The X Factor (Part 2): The Great Depression

Despite an abysmal bout of auditioning gout thanks to a format 'improvement' that improved the format as much as the terrorists improved the twin towers, The X Factor still drags itself kicking and screaming towards an inevitable close. The show is a danger to itself, a bit like a self-harmer who thinks they're making themselves look nicer or a fat girl who's repeatedly punching herself in the stomach in the hope that it will cave in. Metaphorically, of course.

As I write, I have just clawed my way out of the rear of the first live show. Now each judge has settled into their self-assured groove with their group of semi-talents, things become heated and often controversial....according to morons that is: to anyone else it's about as controversial as forgetting to water a dead plant. For some reason, the judges aren't offensively critical anymore, which is basically what they're there for. They've opted for constructive criticism, innit. Helps a contestant build a thicker character (emotionally obviously: although this depends on assumptions that comfort eating or assiduous stupidity is not the contestant's preferred route to happiness).

The singers themselves are often graciously receptive of the judges' comments but then if Simon Cowell yelled a torrent of puerile abuse at a contestant, encouraged furious spittle to fly into the hapless hopeful's eyes, forced them to cup their hands whilst he pissed directly into them, lashing them with his belt every time a slither of piss slips through the contestant's fingers, the pathetic singing sycophant would still be nodding and complimenting Cowell on his marvellous opinion and imaginative use of a quarter pint of piss.

As contestant responses to the judges' opinions lack the theatrical rage and rogue dissidence that the producers crave, this is compensated for by introducing an audience of unruly Emperors (thumbs-up/thumbs-down kind of people) who either defend or help the judges destroy the contestants. The X-Factor is a benevolent Cowell dictatorship feeding off a symbiotic relationship with a notoriously fickle audience.

Not only has The X-Factor produced more partial-popstars than you could shake a heat! magazine cover at, but it has also burped up thousands of loud, opinionated, ill-informed, cretinous, trans-fataloids onto our cowering television screens.

Speaking of thick characters, contestants John and Edward are the most controversial entrants in this series and possibly ever. For one they look like Jamie Oliver onions or Eoghan Quigg's demented offspring. Secondly, they seem hellbent on becoming famous but in a strangely menacing way. The little shits apparently trampled all over a duet with another hopeful and as a result she was rejected and they clung on into the live shows. Since then, they have been trying to persuade the nation via their voices that they're genuinely nice guys. This won't last. Not only do their voices sound like the most foul pits of hell but their eyes belie their intentions; that, as soon as they are snapped up by a record company, they will kill us all. Apart from Louis, who loves them.

In the fresh-food section of The X Factor supermarket, the shelves are bare. Partially because I'm a bastard, but mostly because these are the last, dying efforts to scrape a bit more talent from the bottom of a bone-dry British barrel.

One contestant exhibiting symptoms of talent is Danyl Johnson, who I've stuck by from the beginning. His first audition was actually mind-blowing; a proper singer with soul, passion and all that stuff that the 'X' in the show's title stands for. Since then he hasn't impressed me as much, but he is still streaks ahead. Win, please. Then there's Stacey, who is just inexplicably lovely. And a man with massive hair. If I continue naming the contestants I like, I'll become sweet and that will be much worse than living with the cunt I'm being now.

Before the live shows, we were treated to the wonders of the judges' palaces of cheap splendor. Cowell and Minogue were in the most interesting places, Los Angeles and Dubai respectively. As usual, the judges each brought on an extra 'judge' of their own (pretty much always a former popstar long thought dead but suddenly resurrected and propped up against a potted plant to dribble out half-baked "inspirational" cliches and non-committal advice). Louis revived ex-boyband pin-up fodder Ronan Keating; Cheryl dragged out former Pop Idol winner Will Young (who I thought was literally dead but that's Gareth Gates, possibly); Simon resuscitated Sinitta, ex-popstar and bit of skirt for Cowell (she came out naked but for strategically-placed leaves because she thought that it made her seem interesting. It didn't); and Dannii outdid everyone (over-compensating for the fact that her personality under-does everyone) by bringing along her much more famous sister Kylie. That was fun.

Anyway, I can't go on talking about this show. I hate myself and I hate you for reading. Don't hurt me, internet.