A post about the X-Factor – don’t like it? Don’t look…
Do I? Don’t I? Will people hate me forever if I do? Will it be suggested I get work experience at Heat Magazine or give up any hope of a career in journalism altogether? Death threats? … Ok, bit extreme, but these are some of the things I ask myself when considering whether or not to have the audacity to blog about Britain’s blingiest karaoke.
Tonight though, I just can’t help myself, but you’ve read the title and so if you happen to be still reading, I presume you either don’t mind my subject of choice or you’re an idiot. Any comments asking why this is on The Independent website or telling me I’m “not a real journalist” or anything else derogatory – I will have the last laugh. Get told.
Breathe. The final four then: the one with the eyebrows and an attitude the size of Kazakhstan, the prepubescent ones who’ve turned British women into paedophiles, the scouser mother of two with a voice like a treacle tart (without the tart), and the painter with a H&M hat glued to his head. I don’t really wish to waste words or time on the little cretin that is Cher Lloyd – I hope she goes off to America with Will.i.am and stays there, never to be seen or heard again. But the rest, for me, was tense, exciting and even a wee bit emotional – but then my mum cries at bloody anything so perhaps my emotion-guage is a little off kilter.
Tonight saw the last three fight it out, another hour of our lives spent watching M&S adverts and Jamie Oliver faffing over pukka potatoes – bro. Rebecca v Matt v One Direction (or Wand Erection as they are affectionately named on Twitter).
Girls all over the show are crushing all over Harry Styles and his scarf-clad mates – I often wonder what the media would think if Mr Cowell was instead dribbling all over a girl band consisting of puberty-ridden but pretty girls. One Direction have provoked screaming teenagers up and down the land to, well, scream – a lot, a very lot. Too much. Two of them may possibly be mute, I’ve heard no evidence of sounds coming out of their mouths. Another is a child alcoholic – I heard the blonde one (decribed as the ‘Robbie’ of the group) saying to Simon “Let’s get hammered!” after finding out they were through to the final. I was scared that they would win – they’re just about listenable to if I put myself in the boots of maybe my 9 year old self, and cover my ears a little bit. And Laaa out loud. But keep my eyes open. I’m being mean aren’t I? The little boys done good, they worked hard (except for the ones who hum in the background) and I’m sure ‘Uncle Simon’ will ensure their Christmas present comes in the shape of a cheeky little record deal. Girls will be queuing to have their hearts broken. Wonderful.
One Direction’s fanbase is enormous, but most of them would have been tucked up in bed by the time the phonecalls really counted and so, alas, the sad-faced boys skulked off the stage to give way for the Final Final. Matt Cardle or Rebecca Ferguson? King or Queen? Let’s watch Take That again once more before they tell us shall we? Again? Yes, again.
I came close to putting a bet on Matt after seeing his first audition – the ‘normal’ lad with a pretty voice and his own guitar too! Helped also by the fact that – how do I say this without my boyfriend getting upset? – well, he’s just pretty fit isn’t he? Magic combo right there, and with his mentor, Dannii Minogue he fought against many an obstacle: rumours of sleeping with fellow contestent Katie Weasel, the dreaded MAN FLU and strong competition from Tesco Lady and Wunderful Wagner. I’ll let my guard down here, I loved him. I loved his voice, I loved that he’s been playing in dirty pubs and dives for most of his life and I love any man who can reach a high C without sounding like Cher Lloyd being strangled by a pissed off cat. But then tonight he boggled and baffled and bemused me. Only last week I was standing watching Biffy Clyro playing Many of Horror in Manchester – little did I know that the half naked Scottish rockers had sold their souls to the devil, the machine… all under a different (simplified for the ignorant?) song title. His performance was alright, but I hate that feeling of having a song you know and love being taken and spewed out into the mainstream for everyone to pretend to love. Already there is a Facebook group campaigning to get Biffy Clyro’s original version to Christmas number 1 – nice idea, but the Rage Against the Machine thing is so last season, it just won’t work. Unfortunately this is not an isolated example of bands or artists cashing in leaving respect dwindling – Manic Street Preachers on Strictly Come Dancing, Nicky Wire on Something for the Weekend and David Bowie’s Heroes being well and truly destroyed by the X-factor finalists. It all makes me feel a bit ill. But with that face, I have to let him off – just this once.
Rebecca, oh, Rebecca… judges were lost for words to encapsulate her beauty, and I can’t help but sound disgustingly cheesy and horrible when I talk about her. All those cliches about a little seed blossoming into a beautiful flower or the shy caterpiller stuck inside a cocoon before breaking out, unleashing the stunning colours of a butterfly soaring through the sundrenched woods on a late afternoon in the springtime. Ha. True though – the mother of 24 with the quiet, gentle scouse accent and the posture of a bullied child has proved to everyone, herself included, that she is and has something really quite special. At first I was reminded of Audrey Hepburn – the fragility of natural beauty that you just couldn’t ignore… then Sade – effortlessly stunning. Rebecca danced on the line between complete lack of confidence and self belief, never once appearing to take anything for granted or ever, ever having a glimpse of cockiness (Cher had enough of that for the lot of them). A true goddess, a class act, a wonderful role model and one of the purest, most gorgeous voices I have ever heard. You know it’s magic when you’re wearing a onesie and a dressing gown, curled up in front of the fire in a heated house and still, you manage to get covered in goosebumps the second she starts to sing. She deserved to win.
The vote must have been close, after the longest pause in the history of anything ever, Matt Cardle was announced the winner of X-Factor 2010. Tickertape, tears and an end to Cher’s tantrums – but what do we do with our Saturday nights now? Probably just cry. Or make an effort to actually have a life and allow my dad and boyfriend access to both the television and my attention.
The End.Tagged in: cher lloyd, matt cardle, media, music, one direction, rebecca ferguson, television, X Factor
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