X Factor

Attention has to be drawn to what is probably the most choreographed, insipid and downright transparent ‘talent’ show that seems to be gripping the nation – the one, the only, the X Factor.


Sir Elton John – someone who I can’t seem to disassociate from his rubber-faced, arse-obsessed characterisation on Bo Selecta – has been the guiding light of sense and rational thought earlier this week when he took it upon himself to speak his mind about Cowell’s crap-machine.

In Sir Elton’s words, the X Factor is “arse-paralysingly brain crippling.”
Normally, I’d find any comments from Sir Elton about arses being paralysed somewhat unpalatable.

“It's not creative. I think Simon Cowell is supplying a market and that market is completely uninteresting and boring.” - Bernard Sumner

On this occasion, I found myself jumping up from my seat with a wild grin on my face laughing manically. It was at this point I realised rush hour on the District Line may not have been the opportune time to celebrate a small blow against the man with the hair-cut of a Grizzly bear.




It’s not only the fact that I may have looked like one of the drugged-up fruitcakes you get on the tube who everyone pretends to ignore – but is secretly keeping a close eye on – that I was worried about. No, it was also the fact that at least eight people on the packed carriage could have been part of the zombie-like X Factor thought police.

I don’t think it’s any individual’s fault if they’ve been caught up in Cowell’s shit-storm – evidently the entire production crew is supremely talented, which is more than you can say for the fame-hungry and cacophonous contestants of the show itself.

The sick beauty of the programme comes from the engine room full of producers and their ability to pin a tear-jerking sob-story to each and every act or – if their lives are too perfect – just by sending in pretty people who look a little like current pop stars and then immediately start comparing the two together.

Bernard Sumner from New Order has voiced a similar opinion:

“I think it stinks because it's more about the people who are making the programme than the people they are purporting to promote.

“I like real music. I'm not interested in how well you can sing. It's not how you sing, it's what you sing that interests me.”

Jamiroquai – the creators of one of my favourite albums Travelling Without Moving – went low in my estimations recently after appearing on X Factor. That was, however, until I found out about his amusing comments and his reservations about doing the show (presumably they were tied into it by his record label).

Of Danii Minogue and Cheryl Cole, Jay Kay recently said in The Sun:

“They’re fucking useless.

“What are they going to tell me about fucking music? What the fuck. When have you ever done anything? You’re useless. The pair of you. I mean you look great and I’d like to fucking shag you but that’s all.”

His best quote was: “I just don’t like all the wanky stuff I have to do…I’m going to have to sing in front of fucking amateurs.”

That’s it to a tee – the X Factor is a bunch of amateurs. What is so depressing is that it is so unoriginal. I used to have such contempt for pop music but, as I’ve grown older and wiser I have accepted that it has just as much a place in the world of music as any other genre. So, to that extent, welcome, Lady Ga Ga; bravo, Christana Aguilera and salutations Boyzone.

I just can’t actually fathom a competition where a bunch of talentless tossers get up on stage and sing other peoples’ songs – in fact, I thought we already had that: it’s called karaoke.

“But poor old Shazmella has been working on the checkouts at Asda and has dreamed of being a pop star all her life…” I hear one of the thought police pipe up.

I dreamt about being a fucking astronaut when I was a kid, Shazmella. I got over it. I wanted to be a T-Rex, Shazmella – genetics disagreed.

If people like Shazmella were actually any good, they would have been a pop star already and not working on checkouts in Asda, boring every poor sod within earshot about the latest addition to their large and morbidly obese family.

Sumner also made another very good point in against the X Factor:

“It's not creative. I think Simon Cowell is supplying a market and that market is completely uninteresting and boring.”

Shows like X Factor are leaving the UK’s music industry in a stagnant pool of manufactured tripe. We just end up with samey songs and repetitive music.

The worst thing is Simon Cowell’s obvious feeling that it is the X Factor’s winner’s god-given right to have their record as the Christmas number one.

Why?

I have never cared so much about what would be number one at Christmas than during last year’s battle. Cowell was beaming with delight that Joe McElderry was going to top the charts with his bloody awful song which could only be likened to a gigantic skid mark on the underpants of originality.

No offence to Mr McElderry, but if I had wanted to listen to a little nonce sing a crappy song at Christmas, I would have gone to church.

All I can say is – thank God for the people who launched an inspired campaign against the X Factor machine. Long may it continue.

Please join the fight against this year’s instalment of musical gonorrhoea:

http://www.facebook.com/#!/pages/BIRD-is-the-WORD-for-UK-Christmas-number-1-2010-to-beat-X-Factor/134615893253740

http://on.fb.me/birdisword

http://www.facebook.com/officialsurfinbird

http://www.facebook.com/group.php?gid=162749780422270 (Wagner to Win X Factor)

Being Tall.

"Isn't it lovely?" people say. "Aren't you lucky?" people say. "Are you Peter Crouch's brother or summink?" other people say.

Now I don't know how tall you are, but if you're tall - you may get what I'm on about. For some reason, it seems as if it is socially acceptable to harass a tall person about their height as if it is some kind of fabulous skill or talent that either deserves a good dollop of admiration or a cancerous splat of dull-witted 'banter'.

Ok - I can deal with old people coming up to me in the supermarket looking all hopeful before asking me to get them the precariously balanced packet of porridge oats they have managed to coax onto the edge of the top shelf with their walking stick - that humbles me somewhat.

However, I have found it increasingly difficult to laugh off jokes made by the kind of genetically-challenged miscreants who order "whatever's cheapest" in the various bars I have worked in over the past couple of years.

"What's the weather like up there, mush? Is it going to be sunny tomorrow?" Yes, your Daily Star coupon trip to Legoland Windsor tomorrow will be bathed in sunshine. How observant of you - I am undoubtedly a world-class meteorologist, stemming from the seemingly simple yet indescribably advantageous fact that I am, in fact, around eight inches taller than your benefit-bouyed bonce. Thanks for asking for my input. Now, if you don't mind, I have some humans with a moderate sense of wit to serve who don't smell like they've been washing in cheese and onion crisps.

Of course, that's what my brain is shouting. In reality I have to stand there and laugh - maybe make a funny storm cloud noise - and quite possibly have to stand there for a picture with either the tallest or smallest one of his mates so that he can post it on facebook when he learns to write.

I mean, what is it? Why is it so acceptable for people to come up to tall people and comment on their height?

Perhaps it's some kind of passport. As a tall person, maybe it means that I too can comment about standard physical irregularities - seeing as I cannot really comment on another person's height (plus I also sympathise with the inner pain it causes).

Does it mean it's OK for me to go up to - say - a fat person and ask them when the last time they saw their feet was? Of course not. Is it OK for me to go up to a very small person, hand them a cloth and ask them to get polishing my shoes? Again, of course not.

So why tall people?

Surely we endure enough pain - the constant hitting of the head, the massive shoe bills, being employed to polish top shelves, the endless Basil Fawlty impressions...

I guess we just have to stand up for ourselves. It motivates our wit. We have to get back at these irreverent swine and hit them where it hurts.

After being told - for the umpteenth time - that I should be playing basketball, I came up with a solution:

"No," I said. "I shouldn't."

"Why not mate - you'd be really good. Or what about football? I don't think that Crouchy [Isn't it great - the suffix -y? If you add it onto anyone's name you instantly create a nickname and make it seem like you're familiar with that person. Although, it's kind of like a confirmation that you have no imagination whatsoever.]...I don't think that Crouchy would be happy if there was another giant in the premiership."

"No I guess he wouldn't. He'd probably be gutted. But anyway, I don't want to play basketball."

"Oh no? And why's that then mate?"

"Well, I guess I mostly just like to sit inside and admire my two-foot long penis all day."

That tends to shut them up.

"Chuggers"

The Charity Worker. What a delightful addition to the urban shopping precinct they are, eh? That, along with the seemingly endless stretches of sport/chav-wear (delete as preferred) stores, cheap jewellery shops and dubiously clean fast food outlets, but I digress...

Charity Workers.

What, on God's green earth, possesses these people and fuels their insatiable desire to stop you from wherever you're walking or whatever you're doing to talk as quickly as they possibly can at you. A friend of mine informed me that these lovely people are referred to as 'chuggers' - charity muggers. It makes sense - they stop you in the street and try and take your money from you against your will.

"What? We live in England!" I hear you cry.

"No-one comes and talks to us in the middle of the street! We just walk along and totally ignore each other, unless - at our wit's end - we decide it important enough to invade someone's private space in order to ask sheepishly for a lighter or the nearest cash point!"

That's right. But there are those who don't agree...they are the sub-human breed of chuggers.

Picture this: it's a lovely spring day - the birds are tweeting, a gentle breeze is flowing through the air, which, if cleverly utilised, wafts away the rancid flatulence that is the result of last night's curry. A corner is turned, and you look forward to soak in the new scenery and - for some reason - your heart sinks.

You've been clocked.

There, in the distance, one of the brightly-coloured anoraks of some charitable organisation has spotted you and already the massive smile is spreading across the indescribably irritating face of its owner.

I honestly don't know how they do it, they must have extra-sensory vision or something. Perhaps when they are flagellated back at Chugger HQ for not bringing in enough money for the company - I mean, charity - they learn to keep a sharp eye out.

Anyway, the heart sinks more as soon as the typical waving of the arms commences, normally from about 50 metres or so away, although I'm sure they'd have a damn good go if they had clear line of sight over a mile.

I'm sure you've all seen David Attenborough's programmes and the various courting dances of exotic birds he documents in them, so you won't be surprised to find out that this - in fact - is what chuggers try to emulate as they approach you in the street.

You see, chuggers love nature and charity and all that - so, by impersonating a tropical bird doing a mating dance, wearing a brightly coloured anorak, having dreadlocks or a beard (or both - applies to male and female chuggers) and grinning insanely at you like the bastard child of the Chesire Cat and Tony Blair, the chugger thinks they can con you into handing over money to whatever charity is hastily emblazoned on their 'rak.

At this point - being the easy going guy that I am - I up the speed of my legs and put on the most steely "stop me and I'll punch you" stare I can muster. How does the chugger respond? By getting both of its index fingers, joining them in the middle of its mouth, before drawing them slowly towards its ears in a semi-circular motion whilst mouthing the word "smile" repeatedly.

I am absolutely positive that you don't go around smiling your face off unless you are a) mentally ill, b) got lucky the night before or c) you just farted and think you got away with it. That is, of course, unless you are a chugger.

Besides, someone telling me to smile when I really don't want to really irritates me, if you hadn't already noticed. Why should I smile? I smile if something makes me happy, I smile if a fond memory decides to flash through my synapses, I smile if I see someone I know, I smile when I'm somewhere of immense natural beauty, I smile if I just farted and think I've got away with it...

I do not smile, however, when a faint whiff of body odour gets stronger as a pair of teeth holding a sweat-covered identification card comes hurtling its way in front of my face.

I decided to humour it, but mostly myself.

"Hi! I was just wondering if I could speak to you about such and such," Chugger said.

"Not really," I said.

"Well, I'm not sure if you are aware of the plight of such and such to do such and such because it's such a worthy cause," Chugger continued.

"I'm sure it is a worthy cause, but right now my worthy cause is getting to my train on time," I said.

The smile widened, and I had to put my sunglasses on suppress the glare.

"Well, if you just put such and such a month into such and such then such and such won't happen again. You can make a difference!" Chugger said.

"Sorry, how much do they pay you for this?" I asked.

Perspiration exploded from every pore on the Chugger's forehead.

"That's not important, what is important is such and such" Chugger insisted.

"Listen, if I wanted to give to a worthy cause I would contact the charity directly and give money that way, not just pay some twerp on a street," I said.

"But.." Chugger began.

"Do you know what these mean?" I interrupted, pointing to the iPod headphones stuck in my ears.

Chugger looked at me quizzically.

"No," Chugger said.

"Piss off."

The grin faded. It appears chuggers have feelings too.