Right
then. Big Brother’s back, that much we know. Nothing can be done,
I’ve checked. But as well as this cultural tumour, we have the
return of another. One that is less painful, but one that still
causes emptiness and death. Of variety in music.
Yes,
it’s The X Factor, and I shall admit now that I kind of enjoy it.
I
have managed to miss any hype there has been surrounding this launch,
much as I had with the House of Idiots, but I’m led to believe that
this time it will be different. A fresh, new X Factor. Which I’m
sure you’ll agree is life alteringly exciting. So I’m expecting
lions, explosions, an insight into the music industry and some
lasting, original talent. A complete departure from previous years. I
shall type as I watch the opening episode and we’ll see if I can
remain calm enough to see it through to the end.
For
some reason, they have chosen to Start with the most obnoxious,
arrogant prick they could find. It’s called called Frankie. It
‘wants to be famous’ and ‘get lots of girls’. As I say, it is
horribly self involved and cocky so it’ll probably achieve both.
Eventually he gets to singing Valerie. He’s not very good. His is
pursuit of fame for the sake of fame, with no real talent other than
that of tattooing the names of girls he has presumably slept with on
his arse. Prick. The judges seem to like him for some reason. He has
shit, stupid hair and the bastard sheen of a serial adulterer,
mistaken for a twinkle in his eye. Girls will love him because girls
love a wanker. Apparently he brings something fresh to The X Factor.
No. He doesn’t. If anything he is a stark warning, a reminder of
past mistakes. Obviously he gets through, and I am left to wonder if
someone has changed the definitions of different, new and fresh while
I was asleep.
Next
is Kitty. She has a needy, desperate edge to her and a boring growly,
squeaky-at-the-end voice. Not Frankie bad you understand, just
boring. The Judges are saying things like ‘wow, you give us hard,
soft and medium. You fill the O2’. Strangely none of them point out
that if they met her at a party they would punch her in the nose as
soon as she spoke. Kitty is far too confident, sitting on the edge of
the stage after her performance like some sort of professional
compliment sponge. They say she’s quirky. I’m not so sure, it
definitely wasn’t a haunting vocal anyway, that was a stupid thing
to say. And she just doesn’t shut up. Comically, she says she’s
speechless. No. She isn’t. She also gets through, with all the
judges voting yes. Though they seem surprised that this format
attracts sociopaths. Idiots. I hate her as much as Frankie, so she’ll
probably do well.
The
obligatory crowd shots are still here. Horrible self styled wannabes,
all stood there, wann-ing to be. I’m not sure what they wanna be,
and neither are most of them, but by God they want to be it. It’s
been their dream all their lives: to be it. They couldn’t breathe
without it, without being it. I think that’s worth testing. It
could be the plot of the next M. Night Shyamalan film – tens of
thousands of vacuous fools drop dead from suffocation because they
weren’t on the cover of ‘Heat’.
Everyone’s
got through so far. This is getting kinda boring, Where are my
freaks? Where are the fat, ugly, disillusioned ones? Who can I laugh
at here? Ah. Here they are. Through the medium of montage. They’re
too old, too weird shape headed, too awful at singing. I love them –
genuinely love them – they’re what this show’s all about
really. I think they appeal because they seem to get the judges all
irritated. They hold their heads in their hands, Gary and friends,
looking up as if to God (who after just 10 minutes of this, i think
we can all agree doesn’t exist) and look generally annoyed at
having their valuable time wasted. As if they aren’t aware that
this is all part of the circus. They have so many people paraded in
front of them that they forget everyone involved is a real person,
even the nutty ones. It doesn’t seem fair to laugh at people to
their face, but then life’s not fair is it? Dance for us monkey
freak. Hahaha. You. Are. SHIT. Hahahahahaha. Piss off and cry
elsewhere, there are scores more of you to demean.
Gary
Barlow is Simon Cowell. It’s not even subtle. He probably has the
exact same script, which I’m pretty sure there definitely is. Not a
bad thing as all Cowell did was tell the truth in a television
friendly manner. When people are ludicrous, appalling or a joke, Mr
Barlow says so. When the other judges say ‘I’ve got to see this
hideous, tone deaf ghoul again’, Gary says no. Because he is right.
Because he is Simon Cowell. Because his song makes me want to go to
Morisons. The format obviously doesn’t really work without Cowell,
and his absence was felt immediately. It is a relief that those
involved are at least aware that he had to be replaced, and Gary
seems to be enjoying his new role immensely. He relishes every
moment, letting the word ‘no’ drop from his mouth like a little
present from the back end of a cat.
So.
From London to Birmingham, where the first auditionee is throwing up
backstage. Brilliant. And she’s foreign. Fantastic. She says
medicines instead of medicine and millor instead of mirror.
Hahahahahaha. There is no way it can go well, no way at all. Nope.
Of
course, it doesn’t. She is clearly insane and the first madly-bad
contestant to get the full focus of this episode and indeed series.
She dances manically, sings like an out of tune, pubescent school boy
and she is almost completely unintelligible. Man, she ticks all the
boxes. So much so that they get her to do her second song, seemingly
in the full knowledge that she’ll go no further. This also seems
cruel, but then, if cruelty wasn’t a strong theme in previous
series (it was), then it is now.
Yet
of course, Goldie – I think her name was – gets through. So she
can be laughed at for a while longer before she’s humiliated,
caricatured and dropped. Gary stays true to his word, which is no. He
might as well be the only judge there as far as I’m concerned, as
Louis Walsh is as ethereally weak as usual and I have no idea who the
two females are. One was in Destiny’s Child and one is, I don’t
know, some sort of rapper? I am old. I feel old.
Don’t
get me wrong: I’m enjoying this. I always have, every year, but
then I’m a bastard. I can find fault in most decent people and
humour in war and famine. What’s your excuse? There isn’t
anything new or fresh about New and Fresh X Factor, at least not to
my eyes and these eyes have seen a lot of this rubbish. Enough to
know when nothing has really changed. Oh sure, they’ve swapped out
the yes and no machines, but they’re effectively useless as the
contestants who get through are a forgone conclusion anyway. They’ve
got Wembley Stadium for the final, but I’ll still be watching it on
my TV so big deal. It’s the same. It is Simon. It’s the same.
Oh.
Here’s the first Cute Young One From Ireland. Which might as well
be a category of it’s own. “Is this a big dream of yours?”.
Obviously it is Gary, it’s safe to assume that the answer to that
question is always going to be yes. No one is going to say “no, I
just saw a queue and joined”. She’s 16, and as soon as she opens
her mouth to sing it is obvious she’s going for the Diana Vickers
vote. This exposes my X Factor history. For those not aware, Diana
Vickers was a previous finalist who got through because of her simple
innocence and kooky voice. There, you made me say ‘kooky’. Happy
now? I shall begrudgingly admit that I like this new ones voice. It’s
clear, uncomplicated and different. Well, different from everyone
except Diana Vickers. Cue soul stirring, plinky plonky music, shots
of judges looking amazed and spellbound. Oh, she’s so shy. Oh,
you’re amazing. You have no idea how good you are. You’ll sell
around the world. Oh, shut up. Don’t say those things to an
impressionable young dreamer, standing atop her glossy magazine
dreams. It’s a long drop from second place X Factor finalist to
stacking shelves. She’ll be a bitter alcoholic by the age of 30.
Still, she got through. So that’s nice.
Next
we’re shown a group and a solo male. These acts will almost
certainly get their screen time at bootcamp. They probably have the
sort of back story that sucks all the moisture from your tear ducts,
and squirts it, forcefully, from your corneas. But for the moment
it’s just short little bits about these two, clearly designed to
preface something special. Something sublime. A massive future
talent. No – wait – he can barely speak. Innit. He’s been
before and made a cock of himself by throwing the mic down and
telling Simon Cowell to shut up. He’s looking to clear his name,
but sadly, under the dust and grease, his name is still a fucking
mess. He doesn’t just give a rubbish vocal, he is a rubbish person.
He is though, also, dreadful at singing. Which is not a good thing in
this environment. He has no singing talent, nor I imagine, any
ability to speak of. He is a thug. But it makes good television. I
also find it comforting that these people exist because it gives my
snobbery some sort of justification. Because no matter who you are,
when you find yourself in a situation where someone has said
something like – “Why? Do you think you’re better than me?” –
the answer in your head is invariably: yes.
Which
is, of course, the point of The X Factor. Isn’t it. To allow us all
to sit there sneering. And you’re sat there thinking I’m not
talking about you. I am. We all do it. We all sit there sneering at
the rubbish ones or the chavvy ones. Or the rubbish, chavvy ones. We
all pick our sides and defend them violently. We all shake our heads
at the I-have-a-dream mentalities and the you-can-be-a-star
platitudes. We all feel better. Because we are.
And
that is great television.
Unfortunately,
it also means I’m a moron. Swings and roundabouts.
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