X-Factor Results Show Week 9: Every Little Helps

The finish line is in sight, but first, we the people had to whittle down a flaccid five into a fabulous final four. Would this be the end for the pantomim-Cheryl-clone Cher, or would 'Tesco Mary' finally be sent packing.
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As the X-Factor drags itself towards the final, like a poodle scratching its arse across the carpet, the results are clear. One Direction will win and become the next McFly, Cher will get a massive record deal and become the next Cheryl, and Matt will release one boring James Blunt-esque strum-a-long album (called ‘The Plasterer’s Apprentice’) and fade quickly into obscurity. Meanwhile Tesco Mary will get a job singing on a cruise ship, until she’s sacked for eating all the All You Can Eat buffet (and the tables and the anchor).

Sunday’s results show demonstrated how short-lived pop fame is by unearthing last year’s victor Alexandra Burke, who has distinguished herself by appearing in a deodorant commercial. To mark the death of her career she was all done up like a spooky ghost from Scooby Doo, while celestial, pissed-off session musicians dangled upside down playing violins. Warble warble, she went, until she levitated towards the ceiling in a Turin Shroud made out of one of Matt Cardle’s dustsheets. Even the judges gasped, and they’ve seen Cher post sing-off - collapsed in a pile of false eyelashes, Superdrug foundation and green slime.

Talking of the judges, they’ve been a real wall of cunts this year. Self-involved, preening, basking in their questionable power like pimped-up pop walruses. We’ve got Louis wearing a paedo ventriloquist’s bowtie and playing simpering Walter to Simon’s Dennis the Menace. Then there’s Dannii – a woman so spectacularly anodyne that she probably shits odourless pellets with M&S written on them. And of course, lovely Cheryl, a steely Geordie cyborg masquerading as a pretty girl from tha cooncil estate, pulling the puppet strings of silly little girls from provincial towns and ruining their lives. The only constant is meglomaniac Syco, a snivelling bully who probably spent his childhood snapping other kid’s crayons. We really should all get together, as a nation, and kick him in the cods, just to see whether he’s got more than two expressions. It would be fun –then perhaps we could hang him in the town square and throw potatoes at his inanimate corpse – just like the old days.

To mark the death of her career she was all done up like a spooky ghost from Scooby Doo, while celestial, pissed-off session musicians dangled upside down playing violins.

Anyway, to pad things out, the cast of Glee came on, taking the enamel off everyone’s teeth with their sugary, annoying, ‘ironic’ version of that song which is the ringtone of every irritating teenager and retarded 20 something in Britain. It was depressing as hell. After that it got even worse thanks to the appearance of the Black Eyed Peas, who did a horrible farting vocoder-ized medley of every rubbish song you could think of, accompanied by dancers with boxes on their heads. That was so bollocks it nearly made me cry tears of blood. And Fergie must have been wearing a Tena Lady, because she didn’t wee herself once.

Of course the reason we were all watching this ghastly plop fest was because one person wasn’t going to make it through to the final. You didn’t need to be William Hill to know it would be Tesco Mary, who may as well have been wearing a tabard with ‘HOW MAY I HELP YOU?’ written on it. The sing off was between her and Cher, who did some mentally unstable crying and wobbling. Mary bellowed her way through ‘This is a Man’s World’ like Foghorn Leghorn sitting on a spike, while Cher chose to demonstrate her deep anguish by singing a crap Britney Spears song. Predictably, Mary was carted off in a Tesco van, along with tomorrow’s milk delivery, while a tearful Cher went backstage to cackle demonically like Grotbags on poppers.

Then it ended. Only one more week until the last show. Our world has been so enhanced by the cultural gems the X-Factor has provided us this year, that it’s hard to imagine life without talentless idiots like Cher, Wagner and Waissel. What will we do without our weekly dose of cut-price fake melodrama and pop torture? Who am I going to slag off? I’ll have to go outside. Interact with people. Shit. Maybe there’s something on ITV2?

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