Well, get pissed, abusive and ejected and call me Christopher. X-Factor.
Another two hours of unadulterated drivel ahead of me, just like last night. But this is the last night, the end of banal performances, exaggerated comments and shows of mock affection. I mean on X-Factor, not in Randall Towers, where our love is warm, deep and genuine, where we always give 110% and every day we learn more on our incredible journey.
So. A medley of Christmas songs by the X-Factor finalists. Hang on, where’s the bit when all the mentally ill people that were laughed off and rejected come out and make fools of themselves?
Instead, we had to endure the Chimney Sweep crooning between two women, naked except for large, strategically placed Quality Street wrappers. I glanced over to Lady Barton St Mary, who was sharpening her antique World War I bayonet.
“No. I’m not wearing one of those,” she said, anticipating my next line.
Somebody was missing, somebody sweaty and shaky and scouse. It’s taken less than 24 hours for Nanny Fairy to turn ugly. Hence, he’s been airbrushed in an incredibly Stalinist manner from the competition. Bye bye, Maloney the Phoney Phony.
The Singing Android, all circuits now at full power, sang something. I wasn’t really listening.
“You’re in de Foinal!” said Louis.
“You’re like a beacon of light,” cooed Nicole. The last time I witnessed such gushing was when the mains burst below stairs at Randall Towers. Still, thanks for all the shamazeball words, Nicole.
Professor Lidl reprised his sexy performance of ‘Get It On,’ ably helped by the grand daughters of Pan’s People. Somehow making James a sex symbol is going to be a tall order. Perhaps they should practise on somebody more likely to be a sex symbol, like Bill Oddie.
A quick look at some previous finalists still aboard the Sinitta Lover’s gravy train, being pimped across the world all of them stating how they’ve sold millions of records.
“I’ve/we’ve sold millions of records and I’m/we’re having the time of our lives,” said JLS, Leona Lewis, Rebecca Ferguson, One Direction and Little Rhythm.
“I’m having the time of my life,” said Olly Murs.
In true Nanny Fairy style, there was no room for Leon Jackson or Matt Cardle.
One Direction have had a gazillion record sales. Their debut album went to number one in America, they have number one singles and albums in dozens of countries, including the UK. Yet some people still continue to believe there’s a god. The boys stormed the stage to a cacophony of screams, mainly from deluded girl fans. The noise they made was almost as irritating as they lurched around the studio. What a mess. But never mind. It’s all about the hair; the rolled up sleeves; the strategically placed tattoos on the forearms, bearing the legend ‘Property of Syco.’
Then, Emile Sande on X Factor. Why? Is she that desperate? Does she have an agent that says yes to every naff opportunity?
A brief interview with Rio Ferdinand from the Manchester football team, who has the same dynamic personality as Professor Lidl. To be fair, Dermot had attempted to interview three other players, but every time he tapped them on the shoulder, they crumpled on the ground in agony.
Jahmene sang ‘Let it Be.’ Very,very slowly, with all his high pitching programming going into overdrive for the final note. More overstated, mock sincerity from the 4 wise monkeys.
“There couldn’t have been two better people in the final,” claimed Tulisa. Yes there could. If Mercedes from Basildon didn’t decide on the fate of X Factor turns, Dead Grandad Girl should there instead of the diminutive, screw topped, singing humanoid.
The Prof returned with ‘his’ single, called ‘Impossible.’ It was, of course, a big hit for that super singing star Shontelle, if you didn’t know. What did we do without the internet? It makes you look so well informed.
To be honest, it was all a bit dull and monotone. Thank goodness for a bit of light entertainment in the form of former Harry squeeze Caroline Flack and the JD Fan Club. Classic.
Before the final, final decision, Rhiannon had a chance to flog more records with a medley of songs. I realise the kids like her, but it all sort of washes over me. Interesting to see that pop socks are back in, though, and Lady Barton put down her bayonet briefly in order to shake her booty.
So, to the conclusion to all those Saturday nights when I’ve been stuck in watching pneumatic women in long string vests, old men swearing at Tulisa – or is it Tulisia? Or Tulisha? The psychopathic Pink tribute act who didn’t want to be Pink, the girls who did the splits, the delusional parents. The hours I’ve spent on Sunday catching up when I should be doing something more useful. The embarrassment of being caught sitting in front of the TV taking notes. Let’s all hold hands. Here’s the final decision.
THE WINNER OF THE X FACTOR 2012 IS …
Until next time. Oh yeah. There is no next time…