I know I said I'd do a blog about X Factor again.
But seriously ... what is there to "talk" about?
The auditions stages consist of material that shouldn't be given weekly extended coverage. A simple hour-long summary - or perhaps 2 hours split over 2 nights - of these damnably boring shenanigans would be sufficient (if that's the right word - and I strongly suspect it isn't).
A simple showing of the best auditions, and the worst for those who like to laugh at the musical ineptitude of others, and straight to the selection stage. Then the split to the mentors and their houses, and straight to business.
The only thing that makes X Factor interesting is the final stages (judges/mentors' houses and then weekly sing
-offs with public vote). And now that the News of The World is out of the picture, the dirt-digging will be somewhat limited (who will have an embarrassing family member, who will have had a career already,. who will be suspected of being groomed by Syco, etc). Which leaves us with judge/mentor conflict and who the public chooses to side with. We have already seen how having Simon Cowell as a mentor or supporter can be ... uh ... "detrimental" to the career of a singer. Now that he's out of the picture (although we can expect some kind of big-ass return, I'm sure), this will leave it open for the public to align itself as it sees fit.
I honestly can't see it being much more than boring, to be truthful. Gary Barlow looks more and more like an ad for Botox, with Kelly Rowland somewhere similar, all doe-eyed and sincere to the point of nausea. Louis Walsh will be attempting to do his usual thing (whatever that actually is, given that this is the guy who once argued that "Proud Mary" by Creedence Clearwater Revival was more of a "big band" number than "Angel of Harlem" by U2 ... I still can't figure that one out ...) and Tulisa will be dealing with most of the shit that tabloids can muster up to hurl like irate chimps.
In short, I'm sorry I said I would do this, and now wish I was writing about fine wines and chick lit novelists instead. Which of course is a barefaced lie. I'd rather be drinking Pisco Sours and eating kebabs while receiving an adequate mungjob.
At least this weekend I'll be in Kristiansand terrorizing musicians instead. Relief comes in many forms. Being chased by Jan Bang wielding a hammer and a pitchfork seems so much more preferable.
And I will, in turn, chase Fiona Talkington with bootlace liquorice. Unless she says "It's worth tuppence ha'penny at best. Be off with you and your request for a farthing!"
I may also attempt to tickle David Sylvian until he pees his pants. We'll see.