Let’s get the X-Factor out of the way first. It was creaking when it was created, a hotch-potch of the Pop Idol format slung together with a few bells and whistles that weren’t, as it turned out, enough to save it from the threat of legal action for being, well, essentially Pop Idol, but with a few bits tacked on the side. It was a Ford Mondeo with a Ferrari badge on the front. It relies on a clapped-out ‘audition’ section combining the truly awful, deluded and borderline special needs contestants who go home crying, with the epiphanous revelation of ‘the contenders’, who tell their lachrymose backstories to a schmaltzily pitiful glurge soundtrack to try and make you go “Awww, innit sweet, innit sad”. Fuck off! It’s a turd-stained toilet bowl of light entertainment. Ooh, here are the loonies, look! They think they’re good, but they’re not! (Well yes of course they do. They’ve been through seven bloody auditions already before they got in front of the cameras, at each of which they’ve been told to stay behind, all the time seeing half-decent singers get booted off for not being televisual enough) And here are the great ones! Aren’t they rounded human beings with sad little stories to keep you rooting for them all the way to the fucking dismal Simon Cowell dirge Christmas Number One piece of fetid dirty wank that will play over slow-motion highlights of the winner’s ‘journey’ from audition to ticker-tape celebration! Do me a fucking favour. Get the fucking Generation Game back on, Game for a Laugh, Blind Date, Jesus anything, even Jim cunting Davidson was better than this, any fucking thing other than this dogshit. Do the country a favour and crash those fucking helicopters at the start of the show, sparing us any more of Cowell’s beaming monotooth or Tweedy’s perfect dimples. Fuck! Off! Now!
‘Nuff said, really.
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