XFactor Heralds Month of Nonsense
Sat here on the train on the way back from antoher Friday drinks session with Anna, Chris, Helen and Anthony and the easy thing to blog about would be our conversatios about the Norwich accent and the general ephemera of life around Norfolk’s country town. But I’ll dare to be different. This time I’ll get cerebral. The prose might not be the best I’ve ever produced but the benefits of a few pints and a bit of iTunes shuffle should mean there’s some coherence to my rthoughts.
Laura mentioned today at work that the new series of Xfactor starts on Saturday night. Worryingly I had no awareness. I prided myself on the fact that I’d avoided Big Brother this year. Don’t get me wrong, having watched four seasons of it, I was b ound to pick up an idea of what was going on and who the major players swere but I had no real understanding of each member of the house. I was amazed really at my own nonchalence. This was only ever challenged at the vweekends duering the eviction shows. Anyway, I watch Xfactor only for the voyeuristic enjoyment of watching peculiar Britons exposing there tragic lack of talent in a faceless conference room at a second-rate hotel. That’s what’s so appealing about Saturday’s show. Not the thought that we’ll stumble across some amazing vocal talent or the glitzy production and backstage gossip but the feeling that your watching someone hurl themselves at the pages of Closer/Heat/Now with everything they’ve got. You see the thing is these woeful wannabees used to be a sideshow as we romped towards the reveal of the final contestents. These days the tragicomic warblings of the socially outcast are the main attraction for the first few weeks. Surely we can expect literally minutes of ITV2 and GMTV footage to be devoted to the poorly costumed, vocally challenged and socially inept of society in the next few weeks.
These shows invariably now take a turn for the worse as we tumble inexorably toward the Christmas climax in a studio of Coke-addled pre-teens presided over by a perma-tanned Kate Thornton. You ended up pinning your colours to the mast of one act in the vain hope that it will say something about your musical taste and social class at the the coffee machine in the office on Monday. “I like Steve, he can hold anote and seems to be quite diverse in his output”. Bollocks. You can’t identify with the camp-as-christmas interior designer from Hitchin and the urban funk of Chantelle from Streatham seem to have passed you by, the middle class nu-soul of Steve is safe and at least you recognise some of his act.
By Sunday we’ll have an idea of where this show is headed. Is it destined to be the awkward second series or does the amount of dross.
Laura mentioned today at work that the new series of Xfactor starts on Saturday night. Worryingly I had no awareness. I prided myself on the fact that I’d avoided Big Brother this year. Don’t get me wrong, having watched four seasons of it, I was b ound to pick up an idea of what was going on and who the major players swere but I had no real understanding of each member of the house. I was amazed really at my own nonchalence. This was only ever challenged at the vweekends duering the eviction shows. Anyway, I watch Xfactor only for the voyeuristic enjoyment of watching peculiar Britons exposing there tragic lack of talent in a faceless conference room at a second-rate hotel. That’s what’s so appealing about Saturday’s show. Not the thought that we’ll stumble across some amazing vocal talent or the glitzy production and backstage gossip but the feeling that your watching someone hurl themselves at the pages of Closer/Heat/Now with everything they’ve got. You see the thing is these woeful wannabees used to be a sideshow as we romped towards the reveal of the final contestents. These days the tragicomic warblings of the socially outcast are the main attraction for the first few weeks. Surely we can expect literally minutes of ITV2 and GMTV footage to be devoted to the poorly costumed, vocally challenged and socially inept of society in the next few weeks.
These shows invariably now take a turn for the worse as we tumble inexorably toward the Christmas climax in a studio of Coke-addled pre-teens presided over by a perma-tanned Kate Thornton. You ended up pinning your colours to the mast of one act in the vain hope that it will say something about your musical taste and social class at the the coffee machine in the office on Monday. “I like Steve, he can hold anote and seems to be quite diverse in his output”. Bollocks. You can’t identify with the camp-as-christmas interior designer from Hitchin and the urban funk of Chantelle from Streatham seem to have passed you by, the middle class nu-soul of Steve is safe and at least you recognise some of his act.
By Sunday we’ll have an idea of where this show is headed. Is it destined to be the awkward second series or does the amount of dross.
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