The Sex Factor and The Disappointing Truth

Saturday and Sunday saw the conclusion of this year's x-factor. Thank god for that. They managed to milk it for 4 months... 4 months too long, it seems like nothing could lactate as thoroughly, apart from a screaming cow who has had her udders yanked for too long. But to be honest, I know the feeling all too well. (Ex-lovers take note). I lie, I know something that manages to just keep coming back... every time I hear their name announced it's like a punch in the face, "Take That, and that". All I can do is cower behind the couch and just wait for them to go away!

The most entertaining part of the evening was possibly the questionable 'performance' that was undertaken between Matt Cardle (the undeserving winner) and Rihanna (Chris Brown's bitch). With a slit up her leg that could rival even my slutty behavior (which is impressive), she looked hot - emphasized even further with the tacky display of flames in the background. Then the singing began, and the pair steadily got closer and closer, until just how short Matt is was highlighted, all of sudden he was staring at her breasts and what else could he do but get an erection. He's a man, it's understandable. But with 20 million people watching... To some extent couldn't Matt's proposition towards Rihanna seem a bit abusive, I mean, she doesn't even know her own name?

At one point it was a slut-off between Ri-Ri and Christina. Christina won, because last year she was getting married under a chuppah. I'm not sure if Hashem approves of her dancing and singing like that in front of all those men ... even if Louis and Simon are gay.

Then there's Robbie. You know, good ol' Robbie William. He is literally crazy, it's not his fault. It's just when you're raking up lines of coke on the Harry Style's underage cock before you perform it's fair that your singing could be a tiny bit off.  However it was kind of cute when one of the One Direction boys exclaimed "let's get hammered" after they found out they still had a chance. My instinctual response: Can I see your ID please? An 11-16 Oyster Card doesn't count.

So after a disappointing Saturday night's 'entertainment' the final final final on Sunday night was even worse. Perhaps it was the way Louis kept saying to Rebecca "finally, Liverpool has a pop star", mmmhmm, and the Beatles were irrelevant, right?

The evening went pretty much as follows: Matt, Rebecca, Take That (featuring others), One Direction, Take That, Take That, Matt, Rebecca, One Direction, stimulated Robbie making a move of Louis, results.

Oh, the results. Well it was such an anti-climax. Perhaps I've been doing too much English Literature coursework but didn't it seem as though the protagonist (Rebecca) was slaughtered by the token enemy (Matt) turning the entire show into a bit of a tragedy. Maybe that wasn't the biggest lost, perhaps it's the fact that in a few years all these people will be forgotten about, or that Matt Cardle literally murdered Biffy Clyro with his girlish screaches. He has the blood of three extremely talented artists on his hands!

No, the disappointing truth is that it will be back next September with the force of four frightening judges and an army of camera crews, with a number of terrible singers holding spears and brandishing their mediocrity in my face. "Take That and that...".

AHHHHH! Cowers behind couch, crying.

The Show Must Go On...

From tree to annoying prostitute, my parts in JFS School productions have always been true to life. This year JFS attempted to put on the musical Little Shop Of Horrors... only mirroring the script because it was quite literally was horrific.

Maybe the fact I was cast a small, relatively insignificant role that went from being intended from 3 girls to 8, making my initial 30-40 lines become more like 3-4 that made this play bitter at the start. I can't sing either and that prompted a tad of my cynicism, the first time I attempted 'downtown' it resembled something similar to Mongolian throat singing. Then there's the company, only paralleled to Glee in the fact that we're at the bottom of the school's social heap, with a token gay guy stuck in there somewhere.

We had the crazy drama teacher and the short, fat music director, the immature youngsters and the bitchy singing teacher... but then there was the costume lady. A mystery to me, I believe that she escaped from her tragic Czechoslovakian drunken husband to have a better life... 'in charge' of costumes at JFS. Although she does not make the costumes and can't actually sow, she can tell which colour is which and find pictures of items of clothing she wishes the company to wear from the internet and assemble them into a vapid power point. The most disturbing thing is when she gets stressed out she says "now that's over - where's my Prozac?". I mean, is she joking? And if not, can I get in on this?

The best part of this show may have been the waking up at 8am on Sundays to practice the bows for a few hours. I loved lining up, marching forward - step. bow, left, bow, right, bow, front, bow, bow again, wave. The voice of a hundred grumpy children still haunts my nightmares. If we dare bow a millisecond too early our drama teacher had no problem making a spectacle of us, she prides herself on the ability to make children cry.

When the night of the performance came I wondered if there was a stage below Amateur, like Primary or Infant, even Baby would have sufficed. But the show went on, only half audible though - of course the microphones would fail on three consecutive nights, only working when the company went off-stage so the  audience where subject to the occasional "shit" on my behalf. Make-up was tragic as I was painted like a Satsuma that had molded round the eyes, and dressed like the office whore rather than a cheap prostitute but the line in that case wasn't particularly distinguished.

What we gained as a company from this experience wasn't skill or talent, but perhaps a mild sense of community and 'friendship' only established due to the excessive sharing of similar experiences and a large amount of time exposed to one another.

The actual production was perhaps acceptable, and the after party at mine a drunken blur. The real icing on the cake however was when I went to Habs school play the night after my last performance - why the fuck did I waste 8 months of my life?

And that's the god-damned truth.