episode 2 – louis goes cruising

Apologies for the delay in getting this up, I am very unwell with 100% certified tonsillitis / man-flu, and it’s only by having nothing else to do in bed other than wipe my snotty nose and moan to myself that I’ve found the time to type it up.

Ah, the X-Factor episode two, rolling around like the last sweet and sour chicken ball in the great Chinese of life – bad for your heart, full of oil and grease, but still a tasty enough morsel. Last time I gave myself finger cramp from trying to write about everything I saw, so let’s keep it simple this time – we’re in Dublin (first joke: why is the city so large? Because it’s always DUBLIN. Oh Louis, you can have that one on me, you little scamp) and the judges arrive by a motorcade of sleek cars, with Louis, Simon and ‘Emotional’ Cheryl arriving first, followed by Katy Perry, who is tonight played by Rosie Webster from Coronation Street as described by a four year old. She kissed a girl, she liked it. I tried it once, and I was asked to leave. After a quick Cockney impression from Katy, we’re off.

And fucking hell, they’re using Sweet Child Of Mine as the overplaying music. On The X-Factor! Boyband Temple Fire threaten to ‘set the place aloight’ with their matching vests and carefree attitude. Subtle editing shows Mr Walsh’s beady Irish eyes start smiling as they walk out. Now, I can only presume they’re called Temple Fire as they all sound like they’ve had a stroke – think F.A.S.T people – and they murder Jitterbug by WHAM. It’s a solid no from all four judges,  and Simon lambasts them for not taking it seriously. Now come on. This from the Hairy Beast who manipulated someone’s mental health just to cover up his Autotune scandal. Notice how the big furore about the Autotune was overshadowed by Shirlemenenenena being asked to leave the event last week on the grounds of her health? Cynical move, Mr Cowell. You twat.

Now, the montage accompanied by ‘Hot and Cold’ by Katy Perry, which was prefaced by her wittering that things have to get better as everyone so far has been dire. Well, OH NO THEY DID-UNT. Because we have:

  • Michael McCarthy, a sweaty carrier bag who squealed his way through Frozen. Face certainly was. I thought I’d tuned into a touching sequel to The Boy Whose Skin Fell Off.
  • Noel Keegan – pub singer who had a breakdown on stage. Simon “struggled” to get him to leave the stage. Should have just asked Katy to blink – her gigantic bovine eyelashes would have blown the poor sod right up to the Giant’s Causeway, to be sure to be sure.
  • Laura O’Keefe singing Empire State of Mind. Sounds terrible, like air escaping from a moist beaver. Thus, Laura O’Queef. I never pretended to be clever. Best part is Simon lambasting her for ‘not being from New York’. Simon, just so you know, I doubt Joe McElderry’s hedonistic days compering at the North Shields Bingo Hall really made him feel like he’d climb every mountain etc either. Just between you and me.
  • Man dressed as tiger. Combines nicely with Simon who’s come as a gorilla.

ADVERTS! Yes. Two things. Firstly, did you know that Mr Kelloggs did not invent cornflakes as he thought breakfast was the most important meal of the day, but rather to help quell masturbation? Pfft. I think he underestimates teenage boys. Nothing like a breakfast multitask before school. Oh and Everest? You’re right, I didn’t know you’d be doing that these days. But there again, I have no fucking clue who you, and your ultra-smarmy turtlenecked wanker of a spokesman is. So hush your gums.

Back to X-Factor. More “heated discussion” about Louis failing to provide talent in Dublin. Get yourself down to Hamilton toilets, Louis, you’ll sharp find some throbbing, stiff talent to give to Simon, who’ll doubtless refuse because he’s straight and getting married and totally not a COMPLETE MARY. I’ve got the same Starbucks cup as Katy Perry, by the way.

Next, Stephen Concannon singing Your Song by Elton John. He actually goes up and sings to Cheryl’s beautiful eyes. CAREFUL Stephen, bitch has malaria! SHE’S DELICATE. Plus she’ll ‘kick yer fuuuckin’ heed in if yer divvent ‘ave a fuuckin lemon Chuba Chup’. (I do wonder how many times I can vary that joke per review). Simon isn’t impressed. Everyone says yes once he takes off his top, revealing a rather bland torso underneath. Meh. I’ve seen better. My partner has at least twice as much upper body and that’s how I likes it.

Sugar Bullet now, singing…I haven’t got a clue. Presumably Sugar Bullet as they each have a lifetime on their hips but only a moment on their lips? There’s a girl who looks like Katy Perry – so she’ll be christened Katy Perrier. They’re through but much of a muchness.

Sadbh O’Donnell next. Actually not that bad, singing True Colours. Initially, I couldn’t even make out words to google to find out. I presume the same thing happened when it came to baby-naming day. She’s through. Simon has a bad feeling (it’s called conflict). Next…

Rebecca Creighton, unemployed hairdresser, singing something with soul. I like her cherry earrings so she’s got a pass. BUT, she’s doing the flappy thing with her hand when she hits a high note like she’s trying to silence an errant smoke alarm. She leaves the stage with a REALLY smug wink from Simon Cowell. Is it too much to hope for that he’s got conjunctivitis? Moving on…

50-year-old-Mary-Bryne-from-Dublin. She’s got a face like an argument for self-service checkouts and we get some odd wittering about how she sings on the till. Frankly, I’d love a singing checkout lady as opposed to the gum-chewing slackjaws I get in ASDA, who read my paper as they scan it through and make snide comments about my choice of ice-cream flavours. Oooh. She lumbers onto the stage and – shock horror – she’s got a bloody good voice.  She bellows her way through I Who Have Nothing by Tom Jones. I REALLY like her voice, but I also really like the song. I feel like a right twat for saying nasty things about her looks, but well, I’m shallow. It’s four yeses from the judges, quite rightly, and you can almost see the pound signs in Simon’s eyes as he spots another Susan Boyle.  If Mary or her family are out there, then honestly, she’s by far and away the best so far. Oh my. Some adverts please.

Nigella Lawson. Always just two chocolate buttons away from buttering her muffin live on TV. How’s this for a brilliant advert trilogy? Kids discussing fresh fish, then an advert for Canestan, then an advert for period pain? A triple entente of Jim Davidson-esque humour.

We’re back, and now it is time for London to do its worst. Simon gets out of his chauffeur-driven car with his shirt opened down to his stomach and my man-flu takes a severe turn for the worst. I loathe how bloody smarmy he is, it really gets to me. He’s also got a perfectly rectangular head and permanently erect nipples, though I suppose he’ll have someone to do that for him. Like Louis.

ANYWAY songs. A painter-n-decorator (Matt Cardle) with a baker-boy hat and designer stubble who claims that if he is successful, it’ll be the end of magnolia splattered all over his face. Hmm. Not if you’re in Louis’ group, who accordingly looks as excited as a slut in a forest full of cocks. He warbles out ‘You Know I’m No Good’ and he’s not terrible, but meh, it’s been done. He’s through. Bit wheezy. Now he’s from Essex, and he has Essex eyes – slight epicanthic folds and deep brown. It’s a weird thing but you can nearly always tell someone is from Essex by looking at their eyes (brown for boys, pink for girls) (I joke).

Onto the next act – Michael Lewis from London – who has come along dressed as Michael Jackson. He’s horrifying. Now, let me get one thing straight (WE’RE 100% REAL LAWYERS) – I hate Michael Jackson. I really bloody despise him. There’s not one bit of music by him I enjoy. I think he had a terrible voice and his face could scare a hungry dog out of a butchers. So, with that in mind, I was primed to dislike this impersonator, and boy did I. I’m not sure what was worse – was it the fact he was wearing every possible sequin south of Leeds, or his pissy, weak voice, or his abysmal hair – I’ve never seen Michael Jackson sporting a haircut that looks like it was dashed off by a mad Aunt (one letter out) and worn for a bet? Anyway he sings Rock with You and tries to gee the audience along with some ‘Clap your hands now’ spiel. To be fair, he nails one aspect of the Jackson lifestyle – I wouldn’t 100% trust him with my children, if I had them (and didn’t hate them). Shite, and after a hissy fit on the stage about negative energy, he is asked to leave.

Recognise him? Michael Lewis was one of the superfans who sat down with Derek “SLUT” Acorah on the Michael Jackson séance hosted by Sky One last year. Best bit of horrifying TV ever. See below.

Louis compares him to Latoya Jackson rather than Michael Jackson, fair point, but surely Millie Jackson is better yet? Check out her tasteful album cover.

Diana Ross relaxes in her stately manor

Ads again – only advert I like at the moment appears (the cow running on the beach in the Muller ads) and I smile.

The next audition is up, a “vocal harmony group” from Southampton. Bland. They all look like web-designers and not a looker amongst them. They’re called The Reason, and because they cover Cheryl’s fabulous music masterpiece “Fight for this Love” (missing a comma, Cheryl?) they’re a shoo in. The guy second from the left, with bakerboy hat and those big holes in his ear, has really crap tattoos.

Let’s wrap this up and be more succinct:

Seven – acapella versions of Lady Gaga’s hits. I like them, especially as Nancy Lam is taking part. I once went for a meal at Nancy Lam’s restaurant and she asked whether me and my equally portly friend would like seats near the door as ‘WE SO FAT WE NEED COOL AIR’. That’s not me being racist, that’s exactly what she said. Seven are through.

HOT FOOD NOW

Husstle – subpar girl group doing an abysmal cover of Walk Like An Egyptian. Lead singer looks like the worst kind of Jennifer Ellison doing an impression of a female-to-male pre-op. About 10 years out of date too.

Princes and Rogues – oh fuck off.

The final act of the evening is Annastasia Baker and I can’t bear how forced and scripted this show has become. You’ve got someone who is a fairly decent singer. They bring her out, I laugh because she looks like Trisha Goddard, she blasts her way through Proud Mary by Tina Turner and they do the whole ‘worst song choice’ accompanied by sad music. But guess what? She’s got another song cued up, and…it’s AMAZING (it’s not) and she takes her shoes off, wells-up with emotion, and she’s through! Cue fake smiles from all three judges, hysterical clapping from the cloppers in the audience and a nice way to end the show.

Review done. A really crap show – only one act stood out, and that’s because she sang a song I like. Worst part, we didn’t even get to see the girl in the trailers get smacked in the face.

AND NO EMMA CHAWNER. Fat bitch.

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episode 1: autotuned with a hint of ginger

Everyone already knows that the X-Factor this year has been autotuned to merry hell and there’s plenty of people feigning shock that Simon Cowell could be so manipulative. Really? Well, I’m too shallow for all that philosophical chat so let’s have a run-through of the first episode, in bite-size chunks…

  • ten minutes of exposition on who has won already, who is judging (with Geri Halliwell standing in for Dannii Minogue) and where the auditions are being held, coupled with plenty of overhead shots of a bustling crowd all gazing at the camera like penguins expecting fish, followed by…
  • Stephen Hunter doing a dance to Disco Inferno.Voice not so good, but seems pleasant enough. What you would get if you joined a cheerful Jeremy Spake with a nonchalent Jeremy Beadle. But a house-husband? Not 100% convinced…then:
  • ad-break – bumpers this year are Talk Talk again, with various on-the-register folk prancing about drawing pretty lines with light, trailer for Martin Clunes’ new show about horses. Men Behaving Saddly, anyone? KABOOM-TISH. Autotune me now! Then…
  • Diva Features – gay lad in white in the midle of two art-student girls, one of whom really can’t carry off fishnet tights – also can’t carry a tune, so they’re booted off. Then it’s over to…
  • George Bicknell – token old man. There’s a man in his entourage who looks like Captain Birdseye. Simon dismisses him and says that he is ‘looking for the next Justin Bieber’. I am too, if only so I can run a power-sander over his face. Onwards to…
  • Emedy Ecilo, whose name looks like it should be an anagram of something. Butchers Billie-Jean by Michael Jackson. Shooed off. Mind you, Cheryl’s eyes didn’t half light up when he came on – girl’s a believer! He exits stage right…
  • …and on comes Billie Jackson from Eastenders wearing a flower on his hair. Calls himself Gamu Nhengu and chortles his way through Walking on Sunshine. On a serious note, despite her autotuning, this was the first act I liked. Good! She’s through. Next…
  • …another advert. This time, we’re told to be proud of our puffed-up pie. But ladies, don’t be, get some Canestan on it quick-smart before you get your eggs scrambled. Back to X-Factor…
  • Louis (in pink) saying to a muscly sweaty man that he’s ‘exactly what I’m looking for’. Saucy bitch isn’t even trying to hide it! Various shots (hilarious) of Geri Halliwell going on and on like she’s judging on a talent show or something? Blah blah blah. Let’s get to the next act…
  • G&S. Apparently stands for Gay and Straight and not Gunt and Splinter, as I assumed on first sight. He’s unemployed and looks like Paul O’Grady from the future, she’s manager of a Burger King, or has managed her way through a Burger King. It was hard to hear her, though she’s actually quite pretty. They sing Don’t Stop Believing. He’s shite, she’s alright (thanks to the autotune) and thus the old ‘let’s make some drama by splitting them up’ spiel begins. Simon folds his now fully-carpeted arms across his chest, makes a face like he’s just started a Sudoku using a pen instead of a pencil and asks Splinter, the guy, to leave the stage. Gunt bellows her way through another song, and lo, she’s through! Dermot asks Splinter if he’ll go solo too. My stomach ticks over until I realise he means singing. It’s a no, and we’re onto the next act…
  • Someone non-descript. Then another bland. Someone who has brought her kid along to auditions, which is an unusual way to spend access day. Then…
  • Noir. French for Black. English for shite. Murder Paparazzi, yet waved through. Guy on the left far too chunky for a maroon vest. Awful. Next…
  • Couple of others. No names given. Then there’s Mark McGregor. Scottish guy working in a call-centre. I bet he works for SKY. Bland voice but inoffensive. Louis is already rimming him with his eyes, so of course, he’s through. Check out how the guy stands though – it’s like he’s angry, constipated and about to spring a birthday surprise on a favourite relative all at once.
  • OH NOES! Glasgow is finished. As is Geri. She departs in a car to the closing notes of Happy Ending by MIKA. A nice segue into the final credits, but no, we’re only halfway through. I dislike the Diet Coke advert as the puppets remind me of cherubism, and it’s hard to laugh without feeling like a bastard.
  • We’re in London now, and it’s time for JAHM, who compare themselves to N-Dubz. No, really. It’s all a bit United Colours of Benetton (they met online) and they bust out their best moves to Bad Romance. They sound like three babies being clawed to death by savage cats. Given they sound like such bloody twats, may I humbly suggest renaming themselves as JAHM-RAGS? Terrible audition is met with blank stares from the judging panel and scripted silence (it’s possible) before they get booted off. Fair play to the producers though, the whole piece was pretty funny. The constantly-smiling-twink’s grin never fails mind, but the Chinese girl looks like she’s about to go all Audition on them. Moving on…

Here’s a touch of JAHM for you, actually:

  • Sorry, to jump in – but we’re watching this in HD and Simon Cowell’s chest is making me ill, because he’s clearly very hairy and has shaved, and it looks like a sponge.
  • Some comedy now as Cheryl is being bitchy about various girl-groups. She turns down ‘Dice’ – named after their spotty faces – and says to lay off the fake tan. That’s like Hitler campaigning against the use of fossil fuels. Next, ‘Electrolytes’, whose forced anime-manga look upsets both me and Cheryl, who says they should audition for a kids programme. Cow. Finally, ‘Ladybird’ (damn, I used my Spots joke!) who get told they need a serious image overhaul, which is true, as one of the young girls looks the spit of Lea ‘Bite mah clit’ Walker from Big Brother 7 and she’s only 20.

UUURGH YEH CHEW ME TWAT

  • X-Factor competition. The answer is ‘Again’ – the missing word from the sentence ‘Dance with my father again’ sung by Joe McElderry. Not a problem Joe, he’s doing the graveyard shift at the Powerhouse this Saturday. BYOB (of poppers).
  • Back to the X-Factor and the most annoying, odious audition ever. Katie. Looks like Dewey from Malcolm in the Middle dressed as Sandy from the end of Grease. She uses words like ‘epic’ and ‘amaaahzing’ and calls Dermot ‘my love’, like some Sloaney market-trader ringpiece. Maaahsive fan of Freddie Mercury too. Does that fucking annoying breathy pausing thing that Diana Vickers does. Ballsed up her first song but (gosh, what a shock) they have a Queen song lined up. She gasps her way through that, and she’s through. Never seen a more annoying act, which means she’ll stay in as long as possible. Next act please.
  • No! Another round of adverts. ONE act then adverts? This is insane.
  • Final act is Eric Estrada singing Mercy in Bet Lynch trousers. Shirlena Johnson doesn’t make too bad of a fist of it but the autotune is shocking, listen to when she starts singing – it’s almost Cher-like. Got a bit of soul about it but also does that arm-trembling thing when she sings. Distracted by the fact you could make out every flesh-wrinkle of her ham-wallet through her leopard-print leggings. She’s through.

And we’re done! X-Factor episode one typed as it aired and, with a delay to eat and proof-read, online. The show finishes with the same bit of music it always has and some tantalising clips of next week, when Cheryl reacts with horror as a girl punches someone in the face. What’s the matter Biffa, stolen your act? Tramp.

All in all, quite a poor show. Only two half-decent acts and they sound so similar I’ve already forgotten who they are. Too many ads. Too much chatting and audience reactions.

AND NOT ENOUGH CHAWNER. Come on Emma, you owe it to all your fans to strap on your Milletts-Best and warble your way through another Celine classic.

Ta.

the x-factor starts TONIGHT omg lolz literally?

So here we go again. Simon Cowell and his giant thrusting cock of a TV show kicks off again later today, dooming us all to several months of tedious faux-stories and sensationalist splashes all over the red-tops. Perhaps I should have a vested interest saying as Cheryl ‘Gissa fuckin lolly or ah’ll fuckin deck yers’ Tweedy-Cole-Slut is one of the hosts, but it is hard to get excited about someone who always looks so desperately vague and distant. Like she’s trying to remember directions to a nearby cattle-market after a day in the hot sun.

I wittered on about Joe previously this week and his big gay shock (that is, he is gay, not that he had received a ‘gay shock’, like using that fucking Durex Heat lube which makes it feel like you’re being branded rather than buggered) and perhaps that’s what we’ll end up with again – some closeted yet harmless imp whose teeth all look like they’re fighting for pole position in his gob releasing a sub-par cover of an Eighties classic. Or Shayne bloody Ward. Was it Ward? The man proved so ineffectual that I can’t even be arsed to move my mouse to open a new tab and google him. A man with a voice so bland you’d turn to listening to an air-raid siren pitched directly into your inner-ear just for some rhythmic relief.

Still, it’s a good chance to play Spot the Cliché, and fills a void for an hour on a Saturday until Doctor Who comes back on or the sun goes back in and it’s cool outside again.With almost depressing inevitability:

  • shots of Simon, Louis, Dannii and Cheryl arriving via a flash mode of transport – they’ve done boats and planes, so they’ll most likely parachute in using the taut skin of Dannii’s face as a parachute;
  • Dermot O’Leary doing his broken. sentences. act. to. raise. tension and then RAISING HIS VOICE FOR THE LAST FEW WORDS;
  • a billion young, slightly swarthy looking  girls doing that awful warbling singing-like-an-American-even-though-I’m-from-Romford thing with their voice that makes them sound like they’ve left their love-eggs in;
  • immediately following the above, shots of Simon with his mouth open looking SHOCKED, Louis with wide-eyes looking AMAZED, Cheryl with empty eyes (but not LIMPuh, LIFEALESS HAIR, eh) looking LIKE AN IMBECILE and Dannii looking IMMOBILE.
  • at least two of the main featured acts being accompanied after their successful act by the chorus of Flying Without Wings by Westlife or something suitably triumphant by Leona Bloodhound Lewis;
  • spinning headline shots about Cheryl’s brush with almost certain death as a mosquito tries to draw blood from her papery flesh and Simon Cowell tries to convince us that she’s the Princess Diana of our generation (kinda right, though I don’t think Charles was a crafty butcher, unlike I suspect Good Old Mr Cole);
  • and so on.

Of course, I’ll forgive everything if at least ONE of the Chawners trundles onto the stage and tries to strangle some notes around the shards of BBQ Pringles wedged in their elephantine throats. Can’t remember the Chawners? Good lord. Here’s the family:

Milk Milk Lemonade Around The Corner 182 Chicken Kiev Dinners Please Mate and a Gallon of Drippin Between Us

You know what cracks me up about this shot? Not only does it look like the Mother (on the left) is wearing two sanitary towels stuck together on each foot, but they have carefully left a cotton-bud on the carpet just to show how ‘grotty’ the house is. Anyway, they’re the subject of a new TV show starting next week. I’ll be watching, pretending to be shocked and outraged but still laughing cruelly as Lorraine Kelly brusquely bullies them into losing weight.

Goodnight.

——

Oh, as an extra, I was served in a bar on Thursday by a man who looked JUST like Whitey the Albino from Me, Myself and Irene.

uh-oh.

As of midnight tonight, I am now a non-smoker!

meet luma, the magnificent growling cat

oh Luma, our portly puss. So friendly, so fat, so bloody greedy. She is Luma, hear her growl.

BT’s Adam and Jane live in a happy place

Scrotum

no YOU open the organic elderflower press

oh those bloody BT adverts with Kris “My Family” Marshall and “the woman who looks like she is second back-up in a pub Corrs tribute group” get right on my wick. I’m not sure what is worse – the patronising smiles, the ‘laddish’ behaviour (because you would talk about bloody networks on your stag do, of course, and not tromboning) or Jane’s I-send-my-kids-to-school-with-a-kumquat-and-organic-apple-juice self-satisfied smirk at the end of each advert.

Anyway, they’ve only gone and done a bloody advert where you can vote on what happens next. The cliffhanger (in its most tenuous form) sees Jane lying on her bed, content in her slack pyjamas like she’s been paddling the pink canoe for a good thirty minutes, whilst Adam and his Haircut lies opposite her. BUT GASP – they’re not really together. They’re communicating through the phone but that doesn’t fill the void.

But, clearly, something has filled Jane’s void, as the choices for the vote online is whether or not Jane is pregnant. That’s it. No alternatives. Either Adam is a fertile poncy-haired father to be, or he’s as dry as a nun’s gusset.

Now see, I would have loved some alternative suggestions, and can’t help but think that, had the following options been available, BT would have been raking it in.

Is Jane…

  • pregnant, but, rather than accepting seed from some hokey ex-My-Family bellend, she’s bearing a child to another man, namely some hairy-armed broadband fitter with a roll-up behind his ear who came to look at her latency issues caused by her sub-par BT Home Hub location?

Is Jane…

  • about to leave Adam, leaving A-List Actor Kris Marshall doomed forever to a life of small bit-parts in Richard Curtis movies and BBC sitcoms, before finally being triumphantly returned to TV in series 38 of My Family, back in the comfortable busom of Zoë “Tiddler from The Riddlers” Wanamaker?

Is Jane…

  • ringing for some awkward, fumbling attempt at phone-sex, where they discover that she is so uptight and stereotypically middle-class that she uses phrases like ‘I’m going to diddle your tinker’, ‘sit on my face and ride me like a 1900s boneshaker bicycle’ and ‘heavens, my labia’ until Adam spreads his muck over a nearby copy of Grazia?

Is Jane…

  • going to admit she’s being played by a polished version of  Keavy from B*Witched?

Is Jane…

  • not calling Adam at all, but still on the phone to BT, trying desperately to find someone competent but coming up against the same piece of poorly-synthesised Vivaldi’s Four Seasons that we all do when we try and get someone who isn’t a total fucker to sort out the many mistakes on our bills? (off-topic: leave BT, come to SKY, all the customer service seems to be based in Scotland and super-friendly, though occasionally you’ll get someone curt who sounds like Duncan Bannatyne answering the phone after being disturbed in the bath)?

Is Jane…

  • ringing to say she “knows her way round a pool table” and is leaving him for some dry loving with Maureen Lipman, star of the old BT adverts?

There’s bound to be more. But I’ve wound myself up so much thinking about the advert that I need to lie-down and diddle my tinker. Cheers Jane.

J

go on jooooe pet

I would just like to offer my congratulations to Joe McElderry, who came out over the weekend. It is an amazingly difficult thing to come to terms with and it isn’t easy accepting your place in the world. Confusion reigns, and I know from personal experience the kind of bullying, nasty comments and snide remarks that he will face now that he is being open about being a mediocre hand-puppet for Simon Cowell’s hairy fist, but we have to wish him well. The big nancy.

It does annoy me a little, though, this ‘coming out to The Sun’. Apparently, he was sat on the train with his mother when he had a gay epiphany and told his mum he took deliveries round the back (well let’s face it, I doubt he’s a power-top, so that simile stands). Now, the very last thing I’m thinking when I’m travelling on a train is about HOT-GAY-ACTION so I doubt that’s 100% true. More believable, and yes, more cynical, is the fact that some discobunny in London rang the papers offering an exclusive ‘poppers and the pop-star’ style expose story about his hot night with the ‘confused’ Mr McElderry and, to save face, Joe’s management team will give the press a good story with some ‘thoughtful’ pictures in exchange for some positive press.

They did it with Stephen Gately, then Mark from Westlife, and now Joe. Such a dirty system.

Of course, the other side to this coin is far simpler – Joe has an album out soon, and as such, any publicity is good publicity, and having your best cheesy smile showing all of your ‘chew-an-apple-through-a-letterbox-teeth’ plastered all over the red-tops will win over the fickle minds of the British Public far better than any slot on The One Show. Already spotted several ‘SO COURAGEOUS’ posts around the Internet. Bollocks. There is nothing courageous about using your sexuality to promote your latest stinking album. BAH.

As an addendum to the above, I was sat on the bus going into town on Sunday morning and had to endure the same verse of ‘The Climb’ being groaned-out over and over by some wasted chav – and it still sounded marginally better than Joe’s attempt.