These people were too good for the list. Seriously…
Sweet baby Moses, everyone is going nuts about X Factor. The voting public gets notoriously livid when they smell a rat, so Cheryl really stepped in some dog dirt last weekend when she ignored a handful of superstars, and decided that she’d include a trembling urchin one woman version of N-Dubz, and a godawful fame whore in her final three. Just how the desperately shy Liverpudlian lass is coping in such weird company, we dare not even imagine. With that in mind, here are the worst X Factor contestants of all time….
Roberta Howett, Series One
For the most part, the X Factor girls carry a relatively high standard. Not Roberta. Roberta, it’s fair to say, would barely make it to the end of the queue these days without a gobsmacked television producer suggesting that she bugger off home. Old fashioned, like a young female equivalent of David Sole with a film of angel tears in his eyes, even old grannies found her boring. As everyone knows, pop stars should be skeletal street criminals half singing/half rapping. Roberta wasn’t helped in any way by Sharon dressing her up like a babysitter.
Emily Nakanda, Series Four
When she first appeared onscreen, Emily seemed like such a sweet, well-mannered girl, with something of a young Joan Armatrading about her. She’d even died once, which made her an absolutely thrilling prospect. Unfortunately, a couple of weeks into the live shows, and youtube vids started cropping up, featuring this young Jekyll and Hyde threatening to cut people’s eyes out with shivs. Oh fuck.
Kimberley Southwick, Series Four
Kimberley was excitable, Kimberley worked in a pub. These two disarming facts would probably be enough to drive punters in the direction of another watering hole, even if it meant risking a pitch-black walk home down rape alley, and across stabby stabby car park. They just want a pint, Kimberley! Not another song! As things panned out, she was the twelfth favourite act, so she fell big bosoms first onto her sword after just one show.
Phillip Magee, Series Two
Going against the grain of other boys his age, Phillip just loved rock and roll music, which Louis took as a cue to declare him the “new Cliff Richard”, before handing him the words to Wind Beneath My Wings. He reacted to the inevitable mocking laughter and pointing from the audience by promising to ignore Louis from now on. Which he did. The following week he sang Johnny B Goode by Chuck Berry. It was awful. Everyone voted him off.
Scott Bruton, Series Five
Scott had the look of a lad who would threaten to stab you in the face if you glanced at him on a night bus. A boring singer, he was totally enraged when people didn’t vote for him, and after being bundled out in the third week, he presumably spent the rest of the weekend absolutely kicking the shit out of people.
Eoghan Quigg, Series Five
Ridiculously, Eoghan Quigg made it to third place. This is mainly ridiculous as he didn’t once raise his voice above a subdued whisper, sounding more like a mouse trying to sing a song to impress you from underneath a cup. Simon finally decided to combat this by sending on thousands of gospel singers and street dancers to gee things up whilst he stood hidden in the middle singing songs that only dogs could hear. He survived thanks to the hoards of demented grandmothers who thought he might be their grandson.
2 to Go, Series One
“He’s blind you idiots!” cried Louis. And, rather crass though it was, that was exactly the point with this twosome. She could see perfectly well, and he was totally blind. Like Ray Charles, only shit. He could also play piano, at one point he did a few semi-impressive toots on a saxophone to blow everyone’s minds. Had they managed to survive beyond the third week, he would presumably have produced a violin from his pocket and began leaping around like a mad fiddler, whilst his partner awkwardly danced around her handbag.
The Unconventionals, Series Three
Don’t be mislead by the name of this group, they were totally conventional. So conventional that one of them might actually be your dad. Unfortunately, the general public doesn’t like normal looking people. Pop stars should either be beautiful, or totally hideous (Joe Cocker, Celine Dion, Meatloaf etc…). Out in the first week.
Bad Lashes, Series Five
Bad Lashes made the mistake of trying to be a little bit edgier than most girl groups. Something they achieved by wearing thrilling emblazoned t-shirts, and squeezing themselves into leggings instead of cute little puffball skirts. It’s a trick that might have worked well for a cool-chick-combo like All Saints back in the olden days, but these are the 90s baby! Get with the programme. Doing Wonderwall was a mistake.
Chico Slimani, Series Two
Nothing could dent Chico’s popularity for a time. Even pictures of him dangling his goat herder’s penis in women’s faces were greeted with a comedy tut, and someone dramatically going, “that Chico is fucking crazy!”. He could do no wrong. So much so that he was even granted permission to perform one of his own songs, based on his Forsyth catchphrase: “What time is it?”. Then you clap hysterically and go: “Chico time!”. Hindsight is a glorious thing, and on restudying his work on the show, one thing became glaringly obvious – he was rubbish.
Kerry McGregor, Series Three
As you might be able to tell by the picture, she was a cheerful lady, that Kerry McGregor. You might also decipher from her surname that she was Scottish . What you might not be able to tell is that Kerry is sitting in a wheelchair, which served to inspire other people in wheelchairs to sing. So far, so brilliant. Unfortunately she wasn’t very good. She lasted three shows before Cowell and co wheeled her to the top of a steep incline and nudged her chair accidentally-on-purpose.
Daniel Evans, Series Five
Quite possibly the worst singer to ever make it to the live finals. So, how did he make it so far? Well, for two reasons really. Firstly, because every time he opened his mouth to sing, the female judges started crying. And secondly, because he dedicated every single song to his late wife. Once everyone was over the shared grieving process, he was toast. Simon hated him.
Yeah, she was there, dressed A BIT like this…
If you didn’t realise, it was the Pride of Britain Awards yesterday – yeah we weren’t invited either. But, even so, there was a rather ironic turn out, for the most part made up of people who had featured on reality shows, plus a couple of slightly impressive sportsmen. Their job was to sit back and slow-hand-clap normal people. Not celebrities. Normal people. The kind of normal, everyday people who they wouldn’t slow down to watch if they were cowering under a flurry of legs in a roadside beatdown. The kind of normal people they would sneer at if they dared request an autograph without any cameras watching. The kind of beautiful, normal people who had done something worthy of an air kiss from Myleene Klass, because they’re blind, but not moaning about it. Or they’ve had a torrid time of things, but can still muster a smile. Good people. Good, normal people. Yes sir, it was quite a night… judging by the snaps.
The extremely poor man’s Posh and Becks, Joe Calzaghe and Kristina Rihanoff, were there – looking like the kind of couple who might normally spend the evening thrashing around in a rage of angry intercourse. Peter Andre thought he’d bury his woes, and attend wearing a black suit, with a black shirt, and a black tie. Lineker turned up with Bux. JLS blew out Movida with Gaffney and Bowers for the night, in order to further enhance their career credentials by wearing shiny suits, with one of them sporting a dickie bow/neck ribbon that you might find on a 19th Century dandy. Whilst Ronan Keating thought fashion be damned, as he oozed up and down the red carpet, in conflicting outfits – a posh dinner jacket, leather trousers, and a t-shirt. The word on the street is that his first option was going to be a cricket jumper and swimming knickers. We got off lightly.
Also in attendance was Abbey Clancy – the recipient of Peter Crouch’s thin, lizard-like tongue prods – wearing a see-through dress, over the top of another dress, and Kelly Brook, Emma Bunton, and Cheryl Cole all turned up in little black numbers! Cringe! Vernon Kay was there with his dead-eyed wife, and Konnie Huq from Blue Peter rolled up, as she generally tends to. She likes a free party, that Konnie Huq.
In other important celebrity updates, there’s a rumour going around that Justin Timberlake‘s swift hamster-like hands have been frenziedly scuttling around another woman’s taut, impressive figure. His girlfriend in America (below) will not be happy. And Anton Du Beke made a racist comment, then immediately said sorry… two weeks later.
... and these kids might be worth a look
Once again, it was a hugely emotional X Factor weekend. Cheryl freaked out a bit before telling the opera boy to get off her land, Simon and Louis remained relatively stony faced throughout, and Dannii Minogue once again resembled a robot pretending to be human, as a film of salty tears sheened her electric blue eyes, but never actually fell down her replicant cheeks. Time. To die.
It was exciting stuff. Cheryl took her great looking boys on a rather eyebrow-raising trip to Morocco with Will Young, which sent local gaydars into maximum overdrive. Louis enjoyed a well earned break in a place called Lake Homo with Ronan Keating – a former pop singer with Tom Cruise intensity. Simon jetted back to LA, to be reunited with Sinita – who thought it would make for a hilarious introduction/ice breaker if she basically took all of her clothes off, and made everyone feel slightly disturbed and uncomfortable. And Dannii went to Dubai with Kylie, who now sounds a little bit like Harold Bishop when she speaks. Whilst most of the contestants chose to fill their days sitting next to garden statues, or staring thoughtfully out of windows, the girls took the opportunity to swim with dolphins! Great.
Will Young provided a looming presence in the boy’s camp, as he sat half-grinning, like a cruel professor listening sarcastically to a toddler attempting to decipher an equation. His only useful summation was to suggest that he’d consider rogering Ethan, but only if he didn’t sing. And lo, Ethan got the chop. As did the fey opera singer, and the soft spoken soul guy, Duane. Hence going through, rather surprisingly, are the creepy child star from Scotland, whom Cheryl swamped with weird cod-psychology – “… you look like you believe, but deep down, do you believe?… I believe… now you have to believe… ” – leaving us wondering whether Cruise might have notched up another one on the big Scientology bedpost. The blonde boy from the Blue Lagoon has been ushered into the fold to be ripped to shreds by Cowell – he won’t last. And Joe, the Geordie lad, who looks a bit like Cheryl Cole in drag, made it. He has something of the Gareth Gates about him. Minus the unbelievably tiresome stutter.
Over by the lake with Louis, it was an awful turn out. De-Tour – a pair of earnest northern lads, both of whom resembled the exact result of what would happen if Dermot O’Leary and Jamie Carragher mixed sperm and impregnated a customer service officer, then waited twenty years – didn’t make it. The singing HR girls shouldn’t even have bothered, and Harmony Hood can go back to folding up clothes in Topshop. Hence, through went the singing strippers, who don’t want to be known as just a bunch of strippers, which is precisely why they will keep telling you that during every interview between now and two weeks time, when they’re booted out and accept an intriguing offer to strip for Nuts/Zoo. The hideous Irish twins, who are like Bros, only really bloody awful. And Miss Frank – who are either doffing a slightly unnecessary cap to Anne Frank, or poking fun at a Chelsea midfielder – made it, and look like ones to watch. They’ve all got strong Mary J type voices, and the little gobby one can RAP. Kids love rap.
Back in Minogue HQ, things were pretty intense, as she went about casting people aside in what looked like a hotel lobby. The humiliated losers included Stacey McLean, who might be wise to give sun-beds a wide birth for a while, the jazz singer one, who totally balls’d up her lyrics, and one girl who seemed to think that winning the X Factor wouldn’t only help her career, but her entire family’s careers too. In the long term it’s probably a good thing that she didn’t make it through. Whilst those tasting the sweet champagne of success were Rachel – the half-shaven-headed soul singer – who chose to weigh down her ears with a couple of antique horse shoes. We like her. The valley girl made it, making her the most famous person in her village ahead of Rhodri the Maniac Clown. And Stacey Solomon, who will provide a better life for her child by jetting around the world, occasionally tearfully calling him on speaker-phone from inside the bogs at Movida.
And so to the most competitive category – the over-25s. The girls were always going to be dead weights, which isn’t a pun intended at the buxom one with the deceased father. They never really stood a chance. The thinner one wasn’t womanly enough to distinguish herself in the older category, whilst the larger woman must already be in line for a role in Chicago. Her work is done. So it was a battle amongst the men/boys, a battle lost by Daniel from One True Voice, which is surprising as he might just have been the best singer in the competition. Cowell’s logic was that he’d been there, done that, and should probably think about sodding off now. Hence he chose to go with Danyl, who seems to spend the majority of his song renditions ad-libbing a new, awful cover version, which he chooses to croon from one side of his mouth. Olly, who is surely destined to be featured somewhere in a Gaffney/Bowers/JLS VIP roast at Faces nightclub in Essex in the not too distant… and Jamie Afro, who looks like the kind of person who uses beads instead of doors.
As predictions go, we managed to call eight of the final twelve. Hence we shall put our neck on the line early on, and call the most successful members of each category as: Joe, Rachel, Miss Frank, and Olly.
Sweet Moses, these two got through…
It was a magnificently emotional weekend for anyone who watched the X Factor. Even Dannii Minogue started crying, which brought to mind that scene from Blade Runner, where the replicant cries during a Harrison Ford interview. In that instance, she was weeping over a butterfly or some such. In Dannii’s case, it was over the rejection of Dominic – a singing teen who so nearly made it through in 2007, and had come back this year to prove that he was ready. Really ready. Unfortunately, he now has a voice so slutty and cocksure that it suggests he’s already halfway inside before he turns on the charm. So he got the boot. As did a host of others.
The endearing old man was – as predicted – ushered out of the door as quickly as possibly. They didn’t want some grandpa around, killing the vibe. The insaniac who looked like Chico dressed up as Gary Numan didn’t make it, then thought he’d outstare Simon until he said “yes”. It didn’t work. And most surprising of all, the ASBO knife kid, the one with the dead brother, the girl living with her entire extended family in a single room in a council flat, and the autistic one who dressed like a crazed New York postal worker for his boot camp performance, all didn’t make it through. It seems that the hardened X Factor judges have tired of the endless tales of tragedy, and would now rather listen to a couple of Eraserhead-looking twins from Ireland making cocks of themselves on a weekly basis. They got through.
Of the others that made it, there was Jamie Afro from Mungo Jerry, the single mum from Essex, the sobbing Scottish boy with the hat, the mob of singing strippers, the one who used to be on Popstars: The Rivals, the boy who looks a bit like an Osmand, the blonde one from The Blue Lagoon, and Danyl, who did a really weird version of Simply Red. It’s going to be an interesting year. And with that in mind, we predict the categories to whittle down a little something like this:
Interestment Predicts: IN, Joseph McElderry, Duane Lamonte, Ethan Boroian. OUT, Daniel Fox, Lloyd Daniels, Rikki Loney
The producers have made the rather remarkable decision to put Cheryl in charge of a gaggle of horny adolescents this year, which should make the “Judges Homes” segment a mixture of emotional tears, hot flushes, and humiliatingly inappropriate erections, as the boys are told that they didn’t make it through this time. Like Rhydian a couple of years ago, there appears to be a choirboy in this group, called Daniel Fox. Only, he’s not your average choirboy. He’s got an actual hairstyle created by a professional, rather than using mum to hack around a basin with a bread knife, and he sings cool songs by rock bands like U2. It’s a trick that worked wonders with G4 and the aforementioned Rhydian – hence judges like Simon and Louis would put him through in a second. A hunch suggests, however, that he mightn’t quite float Cheryl’s turnips, so he’ll be toast. As, probably, will be the welsh blonde kid, who can’t really sing. And the lad who lost his voice at boot camp. In his case, he’s got a good voice, but he cries too much. Producers need a decent hysterical maniac for these stages, just to emphasize the crushing severity of it all, so he’s good broken dreams fodder. Hence, we’d wager on Joe from Newcastle – Donny Osmand doing Luther Vandross. Duane Lamonte, who will aim for the gap in the market left when Chris Brown decided to unleash a few fists on his girlfriend. And Ethan, the American kid, who isn’t a million miles away in type to the crooning nomark who walked away with the American Idol crown this year. Girls will think he’s hot. We all think he’s probably gay.
Interestment Predicts: IN, Stacey McClean, Rachel Adedeji, Lucie Jones. OUT, Despina Pilavakis, Stacey Solomon, Nicole Jackson
“We all really wanted Dannii!” beamed the single mum. Really? They all wanted Dannii? Even Dannii doesn’t really want Dannii. Dannii wants Kylie. Hence, if the teaser is true, Kylie shall be joining Dannii next week. It’s a sorry state of affairs for the still-faced Australian, as she now has to pull a few family strings to guarantee airtime. Should she stay for another series, she should really start attempting to befriend Beyonce as soon possible. For the most part, the girls are similar in standard this year, a mixture of poor man’s Whitney’s, and Mary J Bliges. The trick is to have a mixed bag. So the “triumph over adversity spot” should be a toss up between Lucie Jones, the Welsh girl from a miniscule village right in the middle of a valley, and Stacey Solomon – the Essex single mum. Lucie Jones wins that particular battle, as there are few valley girls who can do Whitney. But if you’re after single mums in Essex, just hurl a tennis ball into Wimpy, and you’ll hit at least eleven. Of the rest, Stacey McClean should oust Despina Pilavakis in the battle of the little brunettes with strong voices. She’s been rather under the radar, that particular Stacey, but the word is that she used to be a member of an S Club style pop group, managed by Simon Fuller. The same Simon Fuller who has a big finger in pop reality show pie. You do the maths. And Rachel Adedeji meets Nicole Jackson in a Mary J versus Winehouse style head-to-head. In these shows, raw soul beats affected jazz every time. See last year’s Laura White and Alexandra Burke if you don’t believe us.
Interestment Predicts: IN, Kandy Rain, Miss Frank, John & Edward. OUT, De-Tour, Project A, Trucolorz
Louis got the groups. Louis always gets the groups. Louis, frankly, loves groups. Plus, unfortunately, Louis appears to really like the oiky brothers who thought they’d cement their name by singing over the other auditionees with their whiny cod-American accents. Under any other judge, John & Edward‘s exit would be swift and brutal, but under Louis – no such luck. He will also probably plump for the singing strippers, Kandy Rain, in the hope that they might become a slutty homegrown version of the Pussycat Dolls. De-Tour and Project A appear to have made the final cut on default – or, indeed, de-fault – being that the dearth of decent groups is becoming ever more alarming. Whilst Trucoloz and Miss Frank are left to plug the gap as the edgier of the three groups. Miss Frank should just get through by a nose, being that they were assembled in the first place by the judges themselves. It would be a warm ego trip all round if they turned out to be half decent.
Interestment Predicts: IN, Daniel Pearce, Danyl Johnson, Olly Murs. OUT, Jamie Archer, Treyc Cohen, Nicole Lawrence
And on to the category most likely to win. It’s a strong one, hence probably why it went to Simon Cowell. He’s a man who likes to win. Plus, it’s the most likely group to throw up a surprise when they’re whittling it down to just three. Already completely discounted can be Nicole Lawrence – the massive soulstress. Her thrilling back story about her father’s dying wish being for her to win the X Factor has already been used in series’ gone by – notably by Niki Evans in series four. It won’t wash this time. Not with Cowell. Treyc can also forget it. She appears to be on the cusp of the girls and the over-25s, so would probably lose popularity points to the younger ones. Hence, it’s down to four blokes, all of whom have their appeal. Daniel Pearce has already won one of these things – Popstars: The Rivals – and they love a Lazarus story on reality shows. Danyl Johnson has already caused a stir on Youtube so could ensure a stateside interest, Olly Murs appears to fit that awful Robbie Williams template that tightens music executive trousers, and Jamie with the afro has been one of the big draws in the show so far. He will also, we predict, be the big name chop this year. Even though he made Cowell lip synch to Kings of Leon back in the early days. He deserves props for that.
Now for the grueling bit…
At last, the freak show segment of X Factor is over. It’s a very tired formula, and where once there was the shrill din of laughter at these tone-deaf fruitcakes, we’re now left with genuine concern. Some of them honestly appeared insane, meaning that the crushing humiliation in front of a cackling studio audience could easily have tipped them over the edge. In years to come, the coined expression “gone postal” could perhaps be replaced with “gone X Factor”? We shall see.
Either way, we’re now onto the second leg of the show – the bit where they all go to Boot Camp, and slowly begin to unravel. Joining the likes of Danyl, the one with the afro, and our favourite, Heshima Thompson, are a few faces from the weekend. The one to watch, according to the bookmakers, is the autistic chap, Scott, who decided to leave the house after seven lonely years to stand in front of a massive crowd, whilst singing Westlife. There may have been slightly less extravagant re-introductions, but Scott is clearly a man who likes to do things in style. He could well be the new Susan Boyle. A set of security guards did Boyz II Men, and did it well. And a girl who fancies herself as a bit of a Cheryl Cole stood weeping on stage until everyone relented and put her through. She will be treated in a far less sympathetic manner should she cock things up in the next round.
Others who impressed were Danny, or Daniel, or Dan? He was the one who used to be in One True Voice, but has now marked his departure from the band by restyling his hair, and impregnating his lover a couple of times. Apparently he’s a great guy. Two girls who looked a little bit like Leona Lewis as glanced through an empty pint glass got through. And Simon seemed very taken with a young street criminal, whom he described as “current”.
Danni Minogue is now merely a subliminal judge who flashes into shot for three nanoseconds every five minutes.
Lloyd and Lucy… in a way
While Simon sits giggling with his new best friend Cheryl, it’s easy to feel a little bit sorry for Dannii Minogue – she used to be right in the thick of things, enjoying the Cowell breath on her neck, but now there she is, right at the end, barely acknowledged by anyone. Even the most eager contestants just shrug and mouth “whatever” after her comments, good or bad. Next series should find her perched on a wooden stool at the back of the auditorium, attempting to scream her comments over the din of a live audience. Eventually she’ll leave. Or take up heroin. She may even move into whichever skip Kate Thornton has decided to call home.
This week was another fittingly formulaic treat, with an equal ratio of brain damaged morons, and sparkling talents with thrilling back stories. Lucy, for example, is from a small village in Wales, where there’s just one local village shop, a little church, a school, a nice country pub, and eighteen Starbucks. She sang Whitney Houston, and impressed absolutely everyone. There was a rugby player, who would be a big favourite with “mammies and daddies” according to Louis Walsh, who was obviously ignoring where they were, and the fact that “mammies and daddies” in Wales span the entire country from thirteen upwards. And Ashanti who sang Mary J Blige went through, even though she’s a “full time mum” by trade, which presumably means she’ll need to pack in her job and give up her child if she makes it past boot camp.
The other two stand out acts were Jade, a 17-year-old from London, who didn’t bother with the backing track, and sounded magnificent. And Lloyd from Cardiff, who looked like he’d stepped straight out of the Blue Lagoon. His hair was absolutely astonishing, blonder than a golden retriever’s nightie, and Cheryl seemed convinced that he could tighten a few female trousers. Metaphorically speaking.
Of the nutters, there was a policeman singing the Pussycat Dolls, a depressed chef whispering “Angels”, a man pretending to be MC Hammer, an amish looking weirdo singing about crisps, and a couple who had broken up because he had a massive scar on his face. We think. It was hilarious stuff.
Bisexual Danyl’s biggest rival
On X Factor, they know how to really push the envelope on the glam stakes. Firstly, they’ve ditched the stuffy studio to involve a massive jeering audience from the off. And secondly, the judges now seem incapable of traveling the country in a sensible manner. They’ve taken to getting across London by speedboat, helicoptering through Birmingham, and it’s surely only a matter of time before Simon decides that the only sane way to get to Glasgow would be by rocket. The message is clear, judges – you are powerful people. Not like us normal folk.
Sadly, this week was again lacking in normals. There was a man who only auditioned because he was “guided by angels.” The same angels that instructed him to sing Erasure. Were they perhaps gay, these angels? He didn’t get through. Neither did the weirdo with the beard whose “musical roots are in karaoke”. That’s a bit like saying that you learnt everything about cooking by visiting Aldi. And The Stunners made the cruel audience sit back and guffaw because neither of them were remotely good looking. Their biggest mistake was to inform the audience that they were “really good”, before immediately letting everyone down by being horrible singers. From now on, they’d be wise to say “we’re really bad” before gigs. Just an idea.
Of the ones that got through, everyone’s been going bonkers about Jamie, the guy with the massive Jackson Five afro. According to his interview with Dermot O’Leary, he’s liked music since he was 10, and now he’s 33. That means he’s liked music for 23 years! No wonder his rocked out version of Kings of Leon was so impressive. He’s liked music for ages! Here at Interestment, we’ve only liked music for 12 years. The girl from Trinidad was very impressive. The Jazz singing girl band, Misfits, put on a performance guaranteed to muster the full Cowell erection. And Daryl the cabinet maker responded to a simple “how are you?” question with a detailed description of his brother’s death from the dreaded cancer. We never did find out how he was. He did, however, provide the quote of the night with: “hopefully my voice will do the talking.”
It’s back, and it’s… erm… a bit weird
We’re into series six of the X Factor now, and the show producers have finally twigged that a touring freak show needs a cackling audience to achieve maximum humiliation and higher viewing figures. Hence episode one featured not just the four judges in a stuffy room experiencing the monotonous conveyor belt of decent singers contrasted with plucky fighters with brain damage, but behind them were around two thousand cackling maniacs booing and hissing misplaced notes, or unachievable octaves. Should this transition continue, and future editions will find the contestants wheeled onto the stage in cages, and pelted with rotten fruit and vegetables before they’ve even had a chance to sing the chorus of Hero. It has all become rather cruel, the singing competition equivalent of a man tutting all the way through a job interview to put you off.
Still, there were some highlights. Of the bad ones, the two gargantuan girls who attempted Mariah Carey had no chance. Firstly because they couldn’t sing. But secondly, because they were fat. This audience can’t stand fat people. They may as well have taken the stage to a tuba soundtrack. Also with no chance were the three London teens who hoped to prove that not all kids go around stabbing each other and robbing people. The way they butchered Umbrella suggested that they should probably consider a future in street crime. The pick of the awful ones, though, were the Irish twins with the Eraserhead haircuts, who strode out onto the stage hollering “good evening Glasgow, are you here to party?” – a strange question considering the nature of what they were doing. No, twins, Glasgow is probably here to boo you. Which they surely would have done had the identical Dubliners not been so astonishingly overconfident that even an audience of thickies and durr-brains was left in a stunned disbelieving silence. Of course, Louis made sure that they went through.
And so to the good ones, all of whom had made it through about three rounds of auditions to get this far, yet still appear shocked by their own talent when they sing. The first to wow the panel was Stacey, who loves being a single mother, because, in her words: “I can do what I want”. Which doesn’t exactly bode well for little baby Zachary, should Mummy suddenly decide to swan off for a few days, or have a series of long lie ins. But no matter. She did a sweet job on a Louis Armstrong number, which was made double impressive by the fact that her speaking voice was like listening to David Bellamy shouting over the din of a bear scratching a blackboard. She’s one to watch. As is Joseph from South Shields, who looks a bit like Donny Osmand. Duane who tried out last year, and openly came out on stage as a big Beyonce fan. And, of course, Danyl (pronounced “Daniel”) who continues the rich tradition of reality television stars with normal names with wacky spellings. He earnestly told the judges that he’s a teacher, omitting the fact that he teaches DANCE. It’s a bit like someone telling you that they’re an actor, because they read from a script at their telesales job. Still, nitpicking aside, he stole the show with a brilliant Joe Cocker version of With a Little Help from my Friends. The audience loved it, the panel loved it. The whole thing was only slightly ruined when Danyl dashed out to his waiting friends bragging about Simon giving him a standing ovation. Humility, Daniel, is the key. This unforgiving audience can’t stand a Billy Bragger.
One show in, great stuff.
Here’s Joe Cocker…
The word oozing down from showbiz desks like slime leaking from a dying monster’s mouth and eyes is that Jude Law has been busily enjoying unprotected sex again – this time with models. In particular, a model called Samantha Burke, who graciously accepted the inside of Law’s underpants whilst he was taking a break from filming Sherlock Holmes, the Guy Ritchie interpretation – which, we presume, will surely feature a whiskey soaked cockney voice over, some right tarts, and a slow motion punch up. In fact, it was probably called Sherlock Faackin’ ‘olmes, you Jaffa before the censors got to it. Anyway, that’s all by the by, the point is that Law’s now put a baby inside this pouting glamour puss, and she wants REVENGE! Or, more specifically, money. Celebrity journalists are pleased to note that the actor has agreed to hurl part of his fortune at the kid, and might even incorporate the thing into his actual family, which already features a small flock of future Peaches Geldofs that he had with Sadie Frost.
In other massive celebrity news, Cheryl Cole left the entire showbusiness world in a stunned silence when she arrived home for work looking a little bit tired, and Lily Allen – the one that sings about the little things in life, somehow mistaking laborious monotony for something remotely profound – made a cock of herself by parading around with silver circles around her eyes. Celebrity journalists have been overheard guffawing over that one, before sniffing up more lines of expensive talc and snogging each other. Just how they roll.
One of these is a bisexual gentleman…
If you’ve managed even a few moments of this year’s excellent edition of Big Brother, you might have noticed that The Bisexual Club is growing faster than the ever-expanding oozing death machine in The Blob. Kids on Facebook have twigged that double-gender sex can at least double the friends list, while all the latest pop stars and actresses like to remind the world as often as possible that their sexual desires are so complex and far out that you may as well just call them bisexual and be done with it. It’s wild, and showbusiness offices all over the capital have come to resemble Turkish steam rooms, after hard day after hard day of breaking bisexuality news. The latest of which concerns Duncan from Blue, a pouting ice dancer who thought that he needed to come out and tell the world that he sometimes does it with men. It was a move akin to OJ Simpson saying that he might have once killed a woman. Duncan went on to explain that he still likes breasts, so girls are in with a crack too. One celebrity journalist in particular appeared to think that this was big news.
In other magnificent showbusiness news, Demi Moore (below with Cameron Diaz) has left swathes of highly paid reporters agog by wearing a bikini on holiday and not looking totally disgusting, even though she’s like 60 or something. And Cheryl Cole has completely humiliated herself by accidentally getting a smudge of lipstick on her teeth. Triple cringe!
Girl wears bikini in pool
When the plump-lipped mouth of fame kisses you, everything changes. It seems like only a few long years ago that Louis Walsh was the squealing thorn between Pete Waterman and Geri Halliwell’s roses on Popstars: The Rivals, a show which set out to find the next Beatles. And sure enough, that’s exactly what happened when Cheryl Cole, Nadine Coyle, George Harrison, Sarah Harding and Davey Jones walked through those studio doors and sang their little hearts out. They were all plump bearded women, hence, once the band was formed, they were immediately ordered to lose five stone each, wax their faces, and start working on their bikini bodies. Fast forward almost twenty years, and showbusiness desks all around London are steaming up as pictures of the girls land on their desks with unnerving regularity. Just yesterday, both Nadine and Cheryl were the focus of hysterical chit-chat in numerous VIP sections and shared toilet cubicles. Nadine, bless her, has been spotted sunning herself alongside giraffe-alike posho Lady Victoria Hervey. She’s wearing a bikini, which one showbiz reporter in particular seems to think is a wise summer choice.
Elsewhere in the world, Cheryl Cole left onlookers agog by wearing a dress so short that you could make out almost every last centimetre of her oily stick-thin legs. “They look great,” insists one journalist in particular, obviously confusing the words like pipe cleaners for the word great. And in non-Girls Aloud news, Jordan accidentally exited a taxi without showing the world her genitals.
Couple go on summer holiday…
Most of us use the summer to get away from work – to lie on a beach staring at the sun all week in the hope that a glistening hue will disguise that greying skin, that disappointed weeping soul, the demise of all of those childhood dreams. “It’s me that should be winning Britain’s Got Talent,” you mutter to yourself, smearing yet more baby oil into your blistering stomach, “I’ve got the voice of an angel.” And yet, for some celebrities, the real work starts when they take time off. Kelly Brook, for example. A girl with a inbalanced ratio of bosoms to body fat, she never really holds a job down for long enough to feel the bitter sting of dreams dying – The Big Breakfast got rid of her during holiday season, Cowell couldn’t stomach her on Britain’s Got Talent – so now her actual job is to go on holiday. Just today, showbiz desks have been smoking up keyboards with reports that she has been spotted lying around in a bikini with her hunky boyfriend, Danny Cipriani. One celebrity reporter in particular was delighted to report that she went for a quick swim, then returned to a sun lounger to relax. Keep up the good work, Brook.
Elsewhere in the world, Lily Allen has taken everyone’s breath away by going out for dinner wearing a blonde wig. A blonde wig! That’s right, a blonde wig. While Cheryl Cole – of enduring Ashley Cole fame – has shocked newspaper readers all over the country by having tanned legs. Here she is at a Billy the Kid party…
Yeah, it’s all smiles in this picture…
Nothing sticks in the craw like being relentlessly copydogged by one of your friends. You’ve got a new jumper, they’ve got a new jumper. You spent months saving up for a mean pair of sneaks, they spotted the sneaks and immediately ran to a shoe shop. Sometimes, they might even take the credit for creating the vibe themselves. Standing there at a cool party in your outfit, impressing people. It’s bloody outrageous. Which is why Cheryl Cole might have a few curt words to say to her band mate Kimberley Walsh when she gets back from her wonderful beach holiday. It turns out that her copydogging hasn’t gone unnoticed, as she’s been photographed swanning around in the very same swimming-cozzie-and-cowboy-hat combo that made Cheryl the toast of the glossy beachwear pages little more than a week ago. Whether Cheryl will return the compliment by copycatting the same red faced shame that Kimberley must be feeling, we just don’t know. Needless to say, certain showbiz reporters have been enraged, outraged, and overraged about this.
Elsewhere in the world, Jordan has been going bonkers in Ibiza, and Britney Spears was invited to Ciara’s party, but then her dad wouldn’t let her go. News from the inside suggests that he was worried that if she got carried away, she might end up braless, knickerless, hairless, legless, and most probably pregnant. And perhaps married. Hollywood insiders have been silently nodding their heads in quiet approval. Here she is hula-hooping…
This woman’s been showing off…
Because most of us aren’t celebrities, our winters are spent face down in mashed potatoes, doing anything we can to stave off the cold. Famous people, however, zip off to sunny places to begin working on their bikini bodies. They will then spend the following summer showing off their thin stomachs, their skin as tight as a snare drum, and their perky, attentive bosoms. The rest of us either lie on our fronts, or desperately suck it all in and waddle as fast as possible into the sea. It’s not fair. And just this weekend, the one from the Pussycat Dolls who goes out with Lewis Hamilton has been showing off her bikini body on a Hawaiian beach holiday. Like many bikini bodies, it involves a taut angry abdominal area, vivid buttocks, and a tiny little swimsuit, this year in fashionable Eva Longoria stripes – as opposed to Julia Roberts spots. One showbiz reporter in particular thinks she looks really good, but wonders where Lewis Hamilton is. Have they split up? Or was he having a lie down? These are the questions, friends. These are the questions.
Elsewhere, Cheryl Cole has been showing off her bikini body, which this year makes her look very thin, a bit like one of those gaunt heroin chic models that we used to find so disturbing and emaciated back in the good old days. Should this worrying trend continue, next year, this year’s bikini knickers will hang off her like y-fronts on a skeleton. Start eating, Cole. And, over in Hollywood, Megan Fox (below) decided that her bikini body could be spectacularly shown off under a sexy red dress. Hollywood insiders have been left in a stunned silence by her confusing mixture of demure sensuality and drunken sailor tatts. It’s as though Captain Birdseye ripped open his captain’s jacket to reveal a pair of absolutely gorgeous breasts. Kind of..
Look at this picture, now imagine her thinner…
In one of the most monumental cultural shifts of the last 700 years, it is no longer a symbol of success to have a big sloshing gut oozing over your golden belt buckle and flowing down to your knees. On the contrary, fatness is considered to be quite disgusting. Almost as disgusting as smelliness. Hence, it’s now hip to be thin, so that you can squeeze your sparrow legs into the latest skinny jeans, and never look out of place at a late night binging-then-vomiting party. The latest skinny celebrity rocking showbusiness circles to their very core is Cheryl Cole – member of Girls Aloud, and receiver of Ashley Cole’s grunting tongue kisses almost every single damn day for the rest of her life. She’s actually, like, too thin, insists one showbiz reporter, who appears to be slightly worried that she might be unhappy in her personal life. Have these people not done the math(s) – she’s married to Ashley Cole, therefore her personal life is EXCELLENT. She’s just not that hungry.
In other news, Kylie Minogue‘s boyfriend looks a little bit bored in some pictures. And, Hollywood circles have been seriously traumatised by news that Eva Longoria is still on holiday after almost a week. One celebrity journalist in particular is absolutely astonished and a little bit furious. How dare she enjoy her riches. How bloody dare she. Here she is actually working for a living…
Arrghhh, get her out of my eyes!
It’s a known fact that to win an Oscar, you have to ugly yourself up for a role – hence why Tom Hanks has always been so successful. It’s also why gorgeous people like Brad Pitt, Jordan, Justin from Hollyoaks, and Jessica Alba are looked over year after year, even though they’re probably the four greatest living actors. It’s a real shame, and the latest looker who has had to thump her face with the ugly fist for a role is Mariah Carey. Normally so gorgeous, with her big inflatable bosoms and no nonsense approach to make up, she has silenced diners in a million Hollywood restaurants by turning up to film shoots for the movie Precious with her face untainted by lipsticks and blushers. Obviously she looks disgusting, and if her plain face is anything to go by, she should win Best Actress.
In other news, everyone is really impressed by Cheryl Cole‘s ability to dress a little bit like a prostitute with her Girls Aloud band mates, and Cindy Crawford has stunned one showbiz reporter by being 43 years old, but still sexually attractive. That hasn’t happened since Sean Connery. Here she is before she became an old woman…
No room for these young sex machines…
It is with complete and unadulterated joy that we welcome excellent sports writer Eliot back to glance over the weekend’s football. You won’t find a team as intriguing as this one anywhere in cyberspace. Believe.
Goalkeeper, Sergio Romero
Goalkeepers; a strange breed, the dippy appearance stemming from years of being the last pick in the school playground, consequently being thrust into goal against all wishes and so spending much of the lunch-break ’32 all’ classics bending down to get the ball from the net. But surely, despite years of taking a cow’s udder full-on in the face, even this most dense of creature would realise the importance of the ‘hands’ in the day job.
But no, the current custodian of Dutch league leaders (that the EreDivisie to yoush and meesh) AZ Alkmaar, decided that so traumatic was the 2-1 cup defeat to NEC Breda, the best possible outcome would be his removal from the team for six weeks with a broken hand. So he thumped the wall with his fist. Well done Sergio Romero. Next week, Huw Edwards cuts off his tongue in a similarly well-thought-out career move.
Right Back, Steven Taylor
Being a round of the FA Cup that isn’t the third, Newcastle United were not in action this weekend. Yet defender Steven Taylor, fresh from telling Ronaldo – in a comedic manner echoing Winston Churchill no less – that he was ugly, revealed to the Times on Friday how he intends to help the Toon fight the drop.
“I find myself getting bored a lot and when I’m bored, I’m dangerous. The fun part is trying to get out of trouble. But there’s a serious side to it as well. For our Christmas do, we went out for a bonding session and a couple of the young lads, Fraser Forster and Jonny Godsmark, decided to go home early. When I looked around and saw they’d gone, I thought, ‘We’re in this together, you can’t do that.’ The consequences were me getting a master key card, going into their room and using a Bic to shave their hair off. They had Mohicans. And that was just my little warning. The next night, they were out with the rest of us until the very end. That’s how it should be. That’s how this football club needs to stay together. It might sound daft, but it’s important.”
“I also get the lads playing pool,” Taylor continued. “With forfeits. If you lose, you’ve got to do something like take a shot of Tabasco, or have an ice bath. I get more nervous doing that than playing football.”
Steven Taylor is club captain of Newcastle United. AC Milan captain, and five times European Cup winner Paulo Maldini, probably doesn’t behave like this.
Left Back, Ashley Cole
For showing us all how an evening spent raising charity should end. After all, we only do good deeds so as to cancel out our discrepancies. Ashley was planning in advance.
Centre Back, Alex
Guus Hiddink’s book of innovative tactical genius part 26: Start play with nine players, send on additions at random points so they can’t be traced by the opposition. Watch them score. Deny its cheating.
Centre Back, Cagdas Atan
Crazy name, crazy guy, and some crazy goalkeeping for this free kick. Hertha Berlin go a goal down at Cottbus, but you’ll be relieved to know they recovered to win 3-1, and stretch their lead to 4 pts at the top of the Bundesliga.
Right Midfield, David Beckham
A man who continues to prove you can have it all. Going against 120 years of transfer consensus, Beckham is now organizing his own little timeshare between European giants AC Milan, and American non-entities, LA Galaxy. Try and buy a player 20 minutes after the window closes on August 31st, and you might as well be trying to rape Sepp Blatter’s mother. Yet Beckham has managed to bend the transfer system around the wall, to suit his own climatic preferences. Milan in Autumn and Spring; LA in Winter and Summer.
When he married in 1999, Beckham, like most men at that time, could never have imagined tiring of steamrollering Victoria Beckham. When he signed up for a life playing the beautiful game in the MLS, Becks surely never imagined he could tire of California. The existential moral of the story is that everything gets rubbish eventually, so death is necessary, or else ennui would set in for us all. A point old Becks is probably mulling over this very moment.
Left Midfield, Francis Lee
This is still interesting. Very interesting in fact.
Centre Midfield, Alex Song
The man the Arsenal fans sarcastically christen the African Beckenbauer suddenly morphed into the African Zidane (yes, we know the original Zidane was born in Africa too, clever clogs), with his sublime back-heel for Emmanuel Eboue’s third goal yesterday. Even a stopped clock is right twice a day.
Centre Midfield, Marcelo Gallardo
Gaining the moniker of “the new Maradona” is as common for diminutive Argentinian playmakers as it is for English new-borns to be looked after by grandma whilst mummy finishes her GCSEs. Marcelo Gallardo has never quite lived up the hype, with two brief spells in France the only European airing of his talents. Yet his goal two minutes into this clip, a goal that put River Plate 2-1 up against Arsenal Sarandi, is meriting of a wider audience.
Yes, nice old cuddly Brazilian Ronaldo, back amongst the goals for Corinthians, a last minute header to equalise against Palmeiras. Good to have you back big guy. Aw shucks, look at that smile.
Every ten years or so, in order to compensate for the heartless society we live in, a nation grieves far in excess to any genuine anguish we feel. In the 80s, we mourned the loss of John Lennon despite many years earlier mourning the loss of his talent. In the 90s, we had Diana, a woman who touched many, but ultimately, a woman who none of us had ever had round for tea.
This decade, we have had the venerated Eduardo, a hero to all of us, who unfortunately injured his leg on the battlefields of Birmingham. Thankfully, against all odds and unlike dozens of other footballers who have also come back from injury, the Croatian has bravely retuned, displaying his heroic credentials by scoring goals against Cardiff City and Burnley.
Bunting shall be hung from every street corner in honour of this plucky foreigner, and a Bank Holiday shall be declared henceforth, on March 8th, National Eduardo Day. <yawn yawn>