XXX Factor.

It’s got to be said, I was enjoying X Factor until last Saturday’s travesty. A late convert, I was never what could be considered a fan, and hated, actually felt physical hate for Simon Cowell, with his smug face and plastic haircut. However, when my big burly mate JK got into it, I mused there had to be something in the chirpy chirpings of various cheepy cheap cheeps. And so, after my wife attached electrodes to my testicles, I was forced to endure XFAC. And you know what? I really enjoyed it. There you go. I’ve said it. Yes, I like machine guns. Yes, I like movies where people shoot other people in the face. And yes, I like chucking myself down motorbike verts. And now... I like the X Factor. JK was right... Until Saturday’s fiasco.

OK. Here’s my problem. Michael Jackson night. What? I mean, WHAT? What’s it going to be next week? Gary Glitter night? Macc Lads night? X Factor does Roy Chubby Brown songs? Well, the contestants all gave it a good shot. But let’s be brutally honest here, even the best were the worst, and the worst just not good enough. Girl Band. We should just call them Crap Band and get it over with. And even the notables, like Eoaoghane and Laura couldn’t save the show. Eoaogooane’s baby face was too sickly sweet, made me feel like I was gargling sugar, whereas Laura sounded like a mincing cat in a mincer. The rest of the bands should have been banned after their predictably awful warbling, and as for the rough bird with five kids – well, just who keeps telling her she looks good in those suits? And with that hair? And that bad attitude? Now she’s like a peacock on mescaline, and you have to groan and acknowledge she won’t be going away. We have the Pontin’s reject, let’s call him Slick, who actually thinks he’s slick but in reality is just a manipulated monkey who’s going to fall and Fall Big and Cry A Lot, and then that guy with the gelled black hair like spider legs. Who can’t sing. And then you the Other Boy Bands. The Really Bad Ones. So, a mixed bag in all. Yes. A bag of X Factor rejects.

And now to the judges. OK, Walsh is quietly amusing, but if we’re honest, has little idea about what makes a good tune, and to my mind at least, is completely tone deaf (he did manage Boyzone, come on). Daniiii Minogue – what the **** is she doing on the show? Daniiiii, who only ever got her squidgy little mug on TV on the coat-tails of her much more famous/ better looking/ more glamorous/ infinitely more talented sister and is now judging other musicians without possessing any talent whatsoever. Pass me a needle and thread, my sides are splitting. Cheryl Cole. Hmm. The Queen of No Emotion. She says the right words, but it does not transfer to her face or eyes. She is a robot. A replicant. Certainly, a repellent. Either that, or she’s wearing that much makeup over her plastic surgery one cannot see the facial expressions beneath the trowel-applied mask (unless, of course, a pretty black dude waltzes on stage. Husband? What’s that then?).

Finally, we get to Simon Cowell. And herein lies the irony. The man I used to hate, well, now I reserve man-love for him. I would like to bear his children. Because, in a maelstrom of insanity, he is the only sane voice. He’s funny, truthful, compassionate, empathic, and knows his game. What I used to think of as acerbic hatred is actually spot-on observation. So, big round of applause for Simon. He deserves it. And, um, I suppose that’s why he’s a multi-millionaire.
And please please please don’t allow Girls Aloud (Girls Allowed?) sing on the show again. To have a supposedly professional band put in a singular warbling performance worse than all the amateur contestants put together was painful and cringe-worthy to watch (endure). Just bad. Bad bad bad. If it gets any worse, I won’t be tuning in any more. And that would be a shame, because I can’t wait for Cheryl Cole to sing I’m the Leader of the Gang (I Am).