Oh God, shoot me now – it’s the new series of the X Factor

I was on holiday the past two weeks and had a fabulous time, thanks. I relaxed in the sweltering sun, only rising occasionally to dip my sun kissed toe in the refreshing ocean.

I was on holiday the past two weeks and had a fabulous time, thanks. I relaxed in the sweltering sun, only rising occasionally to dip my sun kissed toe in the refreshing ocean. It was a relaxing and enjoyable two weeks, apart from one hour long segment on Saturday night. Yes, I decided to watch X Factor, and utterly despised every second of it.

ITV opened the new series by reminding everyone of the glorious success stories of years gone by. Hey everyone! Remember Leona Lewis and Olly Murs and JLS? Yayyy they succeeded! That’s a massive three popular artists! This show changes lives! But all I was doing was thinking of all the other X Factor winners or runners up who butchered a touching classic, then hastily scuttled back to obscurity. Steve Brookstein was last seen dressed in rags, singing in the streets of Peckham for pennies. Leon Jackson just booked a six month gig on an oil rig. Shayne Ward’s a binman. I just hired Matt Cardle ten minutes ago to repaint my bathroom. I’m looking at his picture right now, and I still don’t know who Joe McElderry is.

Anyway, bumpy start aside and we are straight into the show, where Dermot is excitedly announcing the well loved judges! Exciting! Oh wait, Gary Barlow is still the most efficient member in a panel clearly on a crusade to redefine ‘blandness.’ Chavtastic Tulisa continues to look hopelessly out of place, glaring round her at the Take That frontman, the man who created and nurtured Westlife and Nicole Scherzinger, leader of the most attractive group of women since the Calendar Girls. Tulisa comes from N-Dubz, the biggest blight on humanity’s progress since the construction of the atomic bomb. Face like a squashed omelette Louis Walsh and Nicole Scherzinger exist on the panel too, sometimes they even open their mouths and make sounds, so that’s nice.

However, all this pales into comparison when Mel B steps into focus. I bet the managers of the Spice Girls reunion were punching each other in the face with pure joy and bathing in champagne the night they grabbed Mel B a guest spot. I bet they said to her, ‘Hey Mel, if you could go on a blistering sexy charm offensive and remind the world why they need the Spice Girls, that would be great.’ After watching her performance, I bet they cried until the tears eroded channels in their faces.

The sheer level of annoyance created by her is incalculable. But let’s try anyway. Imagine if Louis Spence and Cilla Black had a lovechild, then it had a lovechild with Jeremy Clarkson, then said child proceeded to make you redundant, steal your spouse, run over your life long pet in their supercar Ferrari Benzo 4000 AND steal your last Rolo, and you’re still no where near the levels of despair and annoyance the public felt on Saturday night.

ITV must have thought their little plan was hilarious, ‘Hey everyone! Look! She’s being scary and scaring the contestants, because she’s scary spice! Ha ha ha get it? Oh the irony! How clever! Ha ha ha! HAHAHA!’ Yet all they succeeded in doing was placing Spice Girls on an exclusive hatred list, where they join the reviled likes of Hitler, Dappy and Mario Balotelli.

Elsewhere, a Pink! impersonator arrives on stage, states how she wants nothing more than to break away from the Pink ‘image,’ and then proceeds to sing a Pink song. Hooray for stupidity! When the judges told her where to go, she proceeded to shove a camera man, blindly swear and attempt to destroy the studio, which ironically, was more entertaining than Pink has ever been.

Having realised some time ago that the public love nothing more than watching delusional people have their dreams callously obliterated by rich popstars, ITV have now decided not even to show the bad auditions. Instead we just see 5 minute montages of teenage girls gurning their lamps out, whining about how their destiny has been shattered. We don’t need any explanation, just unabridged misery. Thanks, ITV.
So that’s the promising start of the new series of The X Factor in a nut shell. Hooray for good television.