X-Factor Live Show 6: Well and Truly Hooked

If you managed to miss this week's installment of X Factor don't worry because you can catch up on the latest extravaganza right here.
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I have given in. X-Factor, the musical equivalent of waterboarding, has broken my spirit and I am powerless to resist.  As we’re all aware, the usual theme of the X-Factor is murderous singing and pantomime shit slinging, but this week it was also Elton John songs. Poor Elton. You could just see him sitting at home in his joggy bottoms, yelling at the telly and crushing orchids with his fist.

First up was Lenny Henry doppelganger Paije, the black guy it’s OK to belittle on a regular basis, who was shoe horned into a pink jacket and a diamante bow tie and forced to wobble his way through Crocodile Rock. ‘Paije, you’re like a little Luther Vandross’ said lazy borderline racist Louis, (who, by contrast is like a little Frank Carson sitting on a little shamrock eating a little bowl of Lucky Charms). ‘Ya should wear that dinky bow tie all the time’ said Cheryl condescendingly, as if Paije was nothing more than a nodding gonk stuck to the dashboard of her Lexus. Understandably Little Paije In Your Pocket was incandescent with rage, but just about managed to retain a shred of dignity – which must be hard while you’re wearing one of Dustin Gee’s old jackets. If Paije stays in, expect Louis to inevitably compare him to a Little Chubby Checker/Trevor McDonald/Big Momma from Big Momma’s House. He won’t stay in, though, because he’s rubbish.

Next up were Aiden and Mary  - the poor man’s Fred and Rose West. Grimmers cemented his unsettling reputation by having a mini stroke on top of a piano to the tune of Rocket Man. Meanwhile, Mary came wrapped like a gigantic box of Thornton’s with the star from the top of the Christmas tree wedged into her head, trumping her way through Can You Feel The Love Tonight to no positive effect. The general feeling was that Tesco Mary will soon be going back to her till, which has apparently been immortalised into a Craggy Island-esque tourist attraction on a par with the Holy Stone of Clanrichart and St Kevin’s Stump.

Elton himself probably switched off and went to the west wing to eat a Nutella sandwich and play Minesweeper.

Then Katie the Troll doll came on and sang a hopeless version of Saturday Night’s All Right For Fighting. It was like getting a limp wristed Chinese burn from a seven year old girl. Matt Cardigan sweated his way through Yellow Brick Road, Cher wore robot tights and rapped, and Wagner – who comes across like a fearful Latin version of the Great Suprendo – destroyed I’m Still Standing. By this point, Elton was probably fanning himself with a copy of TV Quick while David Furnish stood by anxiously with hot towels and a gold plated defibrillator.

To show the full extent of my mental deterioration since watching this series of X-Factor, I have started to fancy the child from One Direction with the curly hair, despite the fact he probably still believes in Santa and gets excited about banana Nesquik. I want to take him out to Wimpy. I would even sit for long periods with him in the park, while he perfected his tag on the underside of the see-saw with a magic marker. Louis was similarly moved. ‘You’re only going in one direction and that direction is the final.’ He simpered. I’m going in one direction too, Louis, and that’s to jail.

Finally, Rebecca, who is too good at singing to win, did Candle In the Wind’ but failed to trigger a spontaneous outpouring of grief for Princess Di. Elton himself probably switched off and went to the west wing to eat a Nutella sandwich and play Minesweeper. ‘You’re a wonderful Liverpool girl’ said Louis to Rebecca (who looks like a little black Cilla Black/Lily Savage/John Lennon). Then, Simon bitched about Louis, the phone lines opened, and that was it. 2 hours of Saturday night gone, just like that.

I know it’s a waste of time, but it’s too late, I’ve started to care. I haven’t felt this way since Celebrity Coach Trip with the Chuckle Brothers. The X-Factor machine rumbles on, encouraging casual racism, general idiocy and paedophilia, and I’m on board. Well, until Gillian McKeith eats a maggot on I’m A Celebrity, that is – then this bunch of tiresome wannabe twats are well and truly dumped.

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