X Factor 2011, Week 4: Zombie Whores At The Gates Of Hell

So last night we met the winner, two quarter finalists and a barmaid who will make the live shows before toddling off to work on the ships...
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Not only is this the first time I’ve reviewed X Factor (I could be wrong, maybe I’ve buried it in the dark recesses of my mind) it’s the first time I’ve watched it this series. I also watched Strictly last night, the first time I’ve ever watched the launch show, which tells you all you need to know about being married, 33, and ruled by your wife and stepson.

I mainly watched Strictly to see Robbie Savage make a twat of himself. I can’t bear to watch or listen to any of his football punditry, mainly because of his voice – brilliantly described by Andy Dawson as like a Goose that has had its brains knocked in with a spade – and also because he knows nothing about the game. And boy did he make a tit of himself. Sporting worse ink than a chicken wire salesman from Alabama and a shirt that Maurice Gibb wouldn’t have even wiped his arse with, his flirting and ‘banter’ with his dance partner have probably already ruined his marriage. Shame.

I like to think of Gary Barlow and Robbie Savage being a 99.9% genetic match. Both have become multi-millionaires from being decidedly average in their fields, for Back for Good see Blackburn, Relight My Fire see Derby etc, I couldn’t imagine two worse drinking partners. I distinctly remember the moment I stopped taking Barlow seriously. Ok, I never took him seriously, but the moment I elevated him from a fat bloke in a white vest to a cast-iron pillock. It was an interview at the time Robbie Williams was hawking his drug stories everywhere. Gary, at the time shit-out-of-luck without a piano, was interviewed in a Sunday magazine for one of the red tops. “I was like Robbie,” he said, “I tried ecstasy once, but I didn’t like it.”

Dick. Head.

Has anyone else noticed that the opening gambit looks like two pimps, Walsh and Barlow, parading their zombie death whores in front of the flaming gates of Hell? No? Look again.

And that, ladies and gentlemen, is the sort of Boot Camp I’d pay money to see. Through a peep hole in an Amsterdam skin-flick house.

There is zero point mentioning how contrived and formulaic X-Factor has become, it’s like saying that Louis Walsh has allegedly had more work that Dolly Parton (see Strictly, she appears to have had another lower mandible added) and probably isn’t a stranger to an arse-bleaching.

So last night we met three, possibly four, of the gimps who will become tabloid fodder for the next three months. First up Kendro, who appeared to be the product of what would happen if Kriss-Kross had been dipped in formaldehyde, put on a 90 degree wash, genetically spliced with Jedward and coated in fucking lipstick and sun-in hairdye. Can’t sing, can’t dance, can mince, see you in the semi-finals you pair of white jean wearing beauts. Louis could barely contain himself at their ‘star quality.’

Only Gary disliked them, shock-fucking-horror, taking 27 seconds to say that theeeeeyyyyy weeeerrrreeee exaaaaccccttttlllyyy whhhhaaaaat thiiisssssss compeetitiiioooooooooooon doessssssnnnnn’’’’’ttttt neeeeeeed.” Simon would approve.

After half the family from Shameless and a bodypopping raver who said something about liking his dicks large, we met Token Big Lass With A Belting Voice.

When I was 18 I lived in a pub, there was an old bloke, let’s call him Garry Gutler, who acted as ‘sage’ of the old man part, the front bar. Whenever a big girl walked in he would mutter, ‘I bet she can shit.’ I like to think that’s what Gary Barlow thought when Sam walked on wearing five different animal prints, Liam Gallagher’s hat and Salvador Dali’s eyebrows. Sam liked kebabs, said she was thick and had a crush on Louis, so after an audible pause while the whole country shouted ‘HE DOESN’T LIKE YOUR SORT SWEETHEART’ we were treated to a piss poor shouty karaoke version of that song every girl from Levenshulme to Looe belts out on a Saturday night before having a bit of slap and tickle with Murray, the huge-donged rugby player with the mental capacity of a loaf of Warburtons.

Pub Sam might not have the same ring as Tesco Mary, but she’ll be around until the fourth live show, will piss off to sing on the ships and have her heart broken by a waiter before returning to buy the pub she now works in and murdering big numbers until the kebabs destroy her arteries.

Part three was the token girl group medley, which went like this. Potentially alright, shit, shit, shit, shit, Geordie group with ex-contestant, Kelly stepping in, girl crying at losing her mates, singing, Kelly going mental and the girl suddenly forgetting her mates. The only good thing to come out of this is that Kelly will get the girl groups and Beyonce will be guest mentor. And that, ladies and gentlemen, is the sort of Boot Camp I’d pay money to see. Through a peep hole in an Amsterdam skin-flick house.

The whole of part four was dedicated to young Michael Jackson and definite winner who has by no means been groomed after being found singing Dirty Diana in his foster home to his cat Lascel, who has a bi-polar Mum, a dodgy haircut and a fucking ace voice. If he can write he’ll make millions and be the new Will Young, if he can’t, he’ll make a tenner and end up singing for his supper in Brighton’s less salubrious revue bars.

Gary loved him. Kelly cried. Tulisa waved her arms around. Louis licked his lips. Dermot hugged his Mum. It's gonna be a long year.

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