And how. Matt Cardle is about to sing his next piece, so roll VT there Ray! Cue crash zoom, cue starlight background, cue the hammy voiceover. There's Danni Minogue giving a talking head piece to cam, bigging her act up.
"I really love him, and this week he's gonna try a really tough song. He's trying a Leona Lewis song, and of all her songs it's really untouchable."
Untouchable. She said it. Except it's owned by the people who own the show. Who can/will do what the fudge they fancy. It's not even a genuine, naturally-gestated, organic entity. I find it hard to believe Leona Lewis sat in the studio throwing teacups at the producer, whilst she hoovers up another rail of coke and demands that her 'artistic vision' be obeyed. I know rightly she sat there, with her big doe eyes staring at the lyric-sheet, peering down the barrel of that nose of hers, quietly wondering how the paymasters wanted it sung. And so an 'untouchable' song is born. Untouchable should bring to mind Billie Holliday, Aretha Franklin, Tom Jones, Marvin Gaye and the like. Unfortunately the medium of prime time is feeding our children, wives, partners and morons with this alternate version of music, and it is certainly working. An X-Factor winner's music enters, unnoticed, into the pop lexicon, underlined by dead-faced-Danni declaring a song 'untouchable', a mere two years (if that) after it's released, and on the same show it came from. This moon-faced, dead behind the eyes sex-doll is helping self-fulfil the beast. And by "moon-faced, dead behind the eyes sex doll", I mean, she's fucked from the Botox, and only good for getting fucked. Not that you would though, cos no one likes to fuck a plastic pot. This plastic pot's opinions count for shit. There she is though, this plastic shit-pot on a pedestal, prime time.
Cue camera 4 there Ray, centre on the ringmaster himself, Simon Cowell. Make sure you angle the camera there, Ray, to capture both his thatched-cottage hair-do and his open-necked shirt, capture that hint of blue from the studio lights shining on his chest-pubes, which makes him look like a pimp. Which he is. Everyone whoring themselves for his pleasure, and profit, and he truly revels in the situation. Not the best looking of fellows, but oblivious to this, hatchet-faced like a date rapist, he sits there positively purring, like a crack-head Piers Morgan who singed his hair. Purr indeed, and it's all too painfully obvious why he's smug. Minions mewling away around him, whooping crowds of happy-clap-moonpigs encouraging every move. Teary eyed starlets in front, if any one of them has an idea in their vacant little heads, a 'withering' (you know, 'withering', as in a mild critisism, when he doesn't bend the laws of science and maths by bequeathing a Hot rating of 'one hundred... and ten... percent!') put down follows.
Centre stage there Ray, Wagner's about to perform. Roll VT there Ray! Cue crash zoom, cue hammy voice-over, etc, etc. Louis Walsh is doing the talking head, and there's nothing in his tone, explanation, bigging up of his act that smells of victory. Wagner will never win. Louis Walsh has underlined his point as the joker of the pack, the off-key Oirish skallywag who bangs the drum for entertainment. He did the same last year, with bullshit merchants Jedward, harping on about the entertainment value. He wasn't actually a millions miles off the point, it should just be entertainment, but stories started gently leaking out about his sexual preference, one or two suggestions that he'd had liaisons with male contestants. So what, you may ask? And indeed. Jedward went out, the rumours disappeared. Jedward were shit, but the timing was immaculate. The burnt-thatched-cottage that is the crack-headed-date-rapist-fizzog-sharing Simon Cowell frowns. This is meant to be a serious TV show. One with virtue, integrity, and all of that bullshit the plebians lap up whilst they phone, text and email in. Doesn't matter if the weans are hungry, the last of the kitty went on texting in, you can eat tomorrow. Louis clowns, Simon frowns.
This year though, there's a very stage-managed despair to Cowell's disbelief of Wagner. Walsh's done it again, picked an act that ruins the 'credibility' of the show, what credibility there was. But CrackHeadDateRapist is savvy this time though. Sure, he acts like he's appalled, and his comments are pretty 'withering'. But every performance of 'Baahgner' comes with the standard piece of camera work from Ray. Where are ya Ray?! That's right Ray, camera 4 on stage centre, close in as Dermatitis O'Crikey walks on to enjoy the feedback with Baahgner, and quickly cut to the crackhead on the panel, just so you can capture his stock Bemusement Pose. Remember these camera movements though Ray, you'll need them tomorrow, for the eviction, if Baahgner stays. That bullshit bemusement. If only Ray zoomed in with camera 4 a little closer, we could all see this crack-addled, pubic-wig- chested bohemoth of banality's eyes laughing. Laughing, nay, cackling, and the money rolls right in. If it's shite that'll never win, he wins, if it's shite that'll win, and ergo get the Christmas No. 1, he wins. Even when he didn't win, when Rage Against The Machine won the counter-struggle for the Xmas No.1, he really did win, as RATM are on the same label he works for. I'd like to know who the Facebook people who ran the counter-campaign were in cahoots with, if anyone.
Time for a vignette there Ray, let's wrap things up. I realise there Ray I've omitted one other chief instigator of all this crap. Cheryl Cole. As you slowly close in on her face there, Ray, can I have some piano music please Ray? Something suggesting divinity, sadness and frailty if you don't mind Ray. Something gentle, and sorrowfully twee as we capture Cheryl please. In fact, since she's the new People's Princess, let's not shit each other, Ray, give us that Elton John tune, the one when Diana died. The people'll lap that up. They'll text the show to tell everyone how much they 'LUV U CHERL, UR GR8, XX nancy in nuneaton', and everyone will forget about that woman she beat up in that club, that woman in the toilets. No one will remember the racism row Cheryl caused from that encounter, from giving a hiding to a black toilet attendant, because Cheryl then married a black man. Regardless of the rumours about his sexuality. Suggestions of marriages-of-convenience are quashed when the reason the marriage ends is because he fucked some other women. Apparently. It would take a very cynical man to think that maybe, just maybe, the 'other women' are so fucking pug-ugly, that no straight man with a normal, working penis would want to shove it up their acccident blackspot. You'd have to be pretty cynical to think Cheryl then polished her 'Not Racist' badge by getting another black man to write her new album. Will.I.Am. Who knows, maybe it's because she doesn't have to sing a lick, and his magical Autotune (TM) machine will do the rest. A cynical lot of thoughts there Ray, borne of a cynical show.
Cue theme music there Ray, and fade to black.
No comments:
Post a Comment