X Factor Wrap Up

Another Sunday, another episode of our favourite car crash TV program.

This week’s result show had a lot to live up to. Last week’s show had Alexandra in a dress made entirely of chocolate gold coins and Robbie Williams attacking the stage like a mad man on Halloween.

We weren’t disappointed.

Let’s be honest. No one really cares about the contestants for most of the results show. It’s all about the big ‘live’ numbers from the supposed week’s mentor and someone else who needs to plug a single.

First up was X Factor judge Cheryl Cole. She exploded onto the stage dressed as Sergeant Sexy from the Stripper Corps. Her oversized red military themed jacked hung loosely like a slightly mental version of the one MJ wore in this Thriller video. Her trousers were inexplicability slit down the sides causing most 14 year old boys to explode with excitement as her tattooed legs popped out on the more vigorous dance moves. She breathlessly sang her way through the song. After speculation all week she did in fact sing live. The bum notes and flat tone proved this.

For a bit of a laugh, Dermot asked the judge’s opinion on her performance:
Simon said that she was “amazing” and he’d “love to have her in his category”.
Dannii said “Two sugars in your tea, dear?” fulfilling her role as the most pointless X Factor judge in history.
Cheryl would have probably said “You gave it your all, pet. Even though the vocal wasn’t spot on you did give it loads of energy”.

But really the centre point was Whitney Houston’s glorious return. Yes, cave dwellers, that lovely young girl who wanted to dance with somebody spent the last 10 years or so snorting anything illegal up her nostrils and jabbing herself with needles like a human pin cusion. She’s cleaned up her act, quit the drugs, quit her wife beater husband and is BACK. Clean as a whistle and on top form.

Not really. She tottered out of the smokey back lit door holding the microphone above her head. She awkwardly staggered around the stage like the possessed puppet of Tina Turner. Her live vocal was flat, out of time and utterly appalling. Half way through, the top straps of her dress came undone and she stood for about 10 seconds groping at herself, desperately trying to piece together what had happened. Convinced she wasn’t about to lose a limb, she continued warbling. Her dead eyes focused on the large pink elephant wearing a tutu that was dancing in the aisle surrounded by thirty two spider monkeys wearing Armani suits.

At the end of the performance, host Dermot walked on stage and said “Hello Whitney!” and tried to give her a showbiz kiss on the cheek which missed as she kept bobbing around like a ship hopelessly lost at sea. In fact, the exchange went like this:
Dermot: “Wow, the legend that is Whitney live on our stage!”
Whitney: Who’s Whitney and why is this little man trying to lick my face?
Dermot: “So, that was amazing! It must be great to be back!”
Whitney: What about my back? “Er, Yeah”.
Dermot: “Fantastic! When is the new album out?”
Whitney – sweeps her unruly mess of hair from her face: “Er, the weekend?” (Shit, it is the weekend) “Er, next week?” (Shit, I don’t know) “Er, soon!”.
Dermot: “Fantastic!, Please lets not do this again!”

She spent most of the time looking incredibly confused like she’d just woken up from a coma in a field surrounded by large orange gerbils. Off the drugs, my arse.

Honestly. Just book Amy Winehouse next week. No one will raise an eyebrow when she staggers on stage, vomits in her hair and then collapses in a heap.