Yes ladies and gentlemen, three long, gruelling months of…
…Have led to this:
THE X FACTOR SEMI-FINAL.
We, the Great British Public, have voted out some magnificent talents along the way…
4 Tune (feat. Screech) Some Irish kid.
Sadly, none of them were addicted to being able to sing.
They’d got the pretty hair and Boy Band hand-moves. Sadly, they also had the faces of 40-year-old kebab vendors. 4Tune? 4Cough, more like…
Nice-enough soul voice, but thicker than two entire shipments of very thick short planks stacked on top of each other. The only ‘X’ thing about him was the chromosome he was clearly lacking…
Wouldn’t stop crying. Obviously really called ‘Jenny’. Pronounced speech impediment.
What. The. HELL? Louis – you’re really taking the piss here, mate…
Should have won. Amazing voice. Even more amazing breasts. So sue me – it’s true!
THE CONWAY SISTERS
When (a) you can’t all sing in tune with each other, and (b) the best-looking one is the fat girl, you know you got troubles. (Surely she’s adopted? The rest of them are identikit rat-faced pikeys – she’s six-foot-tall and Greek!)
Fair play to the clown. His rendition of ‘It’s Chico Time’, (specially penned for him by that Sgt Pepper-lookin’ vocal coach), was the most bizarre example of Saturday night telly we’ve had in the past 100 years. It was so old-fashioned, it seemed like someone had accidentally slipped in a tape of ‘Bobby Davro’s Rock With Laughter’ from 1982. (Except I have yet to see a picture of Bobby Davro getting sucked off on the ‘Holy Moley’ mailout…)
4 Tune (feat. Screech)
Some Irish kid.
And now: YOUR SEMI-FINALISTS…
My old mans a dustman...
The singing dustman. In all honesty, the fact a man with genuine talent and a voice of his quality won’t have to go back to hoofing binbags full of rotten meat into the back of an industrial dungwagon for a living is genuinely heartening. All those other binmen who CAN’T sing? Screw ‘em.
My old mans a dustman...
(Oh, and is it just me, or does Andy remind anyone else of a newt…?)
Great voice. Really quite attractive in a sort of… bovine fashion. Very enjoyable to watch and listen to, and seems to be a fairly agreeable human being compared to the array of buffoons we’ve endured over the past few months.
Her ‘journey’ has been a nice bit of reality TV storytelling too: 40-year-old mother and housewife realises her lifelong dream – to lose three stone and have people tell her how
Hope you like cruise ships.
But despite this – we know, (and she knows), that she ain’t evvvvvvvvver gonna win this competition. Dunno why – she greatly deserves to - but that’s just how it is. Rik Waller stands more chance of winning this competition, and he ain’t even in it.
Hell, Gary Glitter stands more chance of winning this competition than Brenda…
Or ‘The Poundshop Ewan McGregor & Fire-Damaged Tom Cruise’, as I prefer to call them. I must confess to being slightly alarmed by the way Fire-Damaged Tom Cruise looks like he’s about to
It's the new Proclaimers!
They have passable voices, but what really puts me off Journey South is that they remind me of the kind of blokes who’d pull a drunk tart in a Faliraki niteklub, take her back to their apartment, then spit-roast her while high-fiving each other across her naked drunken back. Dunno why – they just do.
He’s a straight man trapped in a gay man trapped in a bisexual man’s body – and all of them are a bit thick. Heavily tipped to win - however, that falsetto that sneaked out and
So not spelt Shane then?
‘The Ladies’ love Shayne. This may be less to do with his own qualities, and more to do with the fact he’s the only bloke in the final ten you could probably fight off if he tried to sexually assault you. He has finally dumped his on-again/off-again girlfriend, as the pressure of being apart for so long has finally become too great to bear. I assume the pressure of her being pig-ugly and him allegedly now pouring his gender-confused manfat into Kate Thornton also played a part. Okay – Thornton’s no oil painting herself – but if you’re going to schtup some piggy-eyed simpleton, she might as well be on telly, eh Shayne?
That photo of him on his mom’s fireplace says it all – shilling his fame-hungry, ever-so-slightly-Butlins ass around ‘The Clubs’ for years as part of a boy-girl pop combo called something shit like ‘Bezique’ or ‘Misteree’. There he is in all his pre-styled glory - ‘Off The Wall’-period Jacko-pose, plucked eyebrows, white suit and trilby, with THE most abysmal pencil-line goatee the world has seen since the heady days of Prince. Thankfully, unlike Prince, Shayne doesn’t consider it the height of sexxxy to dress up in a yellow kiddie’s waistcoat and a pair of women’s tights, and roll around rubbing himself on a four-poster bed in front of 10,000 people at Wembley.
(Besides, if Shayne did that, what would Chico do for an encore during the live tour…?)
So there we have it – YOU THE PUBLIC DECIDE!
(Go on – vote for Brenda! Ruin it for everyone, it’ll be funny …!)
Steeds will be beheld. Verily.
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