Posts Tagged ‘ x-factor ’

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…

TO COSTCO AND BEYOND

Advertisements

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

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.

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.