Last week, Guardian columnist Sam Wollaston (Charlie Brooker’s polite younger brother) described The X Factor as a ‘talent abattoir’. Brilliant. Give that man a Giant Orange Smartie. The more you think about it, the more it makes beautiful, almost poetic sense.
Presuming the ‘talent’ doesn’t contract salmonella at the first hurdles, their deluded little ankles are tagged for round two of the televised slaughterhouse. Farmer Cowell is in charge of the machinery of course, sat alone behind his “I’m going to be honest with you” splatter-proof booth.
By this reckoning, the Grand Prize is an individual meat display in supermarkets across the country. Candidates also get an honourable mention in Jamie Oliver’s next cookery program with the prime minister’s approval. And if THAT wasn’t enough, the winner is cooked in a pie live on The One Show and eaten by John Prescott.
Missing presumed dead. (Or working at a Pontin’s near you!)
But they never ever get to the John Prescott stage of my confusing analogy because within a year of winning THEY ALWAYS DISAPPEAR FROM THE FACE OF THE EARTH! You don’t want your ‘dream’ that badly then, Leon Whatshisface? It was only the most important thing to you in the whole world, Michelle Whojimaboobs. Now, if my ‘dream’ presented itself and I had won ‘Stand-up factor’ beating thousands of funnier, more confident applicants to the cut, I wouldn’t sit on my arse and wait for Butlins to offer me a gig.
Can we at least have a determined idiot apply, please? An idiot prepared to go the distance with their idiocy and silence all other idiots in the quest for idiotic idiocy. I’m not going to buy your song on iTunes but stick to your guns and I might just respect you, for christ sake. (Alternatively, turn them on yourselves).
Unfortunately, sadly, diabolically, the contestants that ARE determined to stick around in the public eye no matter what are the ones that make me want to throw up my intestinal tract and hang myself with it just so I have something else to occupy myself with. (Look up Emetophobia (which is what I have) and you’ll realise just how much I must hate them).
Jedward, the nation’s hatred of you goes right over your heads, doesn’t it?
In Abattoir terms, these cocky, insufferable sods are the packet of rotten, gone-off meat that Tesco try unashamedly to sell to inbreds on the ‘REDUCED’ table along with partially crushed biscuits and a loaf of just-about-alright-but-if-you-don’t-consume-it-today-you’ll-die Bread. In other words, only the most desperate, starving fuckwit would give Jedward the time of day. And now, the starving fuckwits at ITV have recently shelled out millions to give this two-headed abomination its own TV show.
Why don’t the good people get coverage? Last year’s winner Joe McElderry was ordinary but likeable. And he was a Geordie! Give Joe his own TV show so ITV can beam ‘I’m Northern and I’ve won it, like, so youz can sit there and tek it’ into the homes of uninformed southern bastards! (Sorry. Another rant for another time…)
Searching for another Leona is only insulting the mentally ill, Simon, so don’t bother.
And then there’s Leona Lewis. A beautiful lamb that escaped the Abattoir of reality television in favour of focusing on the task at hand: songwriting. She may be in and out of the limelight but with each new album release, we are reminded of that rare outcome in reality television in all it’s genres: MODEST, HUMBLE, NO–QUESTIONS-ASKED, NOTHING-IN-RETURN, UNMISTAKABLE TALENT. I can only think of one other artist that fits that description and it took 16 years and a stop-motion video of dancing chickens for him to reach the audience Chico, Jedward and JLS acquired overnight. His name? Let’s just leave him beautifully un-mainstream..…………..>>>>