Week six and it’s time for bootcamp! That statement only really deserves an exclamation mark if all of the remaining X Factor hopefuls had been shipped off to Afghanistan for some military exercises and a possible dalliance with some land mines. Sadly, they’ve just been gathered together and forced to once again parade their questionable talent before our tired, soulless, Saturday night TV viewing eyes. Don’t despair though, next week brings the judges houses round. We might get to see just how chavtastic Tulisa’s house is and have a good nose around dreary Barlow’s pad. I know, the excitement is almost too much to bear. Until then we had to put up with seeing everyone we’ve already seen, except in a slightly different outfit. This being The X-Factor though we could afford to switch on at 8pm, nip out for a fag, put some washing on, finalise that draft sequel to War and Peace and still sit down in time to catch the first turn starting. Man does this show like it’s montages and adverts.
With 187 ‘acts’ left, the producers got them all to schlep to London for the next stage in the competition. The judges had put on a lavish party, consisting of Lambrini, some cheese and pineapple on sticks and Frankie Cocozza sex pesting his way through the unsuspecting girls. While the hopefuls were getting legless on cheap Cava the judges were racking up some congestion charge expenses being driven around London for some pointless monologues.
After their sightseeing tour, the judges decided to weed out 35 contestants before they’d even had the chance to pipe up in bootcamp. To add insult to injury they told their sorry, hungover faces that they had to pack up their bags and newly contracted STD’s before heading back to that small obscure town they always seem to come from, in front of all the better singers. Harsh.
Anyone who can willingly embrace that amount of polyester clad disappointment deserves a knighthood.
30 minutes in and barely a note had been sung. It couldn’t last though, the remaining contestants were divided into groups and got stuck into crooning their way through some recent ‘classics’. ‘You Got The Love’ from Florence and the Machine got some serious hammering. Florence and Candi Staton may love the royalty payments but I’ve got no love for the song after last night’s torture. Still, at least there was some quality fashion to look at. John Wilding, from last week, was still stuck in his jeggings, Sami Brookes had opted for the vintage look by borrowing Hilda Ogden’s turban (yet sadly forgotten a bra) and there were more hair extensions and beanie hats than you could shake a stick at.
As the 150 fashion victims filed on and off stage at Wembley Arena with varying degrees of success, you had to spare a moment of sympathy for Dermot. He, along with us, had to experience a lot of flat notes, ugly crying faces and Goldie’s, Chinese, Tina Turner interpretation of Lady Gaga’s ‘Born This Way’. O’Leary may earn a decent wedge for his X Factor gig, but frankly anyone who can willingly embrace that amount of polyester clad disappointment deserves a knighthood.
The closing moments of the show saw one hundred wannabes quickly sent back to shelf stacking, burger flipping and dole queuing. A lucky few went through to the next round of bootcamp, an unluckier few got held back to form new groups to bulk out the groups category. When will the producers learn that no good can come from this? Bundling a few people together last year gave us One Direction. I repeat, no good can come from this.
Next time on The X Factor: Will Frankie have any tattoo room left on his arse cheeks after bootcamp? Will Tulisa find time to sweep the fag ends under her Matalan rug before judges houses? And will Goldie reveal which judge she had to sleep with to last this long in the competition?
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