And yet The Human
has still seen fit to make me watch this rubbish on a weekly basis.
Imagine my
delight then, when, for the first part of the final – yes, there are two parts,
presumably as a way to make more money out of the general public because after
three months ITV and Simon Cowell can’t have earned enough to buy a crust, poor
lambs – Degu HQ had no volume on ITV. It was potentially the best night of X-Factor
this season. Even better, by the time the delinquent humanbean with whom I live
had fixed the problem we were just in time for the adverts.
It says a great
deal about this year’s X-Factor that, in order to make it big and to keep the
public interested, they had to take the final to Wembley. They also had to lure
the general public there with promises of performances from platinum selling
artists. What troubled me was that we had been watching the programme for
twenty-seven minutes on Saturday night and only heard from one of the three
finalists. I’m not saying that the whole event is an exercise in time wasting
and money-making, but…
River Deep, Mountain High
Controversially Amelia Lily, who had been voted off
quite early on in the series but voted back in after Frankie Cocaina left, made
it to the final, and with that incredible voice she deserved to be there. Her
rendition of “Ain’t No Other Man” by Christina Aguilera was a great improvement
on the original and her duet with Kelly Rowland of Tina Turner’s “River Deep”
was a real festival of singing talent. If anything, I’d say that Miss Lily
out-performed her mentor. I am disappointed that she did not survive the first
night of the final, but then she was lacking the necessary sob-story to
guarantee her a place in any reality-television final.
Last Christmas I gave you my vote…this year I’ll give it to
someone special
For my money, not
that I have much, being a degu, it was Liverpuddlian Marcus Collins who
deserved to win. His rendition of Outkast’s “Hey Ya!” was a great way to kick
start the final. It would have been a better way to kick start the final had it
been in tune, but one can’t have everything.
Despite the
expense – there’s that word again! – of the lavish staging (faux aeroplane) and
numerous backing singers and dancers this was a distinctly average performance.
Indeed, it only got worse for Marcus when he dueted with his mentor, Take
That’s Gary Barlow; their rendition of “She’s Always A Woman” by Billy Joel
left me vomming in my cage, wondering whether I could use my own vomit as a
cover for escape a la Pat Reid.
You’ve got the marketability, err, love
Para Para Paradise . . . is when the professionals show up
The highlight of
the two nights was watching the “guest” celebrities perform. I was astonished
to see Leona Lewis singing on British television, we only paid for her to win the
X-Factor after all. She showed outstanding loyalty to those members of the
British public who did vote for her by heading to the USA within minutes of
winning the competition herself. I felt truly privileged to hear her again.
Until she started singing, and then I remembered how boring she was as a
competitor on the show and why I didn’t vote for her then (and frankly wouldn’t
now, either). Indeed, Michael Bublé may have been the only artist to hit all
the right notes and do a quality performance on the first night of the final, and
then, on the second night, Coldplay exhibited a winning combination of performance,
song-writing talent and musicianship; things that this series of X-Factor had
been entirely lacking until that moment.
Personally I was
with Olly Murs, a runner-up from the past, who took to downing cocktails named
after the finalists in order to survive the final. Such a good idea that I
seriously considered doing the same; actually, Mr Murs’ adlibbing was so
entertaining that I was on the verge of telephoning ITV and asking them to open
a separate line so that we could vote Murs all over again.
Floating like a cannonball…
The winner’s
song, Damian Rice’s “Canonball”, seemed apt to me. The reasons for this are
twofold. Firstly, the noise coming from the television was so aurally offensive
that I seriously considered tying a cannonball around my paws and jumping in a
river. Secondly, both finalists really did float like cannonballs, delivering
performances that made my heart sink, plummeting to the same murky depths as
their professional prowess.
Who won the
competition does not matter. (It was Little Mix.) Inevitably marketability won
out over talent and the real loser was not the runner-up, but the Great British
public who had to suffer hearing Mr Rice’s song murdered for a second time. It
was at this point that I chirruped loudly, a chirrup meant to denote that if
the channel was not changed soon then bitings would occur.
I suggest that we
all take a long hard look at the girls who make up “Little Mix”; the so-called
“winners”. The next time you see those well-rounded and normal British teens
they will be pop starlets. They will have been styled, personally trained and
photo-shopped. Their innocence and youthful exuberance will be lost. They will
be skeletally thin and have personalities the colour of beige as the deliver
the gospel according to Cowell in every interview. Their individuality is lost
along with the souls that they have now signed over to X-Factor…
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