Last night, one of the greatest miscarriages of justice happened in the history of British…..er….history?
It was huge. So huge in fact, you might have felt the rumblings of discontent wobble their way over the pond to the USA, and start tickling your toes under the table as you sat down and started to eat your Sunday dinner. It was that big, I kid you not.
So what happened?
Lucie Jones got voted off the X Factor.
Not quite up there with the Guildford Four for miscarriages of justice, I grant you. But nevertheless, you would have thought by all the teeth grinding and fevered hand wringing that overcome almost half the population of the UK, something inhumanly serious had happened.
As I know many of you reading this are not from our green and pleasant land, I will point you in the direction of my previous posting about this show (Look! It's here! Right here! Go on, look! Do it! With your Eyes!) just to get you up to speed, but in layman's terms, its American Idol, but on ketamine. Lots and lots of lovely ketamine.
My friends (who I mentioned in the previous post) obsession with one of the judges, Cheryl Cole, has now almost reached dangerous levels. He actually physically yearns for her with every molecule of his being. I went round to his last night and we watched the results show together. We were chatting away normally, as you do, but the moment she came on, he reverted to caveman speak.
“So, who do you think will go?” I asked him.
“Ug. No talk.” he said, beating his chest and then pointing at the screen, ”Cole on.”
“I think it might be Jamie this week.” I replied, edging away from his fevered body as it angled towards the TV.
As Cheryl swept across the screen, my statement was ignored as he made almost painful noises of pent up sexual frustration towards her smiling face as it beamed out across the nation in all its glory. It can get a bit awkward round there sometimes.
“Yeah, I think Jamie will go…..Definitely Jam-Jesus! Dude! Put your pants back on! I’m in the room! I’M IN THE ROOM!”
Anyway, back on track……
Every year, this bloated, carnival freak show, rolls onto our TV screens and ruins our Christmas No 1 single with almost depressing regularity. But this year, something different has happened.
I want you to look at something now.
It looks a bit odd.
It might freak you out.
But just, look………..
Man, weird looking, ain’t they?
Meet the Twins.
These two creatures have seemingly divided a nation. Divided them into wondering which twin to experiment on first with chapter one of Idi Amin’s, How to Make Friends and Torture People, (Chapter four is quite good. It’s amazing what you can do with a radish, 20 minutes, and a whole lot of perseverance).
These twins, John and Edward, or Jedward, as they have been collectively labelled, are two tone deaf Irish lads who have won over, or appalled, the viewing nation in equal measures. Cloned from the leftover DNA of two members of the Hitler Youth, each new performance is awaited by all with, well, not really baited breath, but certainly a massive sense of trepidation. A bit like waiting for a bowel movement after a long period of strong constipation. You don’t know what's coming, but you know it’s not going to be good…….
Make no mistake, these two are bad. Not just bad, but actually offensively terrible
Well look, don’t just take my word for it, have a gander for yourselves.
Pretty grim, huh?
We have had this for about four weeks now. Each new show spews forth sights that probably wouldn’t be out of place in a sadists cheese fuelled nightmare. When I first watched the above, I was actually mouthing the words: Dear God, No! Over and over again, like a Thuggee cult member from Temple Of Doom. But when they stopped singing (!) and started talking to each other, I had to bite down on a cushion in embarrassment, as Kates turned to me with tears running down her face, crying “Make them stop, please, make them stop!” I honestly thought she was going to throw a shoe at my rather expensive TV, cracking the screen and causing boiling hot plasma juice to come pouring out and burn through my floor, melting my neighbours below. Luckily, she just hid behind my back. I hadn’t seen her that traumatised since the one and only attempt at poetry I inflicted on her when we first started going out.
And it was all because of these bloody twins.
Now though, the devils minions have fallen into the trap of having to top each performance as the weeks go by. So every weekend, the production values go up, the pyrotechnics explode even louder (dangerous with that hair), and the spectacle increases until it resembles something out of The 120 Days of Sodom. I fully expect that if they make it through to the final week, in order to stay in it, they will have to resort to bumming each other live on stage whilst being whipped by three foot high midgets dressed up as Valkyries, who are all riding on the backs of fire breathing Shetland ponies.
Ever since these abominations have been included in the show, the Dark Prince Cowell has been moaning to anyone that will listen about how this is a singing contest, how they are making a mockery of this high class piece of art, blah blah blah blah, whilst secretly inside, he must be delighted in all the attention this must be getting.
So anyway, this outrage that has taken place?
Basically, the twins and Lucie Jones, (bland, average singer, much better than them though), were in the bottom two for receiving the least votes. It came down to Cowell’s deciding vote who to send out. After all this time moaning about them, now was his chance to do the decent thing and get rid of these awful little shits.
The whole nation was perched on the edge of their seats. Hearts were in mouths. Hands were being held. Nipples were being stroked (Look, I do that in times of stress, OK?)
He paused, we waited, and then he said the dreaded words.
“I can’t decide. I’m going to leave it to the public vote.”
WHAT IS THERE TO DECIDE?!!!!! END THEM! END THEM NOW, DARK ONE!
The public voted that Lucie was going.
We stood up. We yelled. We ran out into the street with our underpants on our heads, screaming “Justice! Justice for Lucie!” (I also black out in times of anger, OK? Not my fault. Apparently, I was found about 12 miles away trying to break into an electrical store that was showing the X Factor news in the window. I was also wearing a suit of armour made out of a dustbin. Don’t make me angry. You wouldn’t like me when I’m angry.)
The internet practically melted with the outraged weight of a million bile filled messages of condemnation that spewed out in a tidal wave of sheer disbelief. World leaders had aides rushing into their offices, waving bits of white paper around, frantically trying to get their bosses attention to the news that had just broken. Israel and Palestine stopped eyeing each other up like two drunk brothers from opposing families at a wedding, to say, incredulously, “Simon, have you gone wrong or something?” before someone threw an egg mayonnaise vol-au-vent and it all kicked off again. Hollywood film producer’s phones went nuclear as pitches for movies about this blatant perversion of justice came flooding in. At this moment, it looks like Daniel Day Lewis will play both the twins using the latest CGI technology, Kate Winslet is going to be Lucie, and the Jim Henson workshop are labouring flat out to get a fully functioning animatronics model of Simon Cowell ready in time for filming.
The whole of the UK went mad for about 24 hours, and then realised that it was being silly and sheepishly slunk back to its living rooms under a cloud of shame.
And that deep, almost maniacal, laughter, you can hear winging its way over our darkened land tonight?
That will be the Dark Prince.
For the Dark Prince is very, very happy……….