X Factor Series 11

Recently, I headed to New York to watch a musical production of Faust, a version of Goethe’s tale that portrayed Faust as a shallow, corrupt man more than eager to sell his soul away for the quick promise of fame and fortune. This Faust was a creature to be pitied, to be laughed at despite the underlying tragedy of his circumstances – his vain refusal to believe in anything more than material goods and quick glory resulting in his inevitable spiral downwards into misery and, eventually, death.

The play was a one-off, but fear not – the very essence of this story can be captured in your living rooms, every Saturday night. Yes, lock up your family and stay quiet, prep the Four Horseman and remain in a blissful submissive state as society and the world around us collapses – hurray, The X Factor is back.

One of the worst things to ever happen to the world, the self-defined ‘music competition to find new singing talent’ is much more insidious than that. It’s a goliath, mashing through people’s hopes and dreams, exploiting the weak, the mentally ill and the desperate with such inherent cruelty I’m amazed no-one has ever reported it for human right violations. The premise is that one person will win a recording contract and such, but it fails to mention the numerous other losers along the way – the belittled masses, mocked for being ugly or worthless, scorn poured upon them like they deserve a quick execution for being a waste of a life, and the later contestants, one-hit wonder personality vacuums that will grind around on panel shows before an inevitable suicide at 35.

source: philstar.com

Something this evil needs suitably evil figureheads at the helm, and it does not disappoint, offering us the judges, a panel of four ruthless egomaniacs comprising of Simon Cowell (the Devil shopping at Primark), Mel B (a Brazilian hooker), Cheryl Fernandez-Versini (pair of breasts with a grumpy voice) and dopey leprechaun Louis Walsh (a sort-of sexy mole rat). It kicked off with a cringily horrible sequence reminiscent of the Marvel villains Land Rover advert where they appeared on top of a building, talking about their mission in what I hoped was going to be a group suicide pact but tragically wasn’t. Then, human heat rash Dermot O’Leary, a man with less charisma than a piece of used toilet paper whose only talent seems to be hyperbole, introduced this year’s talent massacre.

I can’t help but be amazed whenever I see the massive crowds of suckers outside the audition halls – if Darth Cowell ever needed a spare kidney, this people would fight to tear open their own bodies and offer it to him. After a brief arse-kiss profile of each of the judges and a big deal being made of the fact auditions would be in a room this year, we meet some of these people (although I really didn’t want to).

There was a duo, Blonde Electric, played by two Claire Richards impersonators, who you immediately wanted to smack, who screamed a lot and displayed the sort of infectious enthusiasm that really upset me – they were like a puppy you needed to have neutered. That just kept saying that they wanted to sing, and – and I don’t like this one – singing was the dream, leading me to think they should wake up. Then, after the mandatory hour long pause between each judge talking, we were given a verdict of yes, and they’re through to the next round.

It’s meant to be inspirational – to encourage you to follow your hope and have an exciting and musical future – but I just felt depressed and sick. Then, we had a funny (read: hilarious) montage where people just kept bringing guitars, leading to the Dark Lord jumping on one in a comic climax. Our next auditionee was 15-year old Reece Bibby, who was going to be good as he followed that stuff, but he wouldn’t stop talking about how he wanted to impress Simon and get some advice about the music industry. Cue uplifting moment part two, when everybody praised him and told him he would go far, with backing upbeat music and inevitable family hugs – it’s a horrible thing designed to manipulate your emotions, and I don’t like it. Another student told how she’s always singing in class, and the teacher stops the lesson with it – I hope she is punished for it.

Why are 14- and 15-year old children eager to pursue this career path – none of them will have any degree of success in the future, and when the musical dream finally does the good thing and dies, they’ll be stuck in Tesco shelf-stacking as none of them have any grades or prospects. Whoopee – you can sing a tune, but employers won’t look past your single D in GCSE English, will they?

Prep the Four Horseman and remain in a blissful submissive state as society and the world around us collapses

There was an Irish fellow, Ben Quinlan – a kind-of slow Frank Sinatra – who turned up with a green rose for Cheryl and that proceeded to dance with her in his audition, in a touching moment I can only describe as completely sickening. Now, we had another montage where everyone wanted to meet Cheryl, including one woman who dressed like her from her Fight For This Love video and somehow resembled the most perverted bus driver ever.

Half an hour in, we had the first sob story – a girl mentioning that her mother had passed away, and who had been a contestant on a previous year – this whole encounter was designed to make you cry, cutting between shots of judges and her family wiping tears away from their eyes, pretty much prodding you with the emotion stick, screaming ‘CRY, CRY YOU INHUMAN MONSTER!’ until you cave.

The show pretty much followed this pattern until the end – it alternates between rubbish and good singers, actively encouraging you to mock and belittle the rubbish singers so when somebody talented comes along, you have no option but to praise them utterly. Take Shayden, singing a poorly written song about how a woman left him in perpetuity, followed by a montage of horror in which a woman with the face of Worzel Gummidge started stripping. Obviously, the end of this would lead us to someone brilliant, and it did – a posh-sounding girl who continued in the theme by looking like one of the Wurzels – anyone with half a brain can see the mechanisms, hence it attracts an audience of millions of idiots.

It’s a well-oiled and very sinister machine, in which nothing matters but the profit line and the prestige the acts will bring Lord Cowell. It’s a horrible, evil juggernaut, obliterating taste and decency with one foul blow. I can’t tolerate this idea that so many people in this country are going around, spewing crap like music flows through them and the dream is to perform. This is why we have a skills shortage – people are following unrealistic and unnecessary dreams. What happened to the time when you’d encourage your children to get a trade – to do something worthwhile with their lives? Anyone can carry a tune – none of these people are exceptional.

Become a plumber – you can sing as you work, and you’ll get free tea.