IT’s Sunday morning on the bus and you hear: ‘Aye maybe, but the lassie could dance.’ Now you’re queuing for a coffee and hear a squeal: ‘BAAAAH! OMG, I was like, nut, he is NOT for real!’ Then you overhear a heated conversation while on the subway: ‘No way, they were well better than that group you voted for last year.’
Eventually you meet your friend and he opens his mouth to greet you: ‘Did you watch the X Factor last night?’
Oh for god’s sake.
It’s that time of year again, when the few who haven’t yet seen the X Factor will be driven mental by its dominance in everyday chat. It’s time to face the music, a fan of the show might say. X Factor should be watched, if only so that you know what the O’Leary everyone is on about.
Of course, it’s not exactly of cult status, and it won’t gain you intellectual cred at a dinner party, but the X Factor is car-crash telly, and it’s painfully difficult not to enjoy. With a celebrity judging panel re-shuffle and a new American-style audition format, the show is slowly filling the boots that its adoring public has stretched out for it.
Occasionally, you might even be impressed. Gary Barlow produces regular nuggets of stellar pop advice. Dermot O’Leary is a genuinely funny man. Tulisa Contostavlos is a pretty inspiring woman, with an endearing sense of realness to her personality. Sure, the cynic inside you may think they’re all soulless sell-outs, but you’re in your jammies at eight o’clock on a Saturday night. Sell-outs are the least of your problems.
So sit back, place your tongue firmly in cheek and enjoy. I hate to say it, but you’ll probably thank me for it.
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