And so to The Voice, the BBC’s brightest hope to usurp ITV’s Shite Factor and various other singing/dancing/dog training/reality shows. As well as stealing fatuous wanker Russell Watson’s self-penned nickname, The Voice isn’t radically different in that it still offers the ultimate winner a recording contract after arduous weeks of slogging it out against numerous rivals. Jessie J, Tom Jones, will-i-am and Danny O’Donoghue - (yes, I had to google him too. Apparently he’s from The Script) – have been drafted in as mentors, but the unique selling point here is that they have to judge blind so as not to be distracted by the usual hoards of cross-eyed women in Oxfam wedding dresses singing Celine Dion. If they want the act on their ‘team’, they hit their buzzer in an overly-dramatic fashion, turn round and finally get to put the face to the voice. The purpose of this is slightly waylaid by the fact that the majority of contestants have obviously been through a rigorous audition process and aren’t too bad looking; let’s face it, the best part of X Factor is always watching a porker with callipers hamming up Bootsy Collins. But at least we still have the fragrant Jessie, who, despite her lashings of Rimmel, still has a face like a dogs chew toy and a chin that could out-jut any cow pie aficionado.
No doubt this will be the main headliner for Heat over the next few weeks – ‘backstage drama as Danny speaks out; “I want to boot Jessie in the gash”’
The other hook with The Voice is the fact that the contestants get to choose which judge they want to team up with, culminating in much hilarity as they all try to talk over each other, namedrop and basically take the piss out of each other in an annoyingly jocular way while pretending to be ‘seething’ that the act they really wanted didn’t choose them. No doubt this will be the main headliner for Heat over the next few weeks – ‘backstage drama as Danny speaks out; “I want to boot Jessie in the gash”’ - though I’d much rather read an article on Tom Jones’ seemingly seamless transformation into a tanned Orvil from the valleys. Despite the fact his head seems to be morphing into a Kinder Surprise, the old cat questioner managed to accrue 3 acts over the first round of blind auditions, matched only by Jessie. Cue lots of jokey threats and phrases like, ‘I never thought I’d be competitive, but I’ve got this knot in my stomach’. Wind.
Of course there’s always the awkward comedic possibility of none of the judges pressing their buzzers and illuminating the huge ‘I want you!’ sign under their chair, ending in the miserable singers trip back home, unloved and unwanted. Which happened to a fella in a Burtons hire waistcoat whose nan told him he was brilliant. And even worse, to some poor lass called Twinnielee whose boyfriend had previously rocked through the audition process with all four judges creaming themselves over his acoustic Eminem mix. But the greatest conundrum of all for me was the excitement over an ‘internet sensation’ murdering Rocketman in a strange falsetto with a bowtie. ‘Internet sensation’ means fuck all, you’re not impressing anyone lad. A penguin knocking another penguin into a hole attracts over 100,000 views; you’ve a long way to go before you’re level pegging with Stevie Wonder.
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