Last night I dragged my sick ass to Raynes Park to watch the cheese festival that is the X-Factor final with Yvonne, Ryan, Michele, Paul, Alex and Justin. It had all come down to Leona Lewis Clone – Alexandra, Irish Chav urchin – Eoghan and riot-inducing boy band – JLS. I kind of hoped none of them would win but of course that is not an option.
The night quickly descended into farce. Rather than taking the pop competition seriously we the conversation centred around Aston from JLS’ weird earlobes, Alex’s interesting obsession with Cheryl Cole, Alexandra’s strange gold dress that made her look like a pregnant vase, whether or not Louis could kill you in your sleep, which member/s of Boyzone/Westlife (why don’t they just combine and call themselves Boylife or Westzone?) was the biggest flamer and if Beyonce really was wearing a string with two fried eggs tied to it around her neck.
Arguably the best part of the show was the customary exploitation of the dodgiest auditionees who didn’t make the cut. I wonder why these people agree to come on the show to strangle out I Have A Dream. But because they have agreed I suppose it is fair to laugh at the collection of mad grannies, uber-chavs, deluded fatties, drag queens and world’s creepiest Michael Jackson impersonator.
In the end it was Alexandra who took the crown in a hail of snot and tears. The girl has got to learn to control her emotions or to find a way to cry that doesn’t make her look like a mentally unstable garden gnome. Now we will all be subjected to her “charming” version of Hallelujah. Jeff Buckley must be turning in his grave.
The hilarity over and my tourist visa to the pop world about to expire, I am off to listen to Razia’s Shadow, the fabulously weird new Forgive Durden album. And to wait for a call telling me that Jen is back in Londinium so I can collect her from Victoria and the mayhem can begin.