X Factor.

As the X Factor logo yet again falls to Earth like some hapless alien spaceship I experience emotions I haven’t felt since the last time I needed a pee and couldn’t get upstairs in time. In Dubai the dirty snorts of Alice the camel, not Alistair Campbell as I first heard, stole the show as Danny and Sis axed the girls. Stacy’s impersonation of Catherine Tate goes down a storm, ‘let’s hear it for Essex Stace!’, as does Welsh girl and the one who’s hair has unaccountably slid to one side. The judges begin their “you will, you won’t” summing up which is like enticing baby mice to play under a guillotine. Joy and misery unbounded, truly reminiscent of getting to the loo in time. Or not. Walsh, Cole and Cowell follow flailing like Attila the Hum in MFI’s kitchen department laying waste to dishwashers. It will ‘kill’ Eathan, Dwain will return to north London to become a victim of knife crime, Candy Rain, if they hadn’t got through, would have continued to take off, their cloths, aesthetically. Jamie will come back minus afro; no one wins X factor looking like a recently shampooed dog, and John and Eric will prove that factor X is based on pure loathing and be voted off by a hail of bullets from the cast of The Wire. Stiffmouse will not be competing due to being genetically incapable of cueing, emoting and having the unbridaled confidence to believe one could be bigger than, well everybody in the entire history of recorded music. Remember every day can change your life; you don’t need to be standing in front of Simon Cowell.