Cowell aka Satan, raking in the cash again

So here we are, nearly at the culmination of this year’s X factor, and is it just me or does anyone really care any more? Haven’t our heartstrings been tugged at so many times in the recent past that they are now dangling loosely around our knees, incapable of responding to the incessant plucking by Simon ‘Satan’ Cowell? And what about Cheryl Cole? Has she lost the plot or what? So many things are wrong with the format that I can’t resist having a rant.

Firstly, re Miss Cole; surely half the attraction to a pop star is an aura of mystique and a certain elusive quality? That gets blown out of the water when we see and hear too much of someone, not to mention the ridiculous dresses.

Secondly, if there’s one thing the recent ‘Subo’ fiasco proves, (backed up by the success of JLS) is that it is completely irrelevant who wins the X factor, or Britain’s Got Talent because longer term market forces will determine whether there is an appetite for something, not a contrived arena like a prime-time tv show.

I fear that Simon Cowell is in danger of destroying what’s left of the music industry at this point; by subjecting potential stars to a one-shot-at-the-big-time in front of baying crowds, he is deterring real stars form even trying; traditionally many of our best musical stars have been shy, retiring and uncompromising individuals who magically come to life in front of an audience; who have something to say and a message to convey. The X factor hand-fistedly weeds out any glimmer of individuality by forcing the contestants to cover a variety of tacky genres, erasing any uniqueness they may have had to start with…. Can you imagine Johnny Rotten being asked to sing a Michael Jackson song?

And what about the title of the show? Its called the X factor, which by definition refers to an elusive, unquantifiable quality, but a couple of weeks ago, Danni Minogue was asking in confusion ‘is this a singing competition?’ before eliminating the vocally poor but x factor rich Jedward. Actually that’s all the X factor is now, a great big Butlins style singing competition, and it should be renamed accordingly. Perhaps something like ‘Britain’s most inoffensive singers’ would be more appropriate!

Which brings me to this year’s contestants. I’m sure they are all very nice people but I’m struggling to remember any of their names. I’ve never seen such an average bunch, with the possible exception of Stacey, who would be perfectly happy with a career singing in hotel bars or on a cruise ship, and who seems somewhat overwhelmed by the position she finds herself in. Sure, she has a lovely voice, but seems ill equipped for life as a sleb. The most likely winner is probably Joe, who does indeed have a beautiful voice, but who seems vacuous and bland. But then that’s probably what Mr Cowell prefers; someone he can manipulate and squash into whatever hole he perceives needs filling in the industry this week.

I have a dream.. one in which Simon Cowell wakes up and realises that he has turned us all into a bunch of cynical, instant gratification junkies with the attention span of a goldfish. Then he apologises to the world and gives up the music business to work with deprived orphans…… fat chance!!

is punk dead?

“I’m not selling insurance, I’m selling time!”

Are you Iggy? Really? Is that glitter?!

So there I am, tea to the left, biscuits to the right, guitar in hand waiting for that riff to come. Fifteen minutes later and….. absolutely nothing. Maybe some telly will help? Bit of stimulus, I tell myself, knowing full well that Holly Willoughby will be on in a few minutes. Woo!

I decide to have a bit of a flick through the channels while Jeremy Vile is finishing; antiques, politics, Iggy Pop selling insurance, more antiques……

Hold on. I flick back. I’m confused. I look from the screen to the guitar sitting silently next to me, back to the screen, turn the telly off. Eat a biscuit for the shock, my whole life style flashing before my eyes, rolling the question around in my mind for a while.

What the hell is going on here?!

I can’t really begrudge Iggy a spot of shameless whoring. God knows he has paid his dues, been shat on, ripped off and strung out enough times. The Sex Pistols taught us the art of taking the establishment for all its worth with two fingers proudly up, it’s nothing new really. I think it was just that much glitter first thing in the morning upset me the most. And anyway, you could say that Punk has been well and truly alive and kicking every Saturday night at 8 pm;

NEVER MIND THE BOLLOCKS…..HERE’S JEDWARD!

Its still Punk, but not as we know it captain.