X Factor Live Show Week 8: Rock Night

Rock night got off to a big bang with Wagner proclaiming himself to a be a creep, but if you managed to miss this week's installment of X Factor don't worry because you can catch up right here.
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Two things in particular happened to me today; I found out that the man upstairs has a bulldog called Hector, and that the Big Bopper was born in Texas. I mention these two things because they’re infinitely more interesting than what just happened in my front room, which was akin to a fumble with a fifteen year old who ejaculates in his pants before you can say ‘You smell like Justin Bieber’. Who, incidentally, will be performing on tomorrow night’s X Factor. Don’t forget to forget to set your Sky planner for that one.

So, tonight was Rock Night and we ‘kicked off the show’ with Wagner; a man with the hair of Anna Kournikova and the face of a Prussian paedophile. Ironically singing ‘Creep’ by Radiohead, Wagner managed to divulge his life story within three minutes, wearing a shirt that looked as though an incontinent monkey had dragged its shitty arse across it in the dressing room. ‘Thom Yorke would have loved that’, prostrated Louis, wanking furiously into Nicky Byrnes pants under the table. No Louis, no. Thom Yorke would be slashing up to Placebo whilst sending the KGB to bomb Dublin. And you thought the Troubles were over.

Next, Vanessa George’s parole threat - One Direction - took a trip to HMV to see their X Factor charity single. ‘I can’t believe it’, said Harry. ‘A CD we’re actually on’. Just a query Harry, by ‘on’, do you actually mean ‘touching’? Because in that case, I’m on hundreds on CD’s. Usually falling out of my knickers whilst being escorted out of HMV. Nonetheless, the lads sang along to ‘Summer of ‘69’ whilst grabbing their stomachs as though they had either IBS or a dodgy peri peri chicken from Nando’s the day before. ‘There’s electricity in the room!’ said Cheryl. Yes Cheryl, there is. We know it’s an anomaly in South Shields, but I think you’ll find it’s pretty standard these days. Why don’t you try it out by adapting your vibrator to a mains socket and inviting Ashley round for watersports? I’ll ask Gazza to deliver some chicken and a dressing gown for you.

And then to Mary Byrne. Mary, Mary, Mary. I can’t lie, Mary bores me. I could make some horrible jokes about Ginsters pasties, or the fact she looked like she was wearing a sparkly sausage skin from Bon Marche, but it would be cheap. Plus I was in the kitchen making Aunt Bessie’s frozen mashed potato at the time, so it would also be uneducated. Nonetheless, she sang a U2 song and the judges told her how ‘great’ it was that she was having a ‘good time’, in the same way you’d congratulate a fat child on having salad for lunch; insincere, and just a little bit patronising. And if you check her sleeves, you’ll find she’s probably got a few turkey twizzlers stuck up there for later; little pickers, Mary. Bigger knickers.

Next up was my favourite hard-faced, petulant grufty bin slag, Cher Lloyd. ‘I wanna tear the roof off!’, she pouted. Yes Cher, you will. If your ego grows any more, you’ll be trampling Tokyo underfoot with your massive hair and ratty little face. You’ve got to give it to her though, she’s pragmatic in the face of adversity. After surviving a sing-off last week (singing ‘Imagine’, the song that isn’t a Beatles song during Beatles week), she conceded that ‘you have to take the good with the bad’. Good of you to quote your parents, Cher. Granted they have a healthy child, but sad that she looks as though she’s been punched in the face with a pound of braising steak. The good Lord giveth and taketh away. Which brings me onto Liverpool’s finest, Rebecca Ferguson. Shaking like a shitting dog, the shy Scouser seemed to be looking for something that continued to elude her; and continued. And continued. It’s not hard, Rebecca. They’re in the back row, learning how to hotwire Fiestas while you’re meeting Daniel Radcliffe. ‘It was a bit stiff’, said Simon. It wasn’t clear whether he was talking about his face or his cock, but Cheryl disagreed. ‘This show’, she beamed, ‘divides households’. Cheryl, it’s a reality talent contest, not waterboarding. It’s not even Smash v Aunt Bessie’s frozen. If the world ended tomorrow, we wouldn’t be clubbing each other to death over Wagner’s pelvis, we’d be fighting over Happy Shopper chickpeas.

Nonetheless, the lads sang along to ‘Summer of ‘69’ whilst grabbing their stomachs as though they had either IBS or a dodgy peri peri chicken from Nando’s the day before.

After Rebecca, there was a man who seemed to think that Dannii Minogue was some kind of papal deity ;‘she’s put a lot of faith in me’, he bleated, exuding the tears of a man who’d just hit his thumb with a small, sharp tack hammer. I don’t know how to break it to you Matt, but she just wants to see your ballbag along with half the female population. I have to confess, I don’t get it. He looks like a 1950’s bin man to me; a bit swarthy and a lot grubby around the edges. Then again, the fifteen dancers showing their camel toe’s in La Senza seemed to think differently, so maybe I’m just having a sexual slump that doesn’t extend to singing handymen.

And finally to the sweet smell of inbred desperation and Katie Waissel. God bless her, the girl with a GILF and an outfit that made her look like a bewildered pixie that had fallen from a tree branch into a pile of dwarf shit. ‘I love this Katie’, said Louis, wanking. ‘The real Katie. The honest Katie’. Really Louis? This girl has more faces than Vishnu, and appears has about as much sincerity as Nick Griffin during Black History month. Still, everyone thought she was great, apart from Dannii - the reptilian predator - and Simon speculated on her greatest performances emerging when she was ‘on the ropes’. I have to tell you Simon, there’s only one rope I want to see Katie on; a thick one hanging from a secure light fitting. Preferably while she’s jerking and foaming at the mouth.

So then there was a commercial break, and I went to make a cup of coffee. And Lo! It never rains but it pours. And while it actually was raining in Yorkshire, it would seem that the X Factor contestants were each singing a second song.  So rather than run through a second diatribe about who sang what and who said what to whom, I thought I’d try and condense it like a cheap RSC play. Ahem. Wagner sang like he was telling everyone to get out of a burning building while shitting himself, One Direction cleaned up their umbilical clips to take a facial from Louis, Mary wore MC Hammer’s clothes, Rebecca reclaimed her love of ‘singing fun songs’ whilst looking as though the devil was arse raping her, Katie made the public detest her even more by doing nothing in particular, Matt played a guitar and Cher wore every item of clothing from JD Sports at the same time. ‘You have no fear’, said Louis. True Louis, true. Apart from soap and water, and a nuance of humility.

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