The Zzzz-Factor. Sorry, I mean ‘X’.


First published in the Portsmouth News, Tuesday 14th October 2014

Weekend television: the domain of tired parents. However, it would appear that if one wishes to watch anything on a Friday, Saturday or Sunday night, then one had best enjoy the X-Factor.

How it is that the X-Factor is given the entire weekend to air is beyond me. Long gone are the days when I used to tune in and amuse myself with my mates, posting witticisms about the contestants on social media.

Instead, even if there are good contestants, it is still dull, because it is, ceaselessly, the same. The songs are the same, the contestants are the same, and the judges make the same comments.

This Saturday, I tuned in at 8.30pm with the intent to see if these suspicions were correct, and indeed they are. The only thing to really change is that either Simon’s plastic surgeon has stared drinking on the job, or baby Eric has been keeping him up all night. Either way, he needs to change his surname from Cowell to Jowl.

The ever-present ex, Sinitta, oozed onto screen dressed as a Carmen Miranda tribute act, only missing half of the clothing required and practically tripping over her cervix. Lauren Silverman must be trying to slip chilli powder in that woman’s Immac cream at every chance she gets.

The contestants are the same as ever, dribbling out the same songs as though nothing new has been released since 2002, and if Total Eclipse of the Heart hasn’t yet been warbled by one of Jowl’s tuneless twits then it can’t be long before it makes its 2014 debut.

Thankfully I must have missed anything screening Cheryl Cantpronouncehernamenow because she is as well equipped to give singing advice as Jimmy Saville was child protection. These days, having a singing career does not equate to having singing ability. Just ask Jedward.

The contestants themselves were the same as always, each with their fair share of personal tragedy to weep over, and when the SEE advert featuring an Orangutan popped up in the final ad break, it took a second to register that it was indeed an advertisement, and not another of Jowl’s chimps. It wasn’t the lack of singing of course that gave this away, more the fact that the dear little creature was in receipt of obvious talent.

The only saving grace is that this will not be followed by another series of Plebs Wobbling On Ice in the New Year. Small mercies.


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