The X-Factor: Battle Of The Freaks



OK, so I got sucked into it, in the end. I'd heard that, of all people, Chris Moyles was doing well in the celebrity version of the unstoppable but easily avoidable talent show, and, during The Mummy last night, curiosity got the better of us and we switched over to see what his singing was actually like. And there he was, the wilfully irritating fat DJ doing a perfectly charming job of Wonderwall. You would need a heart of stone not to be charmed by the performance, and his dedication of it to his mum. The day the music died? Not quite.

By hopping aboard the bandwagon this late in the "journey" (oh, how they all endlessly talk of their "incredible journey"), it meant we had missed all the rubbish celebrities, weeded out early on, like the digraceful Rebecca Loos, the appalling James Hewitt and the miscast Gillian McKeith - all of whom were reintroduced in clip form on tonight's final, as well as in an excrutiating cast rendition of Thank You For The Music, a song chosen solely to supply a feed-line for self-conscious judge Simon Cowell. None of this bunch could sing. I have never watched The X Factor - it goes on for too long, and if it's anything like Pop Idol, which I have seen, and it is, then once the talentless, self-deluding idiots are dispatched in an exhibition centre somewhere, it loses its appeal. I can live without watching our next round of chart-dominating pop stars doing cover versions Saturday night after Saturday night until they're wittled down to three, then two, then one, not that it matters, as all three will have hits off the back of it. I actually do think that the popularity of this phone-vote format has destroyed the music industry and weakened the spine of the next generation. There's no mystery about where pop stars come from any more. The industry doesn't even have to bother its arse seeking them out - the ITV public actually choose them as if choosing a new pair of trainers in a shop, and will pay premium rates for the privilege. And kids tell careers teachers, when asked what they want to do when they grow up, that they want to "be famous", because it looks easy. Which is why the celeb version of the same process is less offensive. (Having said that, Dr Gillian doing It's In His Kiss looked pretty offensive from the clips. What new form of self-flaggellation is this?)

Net result: we actually sat down for tonight's final, just to see who would win out of freakish rugby player Matt Stevens and tiny ex-EastEnder Lucy Benjamin, a woman for whom I have actually written script! Not that she needs me anymore, now that she's a proper singer. (Moyles was inexplicably voted off last night. He seemed justifiably fed up and refused, showbiz-style, to cover with platitudes. He should have been in the final for, if nothing else, bringing some real personality to his karaoke. It's hard for me to admit this, by the way. I have dedicated my life to denouncing his smutty, oleaginous, self-pleasuring style of broadcasting and there he is on telly getting my vote.) So we were captive between 9pm and 10.30 and what do you know, we soon regretted this act of submission. With only two contestants left they had to really stretch the chewing gum to fill an hour and a half. By the final reckoning I had lost the will to live. JUST TELL US WHO'S WON FOR FUCK'S SAKE!

It was Lucy Benjamin, who I think said the word "journey" the most times in the course of the programme so she deserved it. Her cover of Donna Summer's Last Dance was spirited - and an unusual choice of number from her "mentor" Louis Walsh, who certainly likes a bit of gay disco - and she is three months pregnant, something we needed to know apparently. To her credit, she is not the kind of lady-shape that gets in Heat without a bitchy comment, so good on her for being glamorous against the strict codes of acceptance in our increasingly eugenic celebrity culture. And who wants a South Efrican rugby player to win? No neck, the face of a baby, nothing of note to say, never mind Matt Stevens' truly passable voice and much-better-than-it-ought-to-have-been renditon of New York, New York, he should get back to the rugby field where all the men look like that. The flaws in the X-Factor format became all to apparent by the end: the endless hawking of phone lines in order to make money for ITV (with a small sliver going to charity) and the sponsor, Nokia ("a new angle on music," or some such rot, according to Jo Whiley's voiceover); the hyperventilating audience with their "handmade" signs (I bet); the ludicrous pantomime of the judging, which has replaced wrestling as the new "fixed" entertainment of our age; and the unbearable self-promotion of Sharon Osbourne (she's there to sell the Sharon Osbourne BRAND and nothing else). It's low, noisy stuff. And if it hadn't been for Moyles, hooking me in with the genuine raw pig iron of spirit and personality he brought to bear, I'd be feeling less worn out right now.

Note to self: don't do it again.

Incidentally, she's down as "Donna Summers" on the official website. Not that it's been put together by 16-year-olds with no sense of pop history.