what she was singing but because it had Simon’s Guaranteed Erection Giver (a gospel choir) she’s waved through. A good voice though, so fair enough!

Oh my, the next act has a great shirt on, so that distracts me from the off. Not only do I like blue eyes, I love bright tee-shirts. I’m so vain. Anyway, Paije Richardson is an usher during the day (and Sean Kingston during the night) and I’m guessing, with that haircut, he’s starring in all manner of 90s Nickelodeon teenage-drama shows. He actually looks like Mack from MC Kids for the NES. I’m hoping he’s going to do something different but OH NOES, it’s ANOTHER FUCKING VERSION OF FLY ME TO THE MOON, complete with Claire Sweeney jazzhands. A big giant meh. Gay as a sixpence too. Simon please, no more swing artists. Time for the decision. Louis says yes. Cheryl says no (first time for everything) and it’s over to Simon, who also says no. Louis tries his best and pleads for a reprieve but Simon’s holding firm. Paije walks off and the crowd boos, and then BANG, Louis is out of his chair to head backstage quicker than if someone had said there was a sale on at CloneZone. A little motivational speech from the Irish Charmer, and Paije is told to come back next year.

Which he will.

And he’ll get through, to the tune of whoever wins this year blasting over shots of Simon’s smug, hairy face. Predictable? Nah.

Ad – memo to Martine McCutcheon. We know you have dimples, you don’t have to shoehorn your colossal gob into every shot in your Activia adverts. I get the impression you could be explaining your advanced piles condition to an unsympathetic proctologist and you’d still be gurning away like a fucking ‘cheeky faced’ moron.

X-Factor is back and…wait for it…we didn’t even need to wait a year! No, Kenan Thompson is back (awwww here it gooooes!) for his second try and he’s only had a day or so to wait! He’s singing Man’s World by James Brown. For goodness sake. He comes out the first time, sings a jazzhands version of a Frank Sinatra (white) song, and apparently it’s the wrong fit. He comes back and sings a nice gospel song sung originally by a fat black man, and ding ding ding, we have a winner. He’s through, end of show.

Oh fuck off show. Fuck right off, you scripted, fake, apology for a show. For the record, he sings much better this time, but it’s all ringing so false. You can literally check off the scenes you’ll get in a show now:

·A band or singer introduced by Dermot outside, who gives their story, has loads of confidence, then turns out to be a dire singer;

·Someone given a ‘second chance’ at singing, when it clear the second song was what they were always going to sing and they just have to fluff the first song to create drama;

·A Diana Vickers / Olly Murs clone who gets ushered through;

·A shot of Cheryl’s battle with malaria which STILL hasn’t been shown;

·A bit with Dermot looking sympathetic with the backstage help;

·Simon Cowell winking at someone like the big throbbing cock that he is.

I’m really finding it quite difficult to write about the show now because a) I’m not interested in any of the acts and b) the acts themselves are so alike that my insults are running into each other. I might shake things up a little next week. I’m also sorry if this post doesn’t have the normal amount of piss and vinegar but that’s as a result of loathing the show so much.

But above anything else, we know what is truly wrong with the show. STILL no Emma Chawner. How I long for the day when that stage creaks loudly and she comes trundling out from behind the stage like a vending machine made flesh. Seriously people, if you can’t remember her, google her – she gets 14,800 hits. Mind you, there’s only 3700 websites, it’s just that she’s so fat that one page of ‘Chawner’ counts as four.

I love her really. Come on Emma, Audrey, Phillip and Samantha, put down those potato smiley faces with red sauce and get back on the X-Factor bandwagon. Your country needs your humiliation.

JP

apologies

no x-factor blog tonight – come back some time tomorrow as I’m going aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaht.

To make up for it, here’s Paul Robinson from Neighbours doing an amazing job of singing whilst pushing some walls around.

complaint to poundland: an affront to my threadbare masculinity

Buoyed with the success of Orange finally getting back to me, I decided to knock out another complaint letter, this time to Poundland – the home of good value. And bags of misshaped sweets. Mmmm. What will come about as a result of this whimsical letter? Perhaps nothing. But I like the fact I managed to use ‘as gay as a flowering meadow’ in a letter. Mmm yes. I figure not many people complain to Poundland and those that do are probably raving lunatics, so it had to be worth a try. Click for bigger (and apologies for the clunky way of linking these):

Page 1: redacted for your viewing pleasure

Page 2: Don't Judge Me On My Mousemat

orange reply

Remember how I really quite dislike the bearded Jesus-alike in the Orange Wednesday adverts and I fired off a complaint letter? You don’t remember? Callous. Here’s a link to my original complaint:

https://thenumber18.wordpress.com/2010/07/28/bloomin-orange-wednesday/

Well, we have a result! Click for a response from the land of Orange. Sadly, no compensation for my scorched eyes, formed as a result of looking at his confused, blank face.

Turnaround time of response: 3/10 – but I imagine it’s fair scuttled about various departments
Sarcasm quotient: 7/10 – I especially like the ‘I hope we can make you happy again’ theme at the bottom
Quibble: unjustified text! The bane of any admin’s life.

I Make You Happy Now

x-tra chromosome factor episode 3

And we’re off! Another kernel of pop-matter being squeezed out the money-grabbing sphincter of ITV-HD. We open with a breathless voiceover telling us we’re at FEVER PITCH (that’s pitch, Cheryl, they’re not taking a shot at your malaria again) and a few shots of previous singers, torsos, arguments and Michael Fucking Lewis.

Guest judge this week is Natalie Imbruglia, the revel-sized, wide-eyed Australian who shat out ‘Torn’ and made all karaoke parties in the 90s unbearable. We’ll endure her insincerity later, but wait, look, we’re in London! The judges are greeted by gimps waving their mobiles in the air – why not just use your eyes people? You’re not guiding in the 1530 Easyjet from Malaga. To keep this a bit more punchy, let’s not warble on, and just get straight to reviewing the acts.

First on, The Evans Twins singing The Greatest Day by Take That.  There’s nothing to them, albeit they’re muscular and fairly good looking. Simon says no but Louis says yes, though it’s more likely he’s imagining being the amber in a hot sex traffic-light.

Next, Bejon, who have come dressed as a James May tribute act. Clearly they’re gonna be the new Jedward, as Cheryl and Louis let them through. They look so wet though – proper Harrow boys, who have doubtless got some organic rocket sandwiches wrapped in goodwill and hessian in a tupperware box left with Grandmama backstage. Bejon? Begroomed.

…ooh…why are we getting twins? And mentions of Jedward?

Because we’ve got FRENCH JEDWARD! Two floaty-light mincers from Paris, all scarves, mascara, perfect teeth and one leather glove, they come on and baffle the judges with some flimflam about being Iranian and coming to the UK as we’re hot and spicy. Please. If Britain was a spice, it would be ‘Old’. They’re called Twem, incidentally – Arabic for twin. Now see here, I’m longing for the day when someone has the balls to call themselves ‘Turban Legends’, as I’d find that hilarious. They’re singing Just Dance by Lady Gaga and they’re terrible at singing, but blimey, they’ve got Gaga’s ‘cock on show in tight trousers’ bit down pat. The audience are on their feet quicker than if someone had announced Greggs had a 90% sale on, and we have cheers. Cheryl says they ‘haven’t got the best vocals in the world’ – which, coming from a woman whose voice sounds like a malfunctioning microwave, doesn’t say much. Bit of teasing about how Jedward are spreading across Europe like a dose of the clap, but they’re through. Guarantee they’ll stay in til about three episodes before the end. Couple of TWUNTS.

Shite adverts this time round, and the horrific sight of Adrian Chiles in his boxer shorts, looking to all the world like the kind of man you’d see sat outside a school with a long-lens.

OK we’re back. Storm Lee next. Now, he’s a pet hate of mine, he’s giving it the whole rock attitude (I say that, he’s wearing a bit of black and doing the devil-horns with his fingers, which kind of went out with Avril Lavigne (didn’t she have an awful mouth – like a concentrating vagina) but if you’re going to have ‘rock spirit’, you wouldn’t be selling your ringpiece to Simon Cowell to plunder whenever he sees fit. Storm’s name is actually Lee. Oh hell, he’s singing “Every Breath You Take” by The Police and clapping along with the beat. He’s crap. Simon asks him to sing like he’s never sung before, so the song switches to ‘Still Haven’t Found What I’m Looking For’ by U2 and as I’m typing this as I’m watching I’ll predict it’ll be SO MUCH BETTER…and I’m right! There’s been one of these stories every week and it’s getting predictable as sin. Cheryl even caps it with some wide-eyed ‘surprised’ looks. ARRRRRGH. Simon asks what people would do if he changed his name to Lightning? Well Simon, rest assured, I wouldn’t call you Lightning, because that would be daft.

But that said, it’s easier to say than ‘Fucking Odious Cunt’.

Sorry about the swear, but the man really boils my piss. Next act then:

  • Ruth-Ann St Luce singing Will You Still Love Me Tomorrow. The answer’s a no from me, and a yes from the group – she’s so marketable it must hurt. Meh.
  • John Adeleye is on next, and he fills his time doing activities for dementia patients. Well big woof. I tried that, but they kept forgetting to say thanks, the ungrateful buggers. The trilby hat is an instant cock-warning and I’ve just paused it on a frame which reminds me of John AWOOOOGA Fashunu from Gladiators, which is a little offputting. He’s singing You Are So Beautiful To Me quite nicely though, and I’m glad he’s through. Cheryl’s eyes are twinkling again.
  • Elesha Moses comes out, dressed the exact shade of an easyJet lifejacket and threatening to burn out my TV, and does an adequate job of Plan B’s She Said. Proper cameltoe actioning – guess she was providing a lipreading service for the deaf. Through. Reminds me of a joke I heard.

‘For everyone who says THERE IS NO PLAN B, then explain that fat Cockney wanker I heard rapping on the radio t’other day’.’

Not really a joke so much as a statement of fact. Weirdly, they cut straight into a break with no trails – we’ve got an advert for the entirely useless iPad, but christ, they even make the advert look stylish. That old wanker Kelloggs is next, and then I nearly block the toilet again (see previous entry) (I didn’t, as I managed to get the toilet unblocked) when I realise I don’t know whether DFS are having a sale this weekend.

Still, with Megan, Ella and Marni doing the Talk Talk bright-dancing thing, we’re back into the X-Factor. But hang on? Marni? Who names their kid that? It sounds like a word you’d use to describe a flesh wound. Still, I heard of a child called Sharonetta the other day, which takes the council-subsidised biscuit.

Oo-er, we’re in Birmingham, and Natalie is here, flying the ‘Minogue’ flag. What, you’re going to be an empty-headed bitter sibling of an altogether more successful sister?

The first act from Birmingham is a returnee, who tried to audition when he was 14 but was turned away. He’s one of those empty-looking plastic men who have that swept over the eyes hair, white tight t-shirt and jeans combination going on. He looks like a dwarf hamster trying to sneak into a nightclub. Simon, of course, remembers him. We get a frightening shot of Sinitta and some memories of how he was told to go and get his GCSEs. So now, with a C+ in amateur dramatics and a B in hand-quivering notes, he’s off. He’s singing Cry Me A River by Michael Buble. My sphincter contracts with hatred for Buble as Liam Payne kicks off. Everyone loves him! Really?! He’s skulking round the stage like a predatory rapist and has a weird stilted voice but no, we’ve got the full AMAZED looks from all four judges. Simon even stands up! Steady on Simon, you’ll jar those love-eggs. I fast-forward through the guff as I can’t believe Peter Beale is through.

Er hang on – back into adverts? No good ads. Colleen ‘Fiona’ Rooney advertises for Littlewoods now, which I think is brilliant – just one more step to get into those Lidl adverts, you vacuous common cow. Crap ads, so here is a selection picked from BBC instead:

X-Factor returns, and after more empty shots of the crowd, voiceover, Dermot “Would you like pepper, Sir” O’Leary and other ways to fill time flit past, on comes the next act. Yolande from Eastenders, masquerading as Patti Eleode and wearing the kind of offensive tribal-print curtain you get in airport hotels, squeals ‘For Your Eyes Only’. It sounds like a pisstake, frankly, which makes it even more offensive because she’ll have been picked out of the crowd and put on the stage purely so we can all laugh at the fact she sounds like the imagining of Kim-Jong-Il from Team America. It’s a no, and her husband, Howard from the Halifax adverts, takes her home. I’m beginning to despair as this has been an especially patronising episode of The X-Factor so far – no good singers, only those chosen for us to titter at.

Fuck it. Next, Chad Kennedy, who is bloody useless. Camp as Christmas and hasn’t learned the words due to having a chesty-cough. He reminds me of a shaved Chuckle Brother, oddly. Simon asks him what will happen if he gets a tickly throat? Easy one that. Louis will give him some Westlife-approved Tixylix…for men.

High Street Boys follow, and they’re equally as bad (you can tell it’s the bit where we have a lot of bad acts, followed by TRIUMPHANT GOOD SINGER found moment) so they’re asked to leave. High Street Boys? Closed down.

Christ, doesn’t Natalie thingy look just like Dannii?

Aha, now we have the comedy tribute act, as someone bounds on the stage saying he’s trying to be just like Elton John? Reminds me of another old joke – did you know Elton’s left his husband? Yep, found him having sex behind his back. Kaboomtish. Anyway, Scott Archer is his name, and he’s more Reg Holdsworth than Reg Dwight. More shots of Cheryl looking pained, holding her head in her hands (and showing off that fugly slag-tag of hers in the process), and he’s away.

Blimey, this is quickfire – next is Brenda Morris, who has come in her best Bo Selecta wig and attempts Pink’s So What. Bless her for trying, but she’s a no. Mind you, Jim Bowen doesn’t half suit blonde hair.

UH-OH. Poser alert. It gets worse.

But wait – OH-NOES. Technical problem! I paused the recording so I could eat my dinner, and when I unpaused, it’s skipped fifteen minutes back to the live feed. Bugger! I think Posey will be through, but no matter because…the final act of the night is…the two fighting girls from the trailer! Cheryl “ah’ll blacken yer eyes and tan yer arse if yees divvent dish oot the Chubas’ Cole (thanks Jodie) is MOIST with anticipation.

They look terrible. One has so much metal in their mouth that I think the Sky box has fucked up again and I’m back to watching Terminator Salvation from last night, but no. Actually, they’re reminding me of someone and although it takes a while to click, here they are:

Lisa Riley stars in Psychoville

Claire Peacock's Sister

That’s right! They were the Siamese twins in Psychoville.

The crowd is booing and Abbey (Westminster) and Lisa (Plate Clean Every Time) have a bit of a spat, before waddling off at a rate of knots, accompanied by some swearing. Now they’re back. Oh, they’re called Ablisa. They’re singing Shayne Ward and yeah, they’re terrible, but let’s face it, we’re all watching to see two er…divvies fight. Singing over, they’re giving it the whole ‘end of the day yeah’ and ‘obviously’ – the language of the guttersnipe – and Simon Cowell says they have the worst attitude ever seen.

And BAM. The slightly less hippo-esque one elbows t’other in the face and they storm off the stage. Cheryl has to be held back from throwing off her heels and smacking those bitches down, and OH IT’S ALL GO. Security swarm in (security being some lily-livered ninny saying they’ll be kept separate) and it’s all exciting. Well no, come on, it’s all staged. Three weeks of ‘drama’ and it’s over quicker than a Ginsters pasty.

Incidentally, the mother of those two biffas – she’s absolutely been on TV before – she was a layabout mother in The Fairy Godmother a few weeks ago. If not, that means there is two women out there who look just like Russell Grant on a day off.

Honest – worst episode ever.

It’s all over. STILL no Emma Chawner. Come on, Emma, if you’re out there (and the size of you, bless you, you WILL be), come and sing!

me vs a circus elephant

Firstly, I must advise that this post is poo-related and uterrly, utterly banal, and if you have a fear of the scatalogical, please turn away. I fear I may be going a little stir-crazy with being stuck inside with this tonsillitis. The current situation is as such:

  • I have 100% free recording space on the Sky+ box, having gawped, dribbled and moaned my way through an entire series link of Jeremy Kyle, Countdown (I know), various reality TVs and one documentary. I have nothing to watch and am reduced to channel 667, the JML kitchen channel. I never knew there were so many uses for a JML Magic Bullet, but there is! Are you a retard who can’t dust? Try the Spinner Duster deluxe!
  • I can’t go to sleep in my bedroom as the council are thoughtfully digging up the road outside for the third time this year. I have been twice woken and gruffly asked to move my car, despite me blearily telling them I don’t drive. This doesn’t seem to compute with the tattooed numbskull who has worked out that because a car is parked outside my door, it belongs to me. The very instant the tarmac lorry is on my threshold I’m tempted to jump in and claim ownership. Then have a dirty protest.
  • I am existing purely on soup, ice-cream, iced water and coffee, as I can’t swallow anything with texture. Poor Other Half is beginning to walk funny as a result.
  • I have become obsessed with Peggle Deluxe on the XBox and I’m seeing orange dots even when I shut my eyes.

But all that inane nonsense aside, we have a SERIOUS problem.

I have blocked the toilet.

Yes, despite my liquid diet, I have woken this morning and laid a cable that would shame a circus elephant. I’m not sure where it all came from, but I had a tear in my eye as I flushed. It would appear that Baxters Cream of Tomato soup adds bulk to any situation, and the smell was making the gloss paint on the radiator blister.

However, it was going nowhere. I flushed, flushed again, and flushed once more, but each time the pan has filled with water and become ever more…soup like. I can’t describe the smell. I have tried using neat bleach, but no, all that did was add a faint pine smell to the situation. I have boiled a soup-pan full of water and flung it at the offending obstacle, but that merely simmered the foul liquid.

I put it off for as long as I could, but it had to be done. The worst possible situation that can ever arise in a bathroom (after One Man One Jar – don’t google that if you’re squeamish, normal, at work, sane or a bit fussy about shattered glass in your stank tank) – I had to go in. Yep, there was only one way to clear that blockage (REMEMBER I can’t leave the house as I’m weak and fey, and I’m too tight and ashamed to call a plumber) and that’s to man up, hand in the water, round the u-bend and unblock whatever is stuck there.

Peg on my nose (no kidding), tears in my eyes, boiling, scalding shower already running, in I go. And let me tell you, it was nothing like that scene in Trainspotting where he disappears into an underwater elysium – no, it was just me, arm-deep in waste, scrabbling around. Finally, I seem to dislodge something, and whoosh, the whole lot disappears around the bend. Hooray!

What follows was exactly like the bit in The Crying Game where the guy finds out the ‘Martha’ he has taken home is actually an ‘Arthur’, and spends a good ten minutes sobbing in the shower. I’ve used almost an entire block of coal-tar soap on my arms as I sat there sobbing in the water, calling myself a dirty girl and trying to get ‘clean’.

Tell you what though, I bet this stops me biting my nails.

Over and out.