I used to love X Factor. I loved nothing better than planking on the sofa, gawping at Cheryl’s lovely mane and stuffing myself stupid with just a pinch of self-loathing. Perhaps I’ve changed, grown up, become more conscious of right and wrong. Perhaps it’s both of us. Whatever, I’d rather have my vulva ripped off by a polar bear and fed back to me via tracheostomy than suffer Olly Murs with his stupid skippy-hoppy legs, Tulisa and her nauseous little salute or Louis’ impression of Cassandra, the Last Human. I just hate it. It has forever lost its sparkle, though seeing Murs outperformed and outshone by the muppets sort of cheered me up for a while. How that annoying little prick plans to fill an arena is beyond me, unless he’s planning to set fire to himself live on stage and let wolves eat his burned, trembling body. I’d pay.
Thankfully though, performances from Murs and Jesse J manage to sidestep the hideous group ‘showcases’ that used to kick the results shows off. Who won’t admit to being a little sick in their mouths watching Matt Cardle frugging and clicking his way around the stage like a retarded Jet in a Matalan t-shirt? Oh. Oh no, hang on. They’ve stuffed it in the middle section instead. Bollocks. And it’s the preview of their Christmas charity single which means…..even I can’t muster up a spittle of bile about it. I might even start to feel a little festive watching them arranging themselves into a star formation and swaying like they really mean it. Someone might want to tell wee Aston from JLS to take his big coat off though, he won’t feel the benefit when he goes out. And for the love of all that is good and holy, will someone please tell Kitty to stop botoxing her face? She looks like Fry’s cryogenically frozen dog in that episode of Futurama that always makes me cry.
Good job it wasn’t a normal song with words, the poor lass would have been well and truly up shit alley without an exit.
It’s no great surprise to find Janet in the sing-off. She might be the only person ever to have forgetten the words to ‘MMMBop’, and frankly, her Irish banshee wailing makes my ossicles shit their bony knickers. There’s only so much Dolores O'Riordan-esque inflection I can take. To me, Janet is much like those annoying coasters that middle-aged women buy as a funny joke: ‘I’m on a wine diet. I’ve lost three days!’ ‘Men are like chocolates; wait too long and only the weird nutty ones are left!’. Dull as a sloth eating graph paper. Seriously; why bother? Poor Janet’s trotted out with the same old whiney wank every week and when they try to do something different with her – ie. marginally upbeat – she shits all over it from a great height with her pallid face and distracting hair. Leave her wandering the Irish heathlands in her bare feet, for fucks sake. With some luck she might find a bog. Or some quicksand.
Singing against Mischa B, who admittedly has a rather splendid voice – Janet has total defeat in her eyes from the outset. We all know which way it’s going to go. Kelly Rowland whinges and pouts, chucking ‘motivational’ Americanisms – ‘I know how much you want this, mama!’, and ‘I admire you as an artist so much!’ - out between tears. And more tears. And incessant gabbling, which lead to a decision not to vote, after all that palaver. Of course this automatically gets rid of poor Janet, having already been voted off by both Louis and someone dressed as a Russian escort cum gymnast. Funnily enough, in that one moment I like Janet more than I ever have done. It might be the slightly robotic, expressionless face or the clear disdain as Kelly tries to pull her close for a hug, but I think she coped with the rejection, shame and embarrassment quite well. Oh come on, how many people do you know who have forgotten the words to ‘MMMBop’? It’s on a par with forgetting that other people aren’t meant to be eaten and ferrets aren’t for buggering. Good job it wasn’t a normal song with words, the poor lass would have been well and truly up shit alley without an exit.
Anyway Janet, good luck with the recording career.
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