X Factor 2011, Week 15: Steampunk Pimps And S&M Christmas Trees

We're down to the business end of the show now, which means the judges lose their shit on song choices and the contestants start to unravel...
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Last night, stuffed to the eyelids on fish pie, five adults, four flatulent dogs and a decidedly unimpressed nine-year-old crammed into our living room to watch the latest episode of a talent show that, since I last reviewed it in week four, has morphed into something resembling the extras from Hollyoaks doing a piss-poor version of the Rocky Horror show.

“I love Dermot,” said my sister-in-law as the gayest little cowboy in TV land shuffled out onto the stage shaking imaginary maracas and gurning like the cat that got filled with the Bulldog’s cream. Before I could say anything, the boy chipped in with, “why, he’s rubbish…”

Out of the mouths of babes.

Which is something that can’t be said of Little Mix. Is it just me or did they remind you of a readers wives Christmas special? I swear down if you freeze framed the opening shot they look like the first double page spread of a Razzle pile-up. The spread that is never looked at but remains untouched and appears to have been stuck down to what follows with a liberal dose of pritt stick. I thought they were crap, as did Louis, which led Tulisa, dressed like an S&M Christmas tree to shout ‘Sabotage, Sabotage..’ Yes dear, how can I help? You want me to eviscerate Louis? The man who came dressed like a psychedelic Harry Hill and continues to bounce up and down on his seat with he wanton abandon of a heavily-lubed sex slave at the court of Nero?

Kelly thinks they could be the ‘best girl group to ever come out of the UK’. Kelly is mental.

It’s a shame that when ‘likkle’ Janet Devlin returned home to Bumfuck, Ireland to switch on the Christmas lights no-one hooked her up to the mains for half-an-hour. Her hair might look she’s had a shock, but the rest of her is dead. Suffering from the madness of Rowland and an inability to sing anything other than the Cranberries and Alanis Morrisette, the choice of Mmm Bop was, pound for pound, the worst song choice in the history of the show. “I feel really sick,” whined Janet. Which led to Kelly calling her ‘Mama’. Kelly is not only mental, but clearly doesn’t have a head for mathematics.

Thank Christ for Mischa B. She might talk about herself in the first person, she clearly has thighs that could crush a wrestler and she’s obviously a diva in waiting, but bugger me can she sing. She’s so much more talented than the rest that everyone seems embarrassed by it. All Kelly could do was hand jive and bob back and forth like a sexual chicken while Gary, dressed like a Steampunk Pimp, seemed to be lost for words. He wasn’t, of course, it’s just that we had to cut for a break before his voicebox could overpower the seven gastric bands he’s had fitted.

Following the usual shot of Amelia Lily’s boyfriend Dad looking all tumescent proud, Marcus came out and did a great service to women of a certain age. If there is one thing that can get George Michael out of his hospital bed then surely it is Marcus telling him he’s his man.

It’s a shame that when ‘likkle’ Janet Devlin returned home to Bumfuck, Ireland to switch on the Christmas lights no-one hooked her up to the mains for half-an-hour

Even though he’s in the States, the influence of Cowell looms large. Prepped to within an inch of their lives, the judges were asked who had been their favourite in the first half. With the sound of teeth-gritting and, in Louis’ case, an arsehole loosening, they all said Mischa B. Believe that and you’ll believe anything. Like Amelia Lily is singing and not shouting.

If there is one contestant I feel really sorry for then it is the larger girl from Little Mix. Probably the most talented of the four, we saw a segment which had her on national radio saying she’s not trying to lose any weight and ‘your insecurities are what make you as a person.’ Good on her, I say, but she will definitely be strapped to a running machine with only a packet of Jacob’s Crackers and no water for company following their eviction. Of course they then sang Beautiful.

The might be the most boring band in the world, but the Red Hot Chilli Peppers represent a strange choice of hero for a timid 16-year-old. The cock-socking ex-Smackheads should probably all be dead, and for Kelly to let Janet sing a song about Heroin addicts in an All Saints stylee is worrying.

As was my wife’s assertion that ‘Mischa has control pants on for God’s sake…’ Is it any wonder? Not only does she have an arse that won’t quit, judging by the reflection in the mirror it could run for Prime Minister. Anyway, she was ace, even better than the first time and her performance only highlighted the fact that we should knock this on the head now.

Especially when Marcus, who can go high but not low, absolutely fucking murdered Stevie Wonder. If he’d have sung Superstition, he could have stole the evening, but this was hideous. Out of key, timing off, terrible on the low notes. Of course the judges were all united in how brilliant it was, Gary reckoned ‘ a voice has been unleashed’ (yep, a fucking average one pal) while Tulisa was moved to say ‘Marcus doesn’t want to talk about the problems he’s had in life, but let me tell you, he’s had them,’ as the poor fucker squirmed.

All that was left was for Amelia Lily to shout for the last five minutes while my wife, mother and sister-in-law banged on about the camel toe forcing its way through the pink shiny leggings she was wearing.

Daddy would be proud. And by proud I mean, oh you get it....

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