popvulture

Screw you, Cupid

2012-02-13T20:57:00.000Z

It’s Valentine’s Day, so we can expect a torrent of articles bemoaning this ‘Hallmark Holiday’ and how it makes single people feel more unloved than a roast vegetable tartlet in a school canteen.

They’ll piss and moan about all those cruel reminders that they’ve yet to find their special someone. They’ll gripe about Interflora, suggesting that they're operating the kind of racket that would make the five families feel like underachievers. And they’ll probably have a go at the happy couples who choose a window seat in their favourite restaurant, so the whole world can see them demolishing a chocolate fondant with two dainty forks.

Well I say ‘fuck you’ and your cardless mantlepiece. Valentine’s no more fun when you’re in a relationship. In fact, it’s a cold, merciless invention, utterly bereft of the spontaneity and emotion that love is all about.

As you press your runny nose at the restaurant window, silently cursing the people inside, look closely at their body language. Stifling yawns, refolding napkins, and trying to talk about anything other than their day at work, they’re struggling to act as though they’re enjoying themselves. Because they're worried that everyone else looks happier than they are.

One of them is wondering when babysitters got so expensive, and the other one is probably working out how much money they could have saved by having the same meal at home. Christmas might be Santa’s busiest day of the year, but come Valentine’s Day, Cupid might as well be on a booze cruise to Calais, because there’s fuck all for him to do here.

Those couples who don’t brave the hordes for a specially overpriced meal could always have a night in with a DVD instead. The shelves of HMV are stacked with unimaginative, drippy rom-coms featuring the same tired plots, contrived scenarios and unrealistic bed-hair. But they’ve been helpfully repackaged in a pink cardboard sleeve, with a cut-out heart on the front.

And don’t fret about that big romantic meal, because Marks & Spencer is here to save the day with its ‘2 for £20’ offer. Fork out a couple of tenners and you can be enjoying a delicious ready meal, with a bottle of sparkling Cava that may be undrinkable, but it’ll put a shine back on your cutlery.

You’ll probably also need some romantic music, in order to set the mood for the first sex you’ve had since the clocks went back. Every year, the record companies helpfully repackage the same shitty ballads in a new 40-track compilation, as if anyone in the world needs another copy of Minnie Fucking Ripperton.

Oh, and don’t forget to spend twenty minutes in the card shop, trying desperately to find something that won’t make bile burn the back of your throat. It doesn’t matter that most cards show a crushing lack of awareness about how people in relationships actually talk to each other. Shell out your three quid, scribble a quick signature and try to imagine that the term ‘love machine’ applies to you, rather than the one that eats batteries by the bucket-load and lives in the bedside cabinet.

Face facts. Valentine is shit for everyone. Even if you’re happily settled down, it’s a point-by-point deconstruction of everything you’re doing wrong. It doesn’t matter how successful your relationship is, or how happy you are together. If you don’t look like you just fell out of an ad for Sandals Resorts, you’re a miserable failure. And chances are, you’re still going to die alone.

A moment in time

2012-02-12T10:49:00.000Z

Incomparable. Probably the best word to describe the woman who, along with Madonna, was responsible for transforming popular music in the late 20th century. The last decade may have been dominated by a pitiful series of revelations and scandals, but in her prime, there was no-one quite like Whitney Houston.

People like to throw around the word 'Diva' to describe anyone with a big voice, but Whitney typified the concept better than anyone. Her songs were packed with tremulous drama and heartbreak, delivered with confidence and control. And yet offstage, her life began to spiral into desperation and despair.

Those early revelations of drug abuse were hard for fans to swallow. Whitney had always seemed so clean-living, boring even. So when Bobby Brown's sister sold pictures of the R&B golden couple's crack-strewn bathroom to a tabloid magazine, the world was confronted with the grim reality of Whitney's fall from grace.

This was a million miles away from the timid and shy girl who'd made her TV debut on the Merv Griffin show in 1983, alongside her delighted mentor Clive Davis. Two years later, when her first album was released to great acclaim, critics lauded her "exceptional vocal talent" but commented that it was a somewhat conservative showcase for such a phenomenal voice.

For much of her early career, Whitney was dogged by similar criticism, even as she notched up record breaking sales figures for her accessible brand of MOR soul. Perhaps that's why Brett Easton Ellis dedicated a whole chapter of American Psycho to Whitney's second album, representing as it did, a high benchmark for that sanitised, slickly-produced R&B soul that was so prevalent in the '80s. Even so, the author correctly called out 'Love Is A Contact Sport' as a fantastically effusive piece of pop that deserved to be a single.

Away from the recording studio, Whitney was just as uncontroversial. We recall the look of horror on her face when appearing on Michel Drucker's French talk-show alongside Serge Gainsbourg, as the saucy old coot announced to the host "I want to fuck her." Several years later, on The Word, she struggled to understand Terry Christian's thick Mancunian accent as he asked her if Eddie Murphy (her one-time boyfriend) had "rung her up" during her stay in the UK. She smiled gamely, even mocking Christian's pronunciation, but seemed uncomfortable at the personal nature of the inquiry.

Her first film role, opposite Kevin Costner in The Bodyguard, saw her expressing discomfort with the profanities in the script, but committing herself fully to the performance. The role of Rachel Marron, originally intended for Diana Ross, was hardly a stretch, but she was convincing enough to provoke rumours that Costner had excised some of her scenes for fear that she might outshine him on-screen. Not that any of it mattered, since it's the soundtrack that passed into pop culture history, not the film. The album shifted over 45 million units, with lead single 'I Will Always Love You' scoring another 12 million sales.

Although her interpretation of the song had lost much of the subtle nuance that Dolly Parton had originally intended, the vocals were a masterclass in soulful balladeering, and arguably inspired a whole generation of would-be singers. That giant mezzo-soprano, capable of whispering tenderness, soaring heartbreak, or exuberant celebration, was a once-in-a-lifetime gift. Lining up on shows like X-Factor, American Idol and The Voice, these young girls might attempt to replicate Whitney's mastery, but almost always suffer from the comparison. Like the guitar store sign in Wayne's World that read 'No Stairway To Heaven', perhaps the audition rooms for these talent shows should have one that bans Whitney's back catalogue.

Of course, knowing what she was once capable of, makes her recent attempt at a comeback all the more tragic. The media prayed for a disaster, and that's pretty much what they got. After years of abuse, her voice had lost its warmth, range and power, leaving her shouting and out-of-breath. The 'Nothing But Love' world tour was supposed to represent her triumphant return to the stage, but the press focused on reports of weak performances and fan walk-outs.

Whitney died yesterday, aged just 48. And although she may not leave behind an extensive body of work (just six studio albums in 27 years) her singular influence and extraordinary talent will not be forgotten. 'I'm Every Woman' might have become her unofficial anthem, but in reality, she was anything but.

Why the US version of The Office is the boss

2012-02-08T21:08:00.000Z

Let’s get something out of the way before we get started. The Office is undoubtedly one of the best sitcoms ever made, and in just 12 episodes (plus an extended Christmas special), managed to redefine what could be achieved in the once-stale format.

It rocketed Ricky Gervais to international fame, and ushered in a new era of more realistic, fly-on-the-wall comedies. A diverse range of shows, from Nighty Night and Curb Your Enthusiasm to Modern Family, all followed its influential lead, and clearly owe Merchant and Gervais’ creation a considerable debt. And yet, I can’t shake this nagging feeling that the American version is better.

It’s a controversial opinion, I know. I’m sure people will jeer at me in the street, and recommend that I spend the rest of eternity giving Maxine Carr home perms for my sins. But I wonder whether the people who protest the most, have ever actually sat down and watched it. Maybe they’re of the opinion that it couldn’t possibly compare to the original – that it’s just a lazy knock-off. If that’s the case, they’re missing out on the most consistently hilarious comedy of recent years.

It’s not just the American’s who recognized the universal appeal of a realistic workplace sitcom – remakes have also been commissioned in France, Germany, Canada, Chile, Israel and Sweden, with a Chinese version in the works. But the US version is far and away the most popular, currently in its eighth hit season, despite star Steve Carell hanging up his papier-mâché spare head at the end of the last season.

If you’re not already apoplectic with indignation at my opinion, allow me to address four of the most common arguments I encounter, when telling others that the exploits of Dunder Mifflin-Sabre beat Wernham Hogg hands-down.

Remakes always suck

When Gervais originally sold his concept to American network NBC, all the people who’d championed his unique mix of arrogance and mortification, predicted an early bath for the transatlantic version. The network didn’t seem to be much more confident, commissioning just six episodes as a mid-season replacement for a show that had already failed. By the time the pilot aired, everyone congratulated themselves on their prescient predictions – once again a much-loved show had failed to translate. The characters had been renamed, but everything else stayed the same, right down to 90% of the script. And some humour just doesn’t travel.

However, those earlier nay-sayers were proven wrong almost immediately, as show runner (and former Simpsons writer) Greg Daniels started to exert his own influence over the show. Benefiting from his knowledge of the UK show’s story arc, Daniels allowed the US incarnations of the characters we recognised, to stretch their legs and find their own voice. The writers were also encouraged to write for the actors, rather then the characters from the original show. Halfway through season 2, it was clear that the show had found its own style and tone, respectful of the original, but evolving in its own direction.

It helped that the supporting cast comprises a number of comedians and writers. In fact, three of the show’s lead writers are also permanent cast-members: B.J. Novak (Ryan the Temp), Mindy Kaling (borderline-psychotic Kelly Kapoor) and Paul Lieberstein (hangdog HR manager Toby Flenderson). In addition, Steve Carell wrote several classic episodes, and many of the other performers have a background in improvisational comedy. Rather than putting all the onus on a single pair of writers, this team-spiritedness has made The Office into a hothouse of comedy.

The Office IS Ricky Gervais

When David Brent first appeared on our screens, we marveled at the fact that a show had been built around such a grotesque caricature of the modern businessman. Gervais’ arrogant preening and tactless insensitivity was quite a revelation, compared with the fuzzily likeable staples of traditional comedies. Over time, however, Gervais has returned to the same well a few too many times. Irrespective of the project, he seldom plays anything other than an exaggerated version of his own stand-up persona – awkward and obnoxious, barely able to contain his own seething contempt for everyone around him.

By contrast, Steve Carrell made Michael Scott (Brent’s US equivalent) an entirely different character. Sure, they share some of the same interpersonal shortcomings, but Scott has a more appealing naivety as well as a desperate need to be liked. Both like to think of themselves as aspiring comedians, but in the US version of the show, we see a wide variety of ways in which this plays out.

Carell is also able to inject much more pathos into a character who might otherwise be gratingly unlikable. Whether he’s taking on a second job in a call centre to subsidise his monstrous girlfriend, or struggling to be creative in his improvisation classes, Michael feels much more like a fully-rounded human being. In contrast, David Brent was always such a loathsome cock, that it was hard to believe that anyone would hire him in the first place.

In addition, the US show is full of moments which subtly remind us that, despite his many shortcomings, Michael Scott is actually good at sales. For example, there’s a lovely scene in season four when Michael gives an ex-client a gift basket, but warns him not to let his daughter eat the nut brittle because she’s allergic. As the old saying goes, even a broken clock is correct twice a day.

Shorter is better

The Offices of Wernham Hogg were clearly built in the shadow of Fawlty Towers, in that Gervais and Merchant clearly admired John Cleese and Connie Booth’s brevity. They called it a day after just 12 episodes, having exhausted themselves with their own perfectionism. The divorce can’t have made brainstorming sessions too much fun either. Of course, the main difference between Fawlty Towers and The Office, is that the former relied on elaborate farce, whereas the latter mined observational, character-based humour for its laughs. This means that the office-based scenario should lend itself to a longer-running format.

As the show has expanded, so too have the background personalities, gradually evolving into fully-fledged characters in their own right. Unlike their UK counterparts, who were little more than ciphers, Oscar, Kevin, Creed, Meredith, Phyllis and Angela have all had their own opportunities to shine during the show’s eight-year run.

For such an ostensibly simple concept, the show has also developed a rich mythology – filling out the world in which the characters live. Unlike conventional sitcoms, where the universe appears to reboot every half hour, this feels like a real world. Jokes play on subtle references to events that took place years ago, giving an extra degree of verisimilitude to the show. Rather than relying on contrived flashbacks or expositionary dialogue, the writers assume that the audience has been paying attention from the start, and exploit this familiarity at regular intervals.

Americans don’t get British humour

If there’s one thing that Americans know how to do, it’s write witty one-liners, filling their shows with photogenic smart-arses who always know just how to wring a laugh out of a contrived scenario. Where they tend to struggle, is in grasping the dark absurdism of British humour. And yet, there are few characters on TV as wonderfully surreal as Dwight K Schrute.

Far from being a lazy pastiche of Gareth Keenan, Dwight is a beetroot-grower of Germanic descent, who lives in a decrepit farmhouse that Norman Bates might charitably describe as a fixer-upper. Obsessed with bears and Battlestar Galactica, his matter-of-factness is often supplanted by an eagerness to get lost in how own nonsensical imaginings. It’s this tendency to over-engineer his own fantasy world that fuels some of the show’s finest exchanges, especially when he engages in a battle of wits with his nemesis Jim:

Dwight: I'm going to be your new boss! : It is my greatest dream come true. Welcome to the Hotel Hell. Check-in time is now, check-out time is never.
Jim: Does my room have cable?
Dwight: No. And the sheets are made of fire.
Jim: Can I change rooms?
Dwight: Sorry, we're all booked up. Hell convention in town.
Jim: Can I have a late checkout?
Dwight: I'll have to talk to the manager.
Jim: You're not the manager? Even in your own fantasy?
Dwight: I'm the owner. The co-owner. With Satan!
Jim: Okay. Just so I understand it: in your wildest fantasy, you are in Hell, and you are co-running a bed-and-breakfast with the Devil.
Dwight: Yeah, but I haven't told you my salary yet.
Jim: Go.
Dwight: Eighty *thousand* dollars a year.

Sometimes, we don’t even need to hear from Dwight himself, to get a sense of his curious survivalist instincts, as receptionist Pam explains a mix-up over the office keys: “There is a master key and a spare key for the office. Dwight has them both. When I asked, "what if you die, Dwight? How will we get into the office?" He said, "if I'm dead, you guys have been dead for weeks."

Although we’re a good year and half behind the US, the show’s first six seasons are available on DVD, with the five of them in a particularly affordable boxset. So go on, take a punt. You won’t be disappointed. That’s what she said.

Stupid is as stupid does

2012-02-03T23:17:00.002Z

As anyone who’s ever watched A Few Good Men, The Social Network or The West Wing can attest, Aaron Sorkin knows his way around a barnstorming speech. One of the best examples of this came in a live televised debate during the final season of his presidential drama, between Democratic Congressman Matt Santos and Republican Senator Arnold Vinick.

After reeling off an extensive list of liberal accomplishments, Santos (played by Jimmy Smits) declared: “…when you try to hurl the word 'liberal' at my feet, as if it were dirty, something to run away from, something that I should be ashamed of, it won't work, Senator, because I will pick up that label and wear it as a badge of honour.”

Now, it turns out that liberals can wear more than just the label with pride. They can also take comfort in the fact that they’re smarter than their political opponents, according to a new study by Canadian psychologists. In a paper published by Psychological Science, the researches have determined that right-wingers tend to be less intelligent than their liberal counterparts. Finding that people with low childhood intelligence are more susceptible to racist and homophobic rhetoric, the study suggests that conservative politics act as a “gateway” into more extreme prejudices – in much the same way that conservatives believe a couple of joints invariably lead to a belt strap around the bicep.

Having studied the views and opinions of over 15,000 test subjects, the authors have concluded that right-wing rhetoric makes people with a low capacity for reasoning feel safer. The academics responsible for the study report that “Cognitive abilities are critical in forming impressions of other people and in being open minded. Individuals with lower cognitive abilities may gravitate towards more socially conservative right-wing ideologies that maintain the status quo [which] provide a sense of order.”

Nowhere is this more evident than in the increasingly divisive world of American politics, where liberalism has been successfully portrayed as some kind of mental disorder by a political party which has managed to make a virtue out of being incurious. The Simpsons Movie scored a big laugh from ‘President Schwarzenegger’ telling his advisors “I was elected to lead, not to read.” But no-one was chuckling when one-time presidential candidate Herman Cain told supporters in New Hampshire "We need a leader, not a reader." Just imagine putting the big red button in hands that refuse to turn the pages of a book.

For the Republican party, such a celebration of wilful ignorance was nothing new. George W Bush spent eight years waging a one-man war against intellectual rigour, ultimately coasting into a second term because 57% of undecided voters felt that they’d rather have a beer with the incumbent President than Senator Kerry. When he made his famous "You're either with us or against us…” speech, in the wake of the 9/11 attacks, he was celebrated by his followers for taking such a decisive stance. But his unwillingness to understand the deeper objections behind aggressive military action was symptomatic of the black-and-white nature of the conservative worldview.

Meanwhile, the term ‘liberal elite’ was successfully forced into the political lexicon. This cynical move effectively branded those with a complex understanding of the issues as aloof intellectuals, out of touch with the common man. It’s easy to roll your eyes at those wacky Americans, until you consider how much of this anti-intellectualism is already seeping into our own political discourse.

In the mind of most conservatives, there’s only room for definitives and certainty. After all, why waste time debating the nuances and ethics of the issues, when you could be locking them up, sending them back or letting them hang? Of course, there’s also a worry that a more complex discussion of the issues might identify the root causes. An ounce of prevention may be worth a pound of cure, but that would involve much more hard work and soul searching.

Interestingly, the conservative press like to invoke the name of George Orwell’s Thought Police whenever the subject of political correctness rears its unconventionally attractive head. If they had their way, there’d be no need for ‘thought police’, in a world where people either refuse to think, or simply lack the capacity to do so. And that’s the main flaw with this otherwise illuminating research. It overlooks the fact that there are two kinds of conservatives – the leaders, and the mindless flock willing to trot along in their shadow.

“Don’t worry yourself with the facts and the detail,” they seem to tell the party faithful, “We’ll do the thinking so you don’t have to.” The true darkness at the heart of contemporary conservative ideology is that it hides its genuine intellect under a bushel of ignorance. Like Les Dawson pretending to be a shit pianist, it takes great talent to be convincingly inept. The conservative politicians and commentators aren’t as stupid as they’d like to look. Quite the opposite, in fact. They’re playing a role, wearing the village idiot’s hat, in order to convince the voters that they’re in good, if simple, company. Like wolves in sheeple’s clothing. Which begs the question, if they don’t even believe their own rhetoric, why should anyone else?

Five chick flicks I just don't get

2012-01-30T23:01:00.001Z

‘Chick Flick’. Like ‘compassionate conservatism’ or ‘from the studio that brought you Grown Ups’, it’s a phrase that’s guaranteed to chill the blood of any reasonable cinema-goer. It doesn’t matter who’s in the film, or what it’s about. Chances are, it’s going to star Jennifer Aniston, Katherine Heigl or Kate Hudson. And they’ll spend two hours trying to prove that a woman can have it all - husband, kids, career and a pair of heels so high they’d give a window cleaner a nosebleed. Because Hollywood is convinced that women are all bitches anyway, they’ll also make sure that their photogenic stars repeatedly fall over, and have at least one scene where they look like Myra Hindley staging a dirty protest. Call it the Bridget Jones Factor – “I’m allowed to like her, because she’s just like me. Ha, she just fell in a puddle.”

Less a genre, more a collective noun for toxically inane effluvia, the chick flick machine has squeezed out more than its fair share of cinematic pipe-blockers. Thankfully, their interchangeable nature means that they seldom stick around in the public consciousness. Instead, they’re released intermittently as ‘counter-programming’ for sports widows. But every once in a while, we get a blockage. A particularly stubborn deposit that sticks to the sides because it somehow taps into the cultural zeitgeist of the time. Sometimes, these might actually be acceptable films, such as Steel Magnolias, Notting Hill or Bridesmaids. But all too often, their popularity is as inexplicable as it is infuriating. So here, without any further ado, are the five most bafflingly popular chick flicks. To avoid fainting, keep repeating ‘it’s only a movie, it’s only a movie.’

Dirty Dancing

Remember that trailer for The Shining that someone recut with jaunty music and quirky captions to turn Stanley Kubrick’s bone-chilling masterpiece into a romantic comedy? The same exercise could easily be deployed with Dirty Dancing, repurposing this frothy confection as the cautionary tale of a malevolent paedophile grooming the daughter of a hotel guest.

During the late eighties, my sister fell under this film’s insidious spell, watching it every opportunity she got, and lusting after Patrick Swayze’s hypnotic hips, despite that they were attached to six foot of petrified timber. Given the enthusiasm that many women have for this wretched mess of a movie, it’s weird to think what a negative view of women the film portrays. All the women in Dirty Dancing are either doormats, bimbos, predatory housewives, haughty dancers or thieving pensioners. And don’t get me started on the ‘memorable dialogue’ – “I carried a watermelon” and “Nobody puts Baby in the corner” were never great lines. They were simply punchlines to jokes that nobody had told yet.

Other films set in the sixties usually make a cursory effort to incorporate themes of social upheaval, in an attempt to contextualize the drama. In Dirty Dancing, we’re told that Frances ‘Baby’ Houseman wants to join the Peace Corps, and that’s your lot. Even the abortion storyline is swept under the rug, once Dr Houseman has cleaned up Cynthia Rhodes mangled mimsy.

In spite of a litany of sins against taste and quality, my biggest problem with Dirty Dancing has to do with its soundtrack. Yes, it features a fantastic selection of classics from the likes of Solomon Burke and Otis Redding. But the film’s standout song (which accompanies the big dance scene at the end) is a couldn’t-be-more-eighties MOR mess by Bill Medley and Jennifer Warnes. Having spent the entire film trying to convince us that it’s the 1960s, the producers throw it all out of the window in favour of an anachronistic, over-produced ballad that has no business in a period piece. They might have had the time of their lives, but this is 100 minutes I won’t be getting back.

Mamma Mia

Let me state for the record that I love ABBA unreservedly. The melodies, the production, the voices, even the lyrics, have a timeless quality that refuses to diminish with each passing decade. I also enjoy musicals, because I’m able to suspend my disbelief when someone bursts into song. To my mind, it’s no less dramatically valid than a Shakespearean character breaking the fourth wall with a soliloquy.

So why is it that watching Mamma Mia was like being face-raped by a bull elephant with anger management issues? Maybe it was the fact that the entire plot had been lifted from a ropey 1980s Shirley Conran novel (ask your Mum). A young girl finds out her mother was a slut, so she invites three potential fathers to her wedding to find out who’s the daddy. Of course, she could have just taken a blood test, but ABBA never wrote a song about DNA matches.

Perhaps I just failed to get caught up in all that joyful exuberance, finding the sight of three middle aged women jumping on a bed to be almost offensive in its lazy light-heartedness. For a film that sold itself on being a great night out, it managed to make waterboarding feel like a more rewarding way to spend an evening.

The crew clearly spent lots of time in the Greek islands to score some great location footage, but most of the film is shot in a studio set less convincing than the Spanish resort in Duty Free. And then there’s Meryl Streep, a woman so used to acting her socks off that she’s forgotten how to come across like a regular human being. This gives the film a curiously unnerving tone, as she constantly looks as though she’s going to burst into tears, or laugh hysterically and start hacking at her hair with a steak knife. The only saving grace is that she can at least hold a note, which is more than can be said for Pierce Brosnan, who is to singing what Amy Childs is to comparative theology.

Love, Actually

What happens when you take the romantic comedy and British whimsy of Four Weddings, and blend it with a multi-strand, Altman-esque anthology of overlapping vignettes? If you’re anything like me, you get a splitting headache and an overwhelming desire to firebomb Richard Curtis’ Notting Hill townhouse. I’ve lost count of the number of times I’ve had to listen to people extolling the virtues of this aimless, self-indulgent mess. But it’s probably as many times as I’ve gone through my Facebook account and defriended people with extreme prejudice. There may be a link between the two.

In a film full of risible dialogue and unrealistic archetypes, I reserve particular scorn for 11 year-old Thomas Sangster. In arguably the worst scene of the entire film, the smug prepubescent attempts to motivate his father (played with somnambulant indifference by Liam Neeson) by saying “Let’s go get our asses kicked by love.” Tell you what, if love fails to show up, I’ve got some heavy boots to break in.

If the gossamer thin characterisations and contrived scenarios don’t irritate the piss out of you, watch it again and count how many ethnic minorities have been cast in incidental roles. Curtis got his knuckles wrapped for making the population of Notting Hill look like the EDL, so he made a concerted effort to portray a more diverse London in this follow up. The problem is, every single minority character is expected to stand in the background and be thankful for the visibility, because Curtis has no idea what else to do with them. I guess complaining that it’s all so white and middle class is ultimately an exercise in futility, since the only estates Curtis knows are the kind with stables and a boating pond.

Sex and the City

HBO’s groundbreaking comedy drama (the studio would probably like to call it a ‘dramedy’ but I can’t bring myself to use the word) was a pretty good show. Well cast, tightly written and occasionally hilarious, Sex and the City ran for six seasons and bowed out gracefully with a happy ending for its four main characters.

But what worked in slender, 30 minute installments took on a whole different tone when stretched over two and half hours. Suddenly, the four women who were the backbone of the show came across like grasping, venal, self-absorbed hags. Deliberately sabotaging their own happiness and sulking when they didn’t get their own way, these were not likable everywomen. They were the one-percent in fuck-me heels.

The first film was bad enough, but the sequel plumbed new depths of awfulness, with an extended jaunt to Abu Dhabi that showed Samantha, Carrie, Miranda and Charlotte up for the culturally insensitive whores that they are. And what led our plucky heroine to the Middle East in the first place? She was running away from her awful husband, because he bought her a giant plasma TV. The thoughtless, insensitive cunt.

My Big Fat Greek Wedding

Produced by Tom Hanks and his wife Rita Wilson, MBFGW was a surprise sleeper hit in 2002, racking up quarter of a billion dollars in the US alone. But when a quirky title is the funniest thing about your film, there’s clearly something wrong. Writer and star Nia Vardalos was trumpeted as the next big thing, but as the three people who endured follow-up Connie and Carla can attest, the success of her debut was a momentary aberration.

The film seemed to take the view that stereotypes can’t be offensive if you belong to the community being satirised. But since it also misunderstood the definition of ‘comedy’, we can hardly hold it accountable for lacking nuance. The ad campaign for the film, which only seemed to get commissioned once word-of-mouth had already landed it in the black, had audiences flocking to cinemas expecting a laugh riot that would make Airplane! look like a Lars Von Trier film. Instead, they got an old woman who thought vegetarians could eat lamb. And I guess houmous is funny if you say it enough times.

But wait, there’s a real message in this film. It tells us that outdated perceptions of gender are a bit old-fashioned. And that plain women should pretty themselves up with a bit of make-up if they want to land a husband. Revelatory stuff, I’m sure you’ll agree. Ultimately though, we need to remember that this is more than just a movie – it’s also bequeathed us a rich cultural legacy of tawdry TV shows with ‘My Big Fat’ in the title. Thanks for that. Thanks a bunch.

You're going to Hollywood

2012-01-28T00:05:00.000Z

These audition episodes are a gruelling business, especially when there’s three hours’ worth to wade through every week. And if you think watching them is tough, you should try writing about them. So rather than a blow-by-blow recap of every hopeless hopeful that queued up to appear on that glass lozenge that passes for a stage, here’s what I learned this week about how to secure those all important 15 minutes of notoriety.

Play to J-Lo’s ego

One of the first contestants this week was a pretty young single mother, who practices by singing to her daughter. When asked what songs she likes, she tells them that ‘On The Floor’ is her five year old’s favourite. These are the hidden costs of parenting. When she sings, Jennifer complements her on her “natural voice”, because in her mind, singers are supposed to sound like an android with throat polyps. Jayrah Gibson also knows how to woo Jenny From The Block, by performing a song he wrote for her. It’s complete shit, so we shouldn’t be surprised that she attempts to raise an approving eyebrow.

Thank the Lord

It’s not unusual for American contestants to proclaim divine intervention when it comes to their time on a talent show. But we should give a special shout-out to Ramiro Garcia, who tells us the tragic story of how he was born without ears – a scenario that seemed almost appealing after three hours of melisma. Despite his tough start in life, he now heads up a local church. And he credits his faith for giving him a voice and the ability to hear, which somewhat undermines the role of the surgeons who worked the actual miracles. After telling his inspirational story, Steven tells him “I like your insides”, so Ramiro can at least take pride in the fact that he’s the first male contestant to get that particular complement from the Aerosmith screamer.

Try to fuck Steven Tyler

If you really want to make sure that your try-out for Idol gets seen by 20 million viewers, just pretend that you’re turned on by leathery skin and a mouth that could sub-let space to Big Yellow. On the first of this week’s shows, the auditions took place on USS Midway, so Steven showed up in a flying hat and goggles. Even though this made him look like Sebulba, the villainous podracer from The Phantom Menace, the girls were still throwing themselves at him. Maybe they just like the attention, something Steven’s never been shy of giving. He even tells one girl “I love your high wobble, when you go upstairs.” We just have to hope that he was talking about her voice.

Confirm Ryan’s heterosexuality

Forget about all the rumours, conjecture and dubious pictures of him on a Mexican beach with Simon Cowell, Ryan is as straight as an A-list Scientologist. So if you want to get noticed, give him a chance to assert his alpha male status. First up was Wolf, who got a lot of coverage, much of which will probably be aired again when he makes his inevitable appearance on America’s Most Wanted. Apropos of nothing, he admits that all the women who knew he was auditioning wanted him to kiss Ryan, who expresses relief that it’s not going to happen. Maybe he doesn’t like beards, unless they’re the ones who’ll walk the red carpet with him. Haley told us about the three jobs she holds down as a cleaner, restaurant worker and meat packer in a sausage factory. Curiously, it’s the last one that piques his interest, but only because he’s a fan of a chunky Cumberland. Special points go to this week’s first contestant, who showed up in a patriotic biki top and hot-pants combo, and gamely played along as Ryan repeatedly ask her to walk up the stairs. Don’t know about you, but I’m certainly convinced.

If all else fails, be utterly deluded

Whether it was Aubrey, who wanted to be on America’s Top Model despite looking like Rumer Willis with lockjaw, or the girl who told us “I want to be the new Lady Gaga. There’s no-one like me”, this was a great week to be lacking in self-awareness.

In Texas, where everything is bigger – especially the arseholes - we got to see a parade of would-be country singers who all sounded like lowing cattle, convinced that they stood a chance because of last year’s Grand Ole Opry-styled final. We also met Phong Vu, who got excited about the fact that he was able to name the judges. Unfortunately, he had a little more trouble with his favourite singer Selina Dion. The highpoint of his audition was his “iconic dance move”, which involved jumping on the spot with one arm out.

Alejandro managed to score plenty of screen-time, by announcing that the revolution has started. He asked the judges to “Grant me the power to bring revolution to the world. Where Lady Gaga can become a pop star, or Barack Obama can become the President.” The judges helpfully pointed out that he might be a little late to that particular party. At the end of his awful audition, he groveled for another chance, prompting Jennifer to tell him “Please don’t beg, you have too much dignity for that.” Maybe she was watching a different show on the monitor.

Finally, if these tactics don’t work, you could always consider a move into food services. Alanna Snare got her own segment, thanks to her chat about Rocky Mountain Oysters. Given the amount of people who talk bollocks on this show, its hardly surprising that some people have developed a taste for them. And don’t forget Skylar, who works in a rundown family restaurant. They’ve had a tough couple of years, which her mother doesn’t like to talk about. Unless there’s a camera crew on hand. She describes the restaurant as a “hole in the wall”, but having watched the footage, even that description seems overly complimentary. Still, that got her on the show, so consider it a job well done.

An open and shut case

2012-01-26T22:29:00.000Z

We’ve all heard the joke about 5,000 dead lawyers at the bottom of the ocean. It’s as old as the one about jaywalking poultry, but it still gets repeated because there are few careers as universally reviled as the legal profession. So when Stephen Bochco and Terry Louise Fisher came up with the idea of a new drama series set in a Los Angeles law firm, it must have been a pretty tough pitch, like trying to sell in a slapstick sitcom about Natasha Kampusch.

And yet, somehow, they managed to convince NBC to take a punt on their idea, turning LA Law into a ratings winner that ran for eight years. Making its debut at the peak of eighties consumerism, it would have been easy for the show to disappear up its own Hugo Boss-clad arsehole, reveling in the rampant capitalism that epitomised the decade of grasping self-interest. Instead, Bochco and Fisher used the premise to explore a previously unseen side of the legal system, focusing on what happened after Cagney & Lacey or TJ Hooker rolled up their crime scene tape and headed out in search of donuts.

For the first time, audiences were invited into the luxuriously appointed boardrooms (with carpeted walls, no less), and introduced to a bewildering new lexicon of continuances, objections and depositions. The partners and clerks at McKenzie, Brackman, Chaney and Kuzak didn’t just concentrate on flashy, high-profile murder cases either. Sleazy, womanising opportunist Arnie Becker exposed the intricacies of California divorce law, whilst Stuart Markowitz attempted to make tax consultancy sound exciting. And somehow, it all coalesced into a satisfying and surprising whole.

Back in the mid-eighties, the main difference between soaps and long-running dramas, was that the former focused on continuing story arcs, whereas the latter had a more episodic, issue-of-the-week structure. LA Law represented a sophisticated merging of the two, balancing ongoing character development,with individual cases that were often plucked straight from the news headlines. This was based on a model that Bochco had originated with his previous hit Hill Street Blues, another complex multi-strand drama with an extensive cast of regular characters.

The topicality of the stories meant that, even in the pilot, LA Law was willing to tackle the kind of challenging topics that usually only ever featured on the nightly news. The first episode featured the improbably handsome hero Michael Kuzak defending three young men accused of gang-raping a woman dying of leukaemia. After years of watching Joan Collins and Linda Evans tearing off each other’s clip-on earrings, such harsh realities must have been quite a bitter pill for unsuspecting viewers. Similarly, the revelation that one of the women in the typing pool was a pre-operative transsexual, in a secret affair with the senior partner whose death kicked off the series, introduced a discussion of homophobia in the workplace that was years ahead of its time.

Over the years, the show managed to tackle pretty much every major societal issue and taboo, from incest and child abuse to abortion and the LA race riots. Interestingly, the show only found itself in hot water once, when conservative critics got upset about a 'lesbian kiss' between bland divorcee Abby Perkins, and the free-spirited bisexual CJ Lamb. Although chaste and innocent by today's standards, at the time Amanda Donahoe's same-sex smooch was the first ever kiss between two women on network TV. Despite the short-lived outrage, the show inadvertently kicked off a new TV trend, as opportunistic show runners threw in a girl-on-girl snog to bump up the ratings, with the New York Times concluding that "kisses between women are perfect sweeps stunts".

The legacy of LA Law can also be seen in other aspects of modern TV, not least in Aaron Sorkin's patented 'walk and talk' scenes, where two characters cover 800 yards and about 15 pages of dialogue in a single take. Speaking of The West Wing, it's worth remembering that the impeccable liberal credentials of President Jed Bartlet can be traced directly back to the informed benevolence of pater familias Leland McKenzie.

For a drama that confidently tackled every thorny subject imaginable, the writers never lost sight of the need to entertain, even managing to build half a season of plotting around an elaborate inside joke. The writers had joshed each other for a while that, in soap operas, the easiest way to write out a character was to drop them down a lift shaft. So when they decided that passive-aggressive villainess Rosalind Shays (imagine Nurse Ratched in an $800 suit) had outlived her usefulness, they simply opened the elevator doors and let her plunge to her death. The character's shocking exit saw that installment voted into the top 100 Greatest Episodes of All Time in TV Guide.

The show also achieved notoriety by inventing the Venus Butterfly - an imaginary sex act that was referenced in an early episode, but never explicitly explained. In the years that followed, the studio was inundated with letters and calls from fans who were determined to find out about the mysterious technique that helped a short, fat, balding tax lawyer land himself such a hot wife. Playboy even ran a special feature speculating what the act entailed, and the Venus Butterfly has subsequently appeared in everything from TV show Rescue Me, to issue 298 of The Amazing Spider-Man. Peter Parker, you dirty little fucker.

Admittedly, the show has aged badly in some areas, particularly in the fashion and styling of its well-heeled cast. The outfits might have been sourced on Rodeo Drive, but the hairdos owed more to Blue Circle. And since everyone wore such huge shoulder-pads, the seduction scenes often looked more like two linebackers clashing at an NFL game. These romantic clinches, which occurred frequently during the show’s run, convinced a generation that a kiss was meaningless unless it took place next to a venetian blind, accompanied by the intermittent shrieks of a saxophone solo.

This week, LA Law's debut season finally made it to DVD, after over a decade of passionate lobbying from fans. Best of all, it's currently only available in the UK. As distributors Revelation Films have already lined up seasons two and three for later in the year, now's the perfect time to catch up on one of the best loved TV shows of all time. And if you don't like it, sue me.

Going weak at Denise

2012-01-23T23:18:00.000Z

Although the producers of Celebrity Big Brother like to fill the house with attractive young hardbodies, it's actually the middle-aged contestants who give the show its curious car-crash appeal. We all remember Vanessa Feltz's descent into madness, scrawling on the shopping list board like a demented medium. Likewise, Les Dennis decided that a 24-7 reality show was the best place to have a nervous breakdown in the wake of his failed marriage. And we all tuned in to see how far he'd fall.

So we probably shouldn't be surprised that this year's real star has been Denise Welch, a woman who seems to have spent most of her career living it large, like a Priory outpatient. Since she's been in the house she's provided more entertainment than the rest of the girls put together, largely by acting like the overly refreshed mother-in-law at a Geordie hen night.

Along the way, all this self-consciously extroverted "I'm mad, me" behaviour has begun to grate on the other housemates, not least Michael Madsen. After two weeks of being stuck in the middle with her, he looked as though he was ready to tie her to a chair and cut her ears off. I wonder if Ladbrokes are offering odds on that being the next secret task.

Despite regular work in shows like Soldier Soldier and Coronation Street, Denise is most famous for her larger-than-life persona - a role she's managed to cement by painting herself as the slackest of all the Loose Women. She might like to think of herself as a carefree hell-raiser, but her fragile ego suggests that maybe Michael had a point when he labelled her "emotionally disturbed."

It's likely that Denise might even have mistaken their early bickering as mildly flirtatious, but by now, it's clear that there'll be precious few Christmas cards winging their way across the Atlantic come December. And after a drunken attempt to draw the twins into her "Wahey, look at my tits" world, a major barney erupted that'll probably result in a few other housemates jostling with Michael for a go with his straight razor.

The seeds were sown earlier in the day, when Frankie Cocozza took part in a spelling contest. To be honest, he was an unfortunate choice for this task, given that he'd struggle with STD. At one point, he tried to spell 'hierarchy' as Hiararki', presumably because he thought it was just up the coast from where he used to work as a holiday rep. Fair play though, he spelled 'reproduction' correctly, so at least all that practice paid off in the end. Sadly, every time he got a word wrong, the housemates got a shock. Once the task was complete, Nicola accused Denise of lying about her buzzer working, on account of the fact that she wasn't screaming like the others. Denise responded by saying she's learned to enjoy the sensation of electric shocks, because she's had Slendertone on her belly and thighs. It's a miracle she doesn't have hair like Elsa Lanchester.

Later on, as the housemates celebrated with alcohol, Big Brother tried to liven things up by piping Girls Just Wanna Have Fun into the house. Several bottles of wine into the evening, it didn't take long for Denise's top to get lifted - but she made the mistake of trying to whip down Karissa's pajama bottoms. And that's when all hell broke loose. Karissa stormed off to the diary room and threatened to sue Big Brother, Nicola attempted to play peacemaker by attacking everyone, and Frankie actually seemed like the most reasonable person in the house. Fuck the four horsemen, that's a true sign of the apocalypse. Feeling attacked from all sides, Denise turned on Nicola and brought up their previous dispute.

There's no point rehashing all the accusations that were made, because it was all as predictably incoherent as a bunch of drunk 15 year-old girls crying on the swings outside a youth centre. Interestingly, Karissa did repeatedly make the point that she's a really reserved person and "doesn't walk around flashing her tits". Despite how it's portrayed in films, the Playboy Mansion is more like an orphanage for pneumatic blondes in their early twenties. And Hugh Hefner is just a benevolent modern-day Daddy Warbucks, rather than a permanently priapic pensioner in a dog-eared dressing gown.

Denise tried to point out their double standards about nudity, to which the girls responded by saying that they don't make their living getting naked, they just did the one photoshoot. Of course, this is all moral relativism - the real issue was simply that Denise shouldn't have whipped Karissa's pants down. But by the time Nicola weighed in, telling Big Brother "I'm a secret feminist. I might have got my boobs out, but that's my choice," Germaine Greer must have been kicking herself for choosing the wrong year to take part.

Blade running, Hollywood style

2012-01-22T22:12:00.001Z

We've arrived at the absolute zero of tackiness, as our stars with a little 's' are seen climbing out of a limo for 'Dancing On Ice - The Movie'. Charlene Tilton tells us it's the role of a lifetime, but since she's barely worked in the last twenty years, she's hardly an authority on the matter. Christopher Dean says "the competition starts tonight", which leaves me wondering why I bothered sitting through the last two episodes.

Phil and Christine are doing their best to look as though they're number one on each other's speed dial, but their performances are less than convincing. Their onscreen chemistry might be as comfortable as a leotard full of nettles, but it hardly warrants the death threats she's been getting from the hardcore DOI fans on Twitter. It must catch in her throat to tell viewers about all the ways they can interact with the show online - that 'block' button is going to be working overtime tonight.

Chico is opening tonight's show, and he's keen to show us that "there's more to Chico than Chico Time." The mind boggles. To be fair to him, he's quite confident on the ice and the performance was competent, but I've got a horrible feeling that if he stays in the show, we're going to hear him sing at some point, and life is too short. His partner gives him the ultimate backhanded compliment by commending him for "giving a 100 percent", when everyone knows that on shows like this, it's 110 percent or nothing. Philip reminds us to keep the discussion going on Twitter, and even points out how to hashtag the show. But then he tells us to keep it PG, so let's hope that the fans tell him to go fuck himself.

Rosemary Conley is dancing to Wind Beneath My Wings, but since she starts her performance sitting on the ice, its the chill beneath her gusset I'd be more concerned with. I have to applaud her bravery though - most pensioners set one foot on ice and end up having a hip transplant, whereas she's being waved through the air with a young man's hand stuck up her chuff. She's very thankful for her partner who's doing a great job of holding her together, but a length of butcher's string would probably be just as effective.

In a recap of last week's comments, we see Louis tell Sam "I think you could really go somewhere." Like back to Barnsley, for instance. Whoever came up with the idea of asking a stocky lad to try kung fu kicks in ice skates either deserves an award or electroshock therapy. By the end of the performance, everyone's just relieved that he didn't screw up the backflip lift and put Alexandra Schauman in traction. He even manages to smile graciously when Katarina Witt compares him to a cuddly panda - not everyone would be so happy to be called a salad dodger in front of 10 million people.

Chemmy is performing to Fontella Bass' Rescue Me from Sister Act, which is why her routine opens with her dressed in a full habit and wimple. She gave a good effort, but her partner struggled with the big lift, demonstrating all the grace of a man lugging a corpse wrapped in a blood-stained carpet. Katarina helpfully points out that she's "a big woman". I guess she's not planning on making any friends tonight. Well, apart from Rosemary, who's busy making a list of all the people she can sign up for her slimming classes.

"I think as a dancer, I'm one of the best there is." That's Corey Feldman's entirely objective self-assessment, based on all the time he spent with Michael Jackson. As an utterly unrelated aside, Corey is planning to use his time on the show to publicise his forthcoming autobiography about his abuse at the hands of Hollywood's paedophiles. Happy to exploit any misfortune to further his celebrity, Corey is performing to Stand By Me, and will be dedicating his routine to River Phoenix, his co-star in that movie. Weirdly, he's decided to incorporate some of Jackson's moves into the performance, but it ends up looking as though he's having a bad reaction to his medication. The judges don't like it, so Corey folds his arms in angry defiance. But at least he's finally reminded the viewers at home of all those petulant brats he played as a child.

Poor Jennifer Ellison is suffering from rib damage from all the lifts in her routine. Lying on a physio table, she tells us "I'm not in a very good place." I've been to Elstree, so I know she's not lying. By the end of the performance, her face is stuck in a rictus grin from the pain, but somehow, that just makes her look more like a professional skater. Robin applauds her for "acting through every movement" as though she's just won an Olivier for taking a shit on stage.

Mark is still struggling to make an impression, and he's bringing his natural sense of comedy to tonight's routine. But there's a big difference between laughing at and laughing with someone. He's moving so slow on the ice that, at one point, I was going to complement his confidence skating backwards. Katarina says "Of course we love Mark" as though it was governmentally mandated. I'm afraid I'm going to be listed as a conscientious objector.

Jorgie's VT is all about her bum cheeks, because she's practicing a difficult lift with her partner Matt. Once their excellent performance is over, her arse is still on everyone's lips. Not like that, it's a family show, remember. Phillip Schofield tries to get in on the act, helpfully pointing out her wedgie situation, and Robin comments that a high speed routine like that means she needs to "be right on the button". I think Matt's hand is still on her button.

For Matthew's rehearsal footage, we get to see him dropping Nina and then falling on her, again and again. Maybe the producers are trying to win over the Jackass crowd. Matt's in his element this week, since he's dancing to Night Fever, the title song from the musical he starred in for over a year. Christopher points out that it's important to look after your partner, which must be a conversation he and Karen Barber have had on more than one occasion.

Charlene will be performing to Diamonds Are A Girl's Best Friend which, she tells us, is a dream come true. She needs to stop eating cheese before she goes to bed. They've tried to make her look like Marilyn Monroe, but Baby Jane Hudson would be closer. I'd have paid good money to see her dance to I've Written A Letter To Daddy instead. Her partner Matthew gushes about "working with a piece of Hollywood", like she's something he found in skip outside the Chateau Marmont.

Sebastien is slowing things down this week with Gary Jules' Mad World, and the Donnie Darko influence is felt in the slightly surreal choreography. Their goal this week was to concentrate on the partnership, and although they might have solved it on the ice, their interview skills need some work. It's like watching a couple meet for the first time after a particularly acrimonious divorce. Katarina doesn't get to add her two-penneth, because Philip needs to get in one of his painful puns. Don't worry though, she'll get her revenge during the break when she sidles up to him and tells him he looks fat in his glittery suit.

We all know the phrase 'polishing a turd'. Well, tonight the Dancing On Ice stylist has devised a new concept - smashing a shit. That's when you take something bad and make it look even worse. To wit - Andy Whyment wearing a T-birds ducktail quiff. It's a valiant effort, but he's got about as much natural cool as a Scotch bonnet chili pepper. Once off the ice, he tries his best to be funny but Jayne Torville's grinning at him like she's trying to humour a racist uncle.

Heidi is practicing hard, so her bandmate Amelle is here to lend some moral support, and to remind the audiences at home that The Sugababes are still a thing. Tonight, she's dancing to Goldfinger and she's come out looking like Shirley Eaton's death scene. Shirley Bassey's song has been given a bit of a contemporary overhaul and it all comes together quite well. Her Scouse accent is pretty think, and at one point I swear she says "I'm quite a shite person." No arguments here. The rest of the show fades out in a flurry of tedious innuendo, which leaves Louie in his element, but it's not one that you'll find on the periodic table.

Worshiping false idols

2012-01-19T23:10:00.004Z

The poor stage managers have barely finished sweeping up the glittery confetti from the X-Factor USA's inauspicious debut, and yet here we are again, ready to be thrust back into another maelstrom of tears, key changes and incomprehensible feedback. It's time for the granddaddy of them all, American Idol, to return for its eleventh season. And if I'm going to sit through it, you're coming with me.

There were doubts that Idol would ever make it this far, after it was announced that Simon was upping sticks to focus on his other shows. But against all the odds, the show flourished in season ten. Audiences responded well to the new judging line-up of Jennifer Lopez, Steven Tyler and Randy Jackson, and all was right with the world. Well, apart from last year's grand finale, which was like being stuck at a hoedown in the seventh circle of hell.

Tonight's show opens with "Where were you when it all started?" and I can't help feeling that there's a none-too-subtle reference to the Kennedy assassination in there. Do you remember what you were doing when Simon Cowell first put a bullet in modern music? We're also treated to the usual crowd scenes, as well as close-ups of people driving and, weirdly, an aircraft carrier. For some reason, the camera crews have all been tasked with capturing as many rising crane shots as they can. But played back to back, I find that five minutes in and I'm already reaching for the Benadryl. And let's not forget lovely Jennifer Lopez, who tells us that she's delighted to be back with Randy and Steven, saying "They're like my family now." Marc Anthony is laughing bitterly at the irony in that. The big twist this year is that, instead of sending professional film crews to capture the back-stories of the favourites, they've just briefed all contestants to film their own experiences on their smartphones. It's all a bit Cloverfield, just without the hideous lizard monster. Oh, sorry, there he is in a giant pink pimp's hat.

First contestant of the night is an obnoxiously overconfident young boy called David. He says he's seventeen, but his admittedly impressive singing voice doesn't appear to have broken yet. He might want to be the new Michael Jackson, but he's got a better chance of being the new Garry Coleman. "Are we having fun yet?" asks Randy. No, not particularly. Sixteen year-old Gaby is a tap dancer and really wants to meet host Ryan Seacrest. I can't blame her, I'd also like to get up close and personal with the man who's responsible for giving the world Keeping Up With The Kardashians. Ten minutes and a shovel should do it.

There's a great moment where one girl does a pretty good Whitney Houston, and we see Jennifer Lopez miming the words. But, it's not as if anyone really expected her to be able to sing along, did we? Meanwhile, in the background, the waves are getting decidedly choppy and are in danger of sending a moored yacht straight through the picture window. It would be such a shame if Randy's time on the show was to end suddenly, with him being pierced by prow of a boat, like Ming the Merciless without the green blood.

After an unsuccessful audition from Ryan Seacrest's double (that's right, imagine a world where there's more than one of him) we get to see Shannon, a gorgeous six-foot fifteen year-old. It's all going so well until Steven leers that the city of Savannah is "hot, humid and happening, just like your daughter." In retrospect, that's a remark that might have been better received had her entire extended family not been in the room at the time. Of course she gets through and Randy yells "You're coming to Hollywood!" Sadly the audio cuts out before we get to hear him follow it with "Bring a rape alarm."

Amy, our next contestant, lives in a tent in the woods because she can't afford a "$100 a week hotel room" which tells me it's been a while since I checked the prices on Expedia. Apparently, she'd rather be outdoors and happy than indoors and miserable. Ryan listens patiently, trying not to point out that it's also possible to be indoors and happy. She gets three thumbs up, and asks if she can pitch a tent in Hollywood. I think Steven's already one step ahead of her.

Despite his bravado, Joshua will not be going to Hollywood, which is a shame because the world was crying out for a gay redneck Andy Roddick impersonator. However, things are looking slightly better for fifteen year-old Stephanie, who wants to be the next Carrie Underwood. She's full of 'yes ma'am's and 'bless you's which win over two of the three judges. As Randy and J-Lo debate Stephanie's abilities, Steven seems more interested in looking for something inside his hat. That must be where he keeps the roofies.

So far it's all been a little talent heavy, so thank goodness for Mawuena Kodjo from West Africa, who's here to give us a guilty chuckle at those funny foreigners and their comedy accents. Despite the fact that it's perfectly clear what he's saying, we get karaoke subtitles throughout his VT. Sitcoms have canned laughter, talent shows have transcripts for foreigners.

Promising a combination of "funk, energy and confidence", Ashlee has invented a dance called the joy-hop, which looks like someone accidentally shitting their pants on an escalator. It's going to be huge, so remember you saw it here first. Another featured contestant is W.T. Thompson, who's decided that the best way of supporting his six-month-pregnant wife is to give up his job in the prison service and take a punt on a ticket to Hollywood. This couldn't possibly end badly for all concerned.

It's been a while since the producers pandered to the judges, so it's time for a tribute to Steven Tyler. Crowds of attractive young women enthuse about how attractive he is "for an older man". Perhaps, if you're turned on by a portrait of Lily Tomlin, carved into a Stilton rind. This section ends with a tangerine travesty called Erica, who hilariously describes Steven as "my future ex-husband." It's bad enough that she has a crush on a cross-dressing scarecrow, but then she sings an awful Joss Stone song, and I start wondering whether those kidnappers had the right idea after all.

Tonight's final contestant is the imaginatively named Philip Phillips, who works in his dad's pawn shop selling stuffed animals that Norman Bates would dismiss as "a bit creepy". He growls and snarls his way through Superstition, and I'm sure the judges don't know whether to clap or throw holy water at him. Ah, but it's all a prank, because he's actually here to do an interesting guitar-based version of Thriller. Jennifer's excited because Philip has something that "makes people stop and stare." But running through the streets in an outfit made from human skin will do that.

Masterchef gets panned

2012-01-17T22:52:00.000Z

If I had my way, I'd ban cookery shows once and for all. Too many celebrity chefs giving the viewers at home delusions of grandeur. Now every boozer with a set of matching placemats can rebrand itself a 'gastropub', because the bloke in the kitchen spent one lonely evening learning to make spun sugar.

And then there's the chefs themselves. During my formative years I spent many a school holiday working as a waiter in a bunch of different restaurants. And although the star ratings may have varied, there was always one constant - obnoxious chefs who had such anger management issues that they'd make Naomi Campbell seem like a reasonable employer. Somehow, the ones on TV manage to come across even worse. Even Jamie Oliver, who normally acts as though butter wouldn't melt in his mouth (probably because there's no room in there), shouts and swears like the police chief in an eighties mis-matched cop thriller.

When they're not driving their kitchen porters to self-harm with a butter curler, they're trying to convince us that all that fussy perfectionism is just a ruse. In reality, they'd rather be pinching down the crust of a game pie before dishing it up for the cast of Straw Dogs. Yeah, Hugh Fearnley Whittingstall, I mean you. Those bucolic bezzies of yours piss in your tankard whenever you leave the room to pan-sear some venison.

As if the schedules weren't already overrun by egotistical pan-flingers, Masterchef returns to our screens tonight for its eighth series. Once again John and Gregg, looking like Great Yarmouth waxworks of Richard Littlejohn and Al Murray, are on the lookout for a new telegenic dictator, willing to torture the kitchen staff with a crème brûlée blowtorch. Having sifted through thousands of applicants, there are 24 finalists left to compete for 12 'Masterchef' aprons. Seems like a lot of fuss for something you could pick up for a fiver in Lakeland.

First off, tonight's eight contestants have ten minutes to pick a selection of ingredients from a neat little larder that's been set up at the front of the room. It's a tiny little Waitrose, but without the hand-held scanners. "You know the rules", says John Torrode, before explaining them anyway. Well, there's an hour of airtime to fill.

Then it's time for a quick introduction to the amateur cooks. Shelina tells us that she's given up her job to focus on Masterchef, so I guess we'll have to wait and see whether she's counting her chickens before they've been spatchcocked. Speaking of poultry, Tom scored early points with a 'three-way chicken'. If that's his thing there are a few bars I could refer him to. Christine has a "slight obsession" with food, but undermines her point by mistaking a Dover sole for plaice.

Aki is a quantum physicist who wowed the lads with her bento box. That's not a euphemism, by the way. Oblivious to how her offer comes across, Aki invites Gregg and John to visit her bedroom, in order to see how messy she can be. Better to save those shenanigans for the after-party. And finally, we have Ross, who's drawn to the "showy-offy" side of cooking. He says 'ta-da' with a straight face, and 'rocks on' to ACDC when he makes food. I think I'd have trouble keeping anything down if he was cooking for me. By the end of this introductory round the music has swelled to such dramatic levels that I keep expecting Tom Cruise to lower himself into the studio on a fishing line.

As the hopeful contestants present their dishes, the lads ask Eamonn where he was hiding last year. Sadly, he's too choked up to reply, but it's hard to tell whether he's getting emotional or trying to swallow one of his own clams. The show takes a turn towards the creepy as John and Gregg start salivating at the prospect of Tom, the young plasterer. It gets even worse when Gregg gives us a burst of Hannibal Lecter's lip-smacking when critiquing a lemon tartlet. Christine presents her plate of notplaice to the guys, but as well as misidentifying it, she's also overseasoned and overcooked it. As the boys cogitate, she looks as though she's trying to eat her own face from the inside. Maybe she should have served that instead.

As is customary for the first episode of any talent contest, we get a reprise of the old "if this is the standard, we're in for a great series" cliche. But don't worry if you missed it first time around, they'll say it again in a couple of minutes' time. They also describe Tom's cooking as "heart-stopping stuff"which could either be a complement, or a suggestion that he lay off the Lurpak. Shelina tells us that she hopes to stay keen to her roots, which is great in theory, but could become repetitive and samey over the coming weeks. Let's call it the Janet Devlin factor.

With two contestants already ditched, John tells the remaining hopefuls: "You thought that was tough, now it's going to get a lot tougher." Sadly, he neglects to follow this up with "We're going to release you in Windsor safari park with a spork and a pack of firelighters in order to catch, kill and cook dinner." Instead, they're off to two of London's most respected restaurants to put their skills to the ultimate test. Although The Living Room seems like a nice enough place to work, Gilgamesh head chef Ian Pengelley manages to come across like a titanic cock, full of 'my way or the highway' sub-Ramsay bullshit. He comments that Eamonn seems a little nervous, which is understandable given the unnecessary way he's yelling at everyone. In contrast, the boss at The Living Room tries to be more agreeable, encouraging and helpful, rather than threatening to sever a finger every time someone falls short with the drizzle bottle.

As the challenge draws to a close, the action movie music starts up again. There's a big bloke at the bar asking one of the waitresses if she's Sarah Connor. Meanwhile, Ross is complaining that he's ripped his hands to shreds. Then again, he's a recruitment consultant, so a hard day's work might well be a shock to the system.
Before we've had chance to digest the drama, it's back into the studio to cook again, as our judges crank up the over-expressive homoeroticism to a laughable degree. After a tough time in the Gilgamesh kitchen, Eammon tells us that he wants to get his emotion out on the plate. Just tell them it's crème anglaise and it can be our little secret. Aki has prepared a selection of Japanese dishes that Gregg says he could sleep in. So there you go, he'd rather wrap himself in udon noodles than set foot inside your bedroom.

To be fair to the contestants, their final dishes all look incredible, but there's an alarming amount of froth and foam on display. Eating one of these meals would be like plucking leftovers from Cujo's muzzle. Time for the results, and Aki, Shelina, Tom, Eamonn and Emma are all through. So much for four finalists being selected - that exasperated sigh is coming from the luckless chippie who's just been told he needs to knock up another cooking station by the end of the week.

The greatest sandwich on earth

2012-01-15T18:12:00.001Z

Pretty much everywhere in the world has a signature dish - some item of culinary alchemy that everyone who visits the area feels compelled to sample. Cornwall has its pasties, Bakewell has its tarts. And Sheffield has arguably the greatest sandwich on Earth - perhaps a little ironic given the city's cutlery-based heritage.

If you've ever lived in, or even briefly visited Sheffield, you may well have heard of Mr Béres. Kentucky had an honorary Colonel to thank for putting it on the foodie map, we have a Hungarian refugee who moved to the UK in 1956. Five years after setting up home in steel-town, Sandor Béres and his wife Eileen opened their first butcher's shop, specialising in pork and beef. Quickly recognising the city's seemingly insatiable appetite for hot meat sandwiches, Béres focused on that part of the business, and before too long had a thriving chain of shops across the city.

When I was a boy, I used to spend several days a week with my grandparents, while my dad was studying and my mum was attempting to support the family on a supply teacher's wage. The days were filled with walks along the river, watching one of the three TV channels that were available at the time, or staring in bewilderment as my grandpa pushed a heavy concrete roller over his small but impeccable lawn. And then once a week, he'd drive us into Hillsborough to visit one of Mr Béres' pork sandwich shops.

To the untrained eye, the shops were nothing special - the kind of place that would make Roy's Rolls look like The Ivy. The only clue to the wonders within was the constant queue of people lining up to get inside. Years later, when my dad and I would make our fortnightly pilgrimage to see Sheffield Wednesday play, we'd diligently join the line to grab a sandwich to take into the match. All to be washed down with a flask of hot Oxo. Given the high meat content of this Saturday afternoon ritual, I was certain that if I'd had a nosebleed, it would have been Bovril dripping down my shirt-front.

Thirty years later and nothing much has changed. The sandwiches still come in three sizes, and for me, graduating from one size to the next was like a rite of passage. As a child, I started out with half a standard (split with my sister), until I was considered mature enough to handle a whole one to myself. As my appetite grew, I moved onto the King Size - which used the same sized bun but was more generously stuffed with fillings. By the time I was in my teens, I was ready for the Jumbo, an almost grotesque sandwich that had to be held with both hands, even when it was cut in half.

The sandwich itself is deceptively simple. First, there's the fresh white bap from Béres own bakery, which gets dunked into a tray of 'dip' (really just the juices from the straight-out-of-the-oven pork joints). Since the dip swiftly soaks into the bread, it can make eating the sandwich something of a race against time, as you attempt to finish it before the bread completely dissolves into a porky primordial gloop.

If you ask for the 'works' you'll get a huge pile of freshly cut pork that's pink, rather than white. This gives it a softer texture than the sometimes dry, mealy meat that you get when you cook a pork joint at home. Béres' joints are traditionally cured and cooked in gas-fired ovens, which makes the meat fantastically succulent. It also means that the crackling that crowns the sandwich is crunchy and crisp, but won't leave you requiring emergency bridgework. In contrast, you'll also discover a thick smear of soft sage and onion stuffing, plus a huge dollop of homemade apple sauce. It's this rich combination of flavours and textures that make this more than just another meat sandwich. Each one comes wrapped in a simple paper bag, usually festooned with sticky pork-fat fingerprints, as much a symbol of the sandwich-maker's art as the unique impressions that Nick Park's hands leave on Wallace and Gromit.

Even now, the very sight of Mr Béres' shopfront is enough to trigger a Pavlovian response. And no trip to visit my family is complete without a round-trip into town to score a bagful. My only regret is that my Jewish and vegetarian friends will never know the wonder of Mr Béres. Even if trying to convince them would be as futile as telling a lesbian that she just hasn't met the right bloke yet. You can keep your fancy gourmet sandwiches, made with artisan granary bread, sprigs of rocket and a drizzle of unicorn spunk. I'll have a Jumbo pork sandwich with the works. And I'll see you in the cardiology ward.

Friday 13th and Jason Lives. Again

2012-01-13T09:24:00.000Z

Maybe Crazy Ralph was right all along. With liquor on his breath, the eccentric bumpkin tried to warn those kids about the fate that was about to befall them: “You're doomed! You're all doomed!” OK, so he was actually referring to the gruesome curse of ‘Camp Blood’, but in light of what happened to the careers of most of the young stars of Friday 13th, his prophetic words take on a newfound prescience.

In a way, they were doomed from the start. Plucked from obscurity, to star in a high profile film series bankrolled by a major studio, it makes sense that these young performers would think that this was to be their big break. Unfortunately, for most of them, appearing in the long running hack-and-slash franchise meant instant death for their ambitions of a life in the performing arts.

In the same way that each successive sequel continually repeated the same tired format, young actors kept ignoring the fates that befell their predecessors. Incredulously bright-eyed and bushy-tailed, they turned up to scream their lungs out, only to end up in a pile of blood-slathered bodies, their dreams punctured by a piece of rusty farm equipment.

At the height of the slasher boom, Friday 13th ruled the horror box office. Each year a new instalment would pop up, offering fans a familiar dose of hokey dialogue, cheap shocks and dismemberment. They didn’t seem to care that the films had all the richness and layered complexity of youth hostel toilet paper – for them, the formula was king.

In spite of its ability to turn a healthy profit, Paramount always seemed a little ashamed of its malformed child. They might never have turned their back and let it drown (like those careless camp counsellors), but they certainly never bestowed much love or attention on it. As a consequence, fans of the genre’s most prolific killer have repeatedly been short-changed when it comes to behind-the-scenes material. The likely rationale is that, since so little creativity was expended in making the films, there were precious few stories to tell about the process.

Or so we thought, until author Peter Bracke decided to write the definitive history of the much-maligned franchise. Undaunted by the fact that some of the series’ alumni made Bin Laden seem comparatively easy to track down, Bracke spent three years locating and interviewing over 200 people involved in the films. He then began the process of fastidiously weaving together the complete story, from Sean Cunningham’s original right through to the franchise mash-up Freddy Vs Jason, using the transcripts from these interviews.

The result is ‘Crystal Lake Memories’, an astonishingly exhaustive history of a seemingly underserving subject. After all, it’s easy to understand how a film series like Star Wars or Godfather might warrants a no-stone-unturned approach. But Friday 13th?

To be clear, Bracke is under no illusions about the quality of the films themselves. But he understands their significance in the broader context of film history, as well as the hunger of the fans for an unexpurgated insight into how they were made. This combination of nostalgic affection and clear-mined objectivity ensures that the book remains honest and focused throughout its 320 pages.

By allowing the actors, film-makers and technicians to tell the story in their own words, Bracke neatly sidesteps the pitfalls of pretention that often come with writing a retrospective history. This is no revisionist attempt to position these films as art, merely a warts-and-all insight into the 1980s horror scene.

Along the way, a number of interesting stories and anecdotes come to life. We get to hear about the less-than inspired origins of the first film – Cunningham came up with the title, and ran a full-page ad in Variety to secure funding, without a script or much of an idea of what the finished film would be about. We also discover that the set of Part V was liberally dusted with white powder, as an incentive to keep performers on their toes during the long night shoots. Plus, it’s fascinating to learn that, despite the series’ reputation for depicting attractive young couples in the throes of passion, the young male stars of Part VII were all acting their socks off in order to convince audiences that they were heterosexual. Running concurrently throughout the narrative is the story of the MPAA and its desire to eviscerate the series itself. Wielding a blade even sharper than Jason could lay his hands on, the censors stripped back the gruesome effects to such a degree that some of the later instalments were about as bloody as an episode of Murder, She Wrote. And just as preposterous.

When Crystal Lake Memories was originally released six years ago, it became an instant bestseller and received glowing reviews. The only drawback, in fact, was its ungainly size – this is not a book you can read in the bath. Well, that and the costs associated with buying a coffee table book larger than the item of furniture it was intended for. With this in mind, Bracke has returned to the scene of the crime and forensically reconstructed the original volume with a host of new content. In the new eBook edition, available for iBook and Kindle on 13th February, readers will find storyboards, concept art and promotional materials, as well as a bunch of new interviews with stars of the franchise who opted not to participate last time around.

Sadly, there’s still no sign of Crispin Glover or Kevin Bacon, the two actors who managed to build respectable careers off the back of their appearances in the series. Like many of the performers who appeared in the Friday films, they’d probably rather forget the fact that they were ever involved, in the same way that I overlook the 12 months I spent working in McDonalds as a student. Thankfully, the passage of time has loosened up the majority of performers, who can now reflect on their experiences with a degree of good humour and pragmatism. Having said that, it still makes for amusing reading to hear some of these thespians talking about their method approach and commitment to the role. Especially since the majority of their performances involved little more than a couple of lines of dialogue, before being skewered like a chunk of mutton in a Turkish grill.

Suffice it to say, an eBook about Friday 13th will probably have limited appeal outside of the die-hard fan community. But anyone with an interest in the horror genre, low budget film-making, or the harsh realities of Hollywood’s exploitative underbelly, will find plenty to keep them occupied in this meticulously compiled history. As Martin the gravedigger famously deadpanned in Part VI: "Some folks sure got a strange idea of entertainment."

The Silver Screen loses its lustre

2012-01-09T17:01:00.005Z

In his 1982 anthology Skeleton Crew, Stephen King published a grisly short story called ‘Survivor Type’. This epistolary tale takes the form of a series of diary entries made by a heroin smuggler who find himself stranded on a tiny island in the Pacific. With nothing but a dull blade and a sack-full of smack to his name, Richard Pine goes to extreme lengths to prolong his survival.

Having broken his ankle trying to signal for help, Richard is left with no choice but to amputate his foot, so he uses the drugs as an anaesthetic and swiftly removes it before infection sets in. But his problems aren’t over, since there’s no viable food source on the island. So he eats the severed appendage. As the story progresses, Richard keeps dipping into his stash to dull the pain, and removing other limbs which he then consumes. Bear Grylls, I hope you’re taking notes. By the end of the story, he’s removed and eaten everything below the waist, as well as both of his ears.

I mention this, not only because this short story features more invention than most of Hollywood’s recent output, but because it’s a pretty effective metaphor of what the film industry has been doing to itself for the last few years.

Although some might argue that the dream factory is in rude health, thanks to a handful of imaginative independent titles, the reality is much more depressing. Constantly unleashing an endless tide of remakes, sequels, comic book adaptations, the dearth of creative thinking in Tinseltown has never been more apparent. I can only imagine how much Guy Ritchie must be kicking himself that, for all his efforts, his latest Sherlock Holmes adventure is once again doing battle with an Alvin and the Chipmunks sequel for box office supremacy.

In 2011, eight out of the top ten highest grossing films worldwide were sequels. Of the two remaining films, one was the big screen debut of The Smurfs. If that isn’t an effective summary of what’s wrong with Hollywood, I’ll eat a clapperboard.

The depressing truth is that, these days, an original idea is considered to be a risky proposition. When Christopher Nolan spanked almost $200m on Inception, the entire industry watched for the inevitable fallout. Plot driven, eclectically cast, and not based on an existing property or franchise, Nolan’s mind-bending thriller had the odds stacked against it from day one. Of course, he did have two aces up his sleeve – a major star in Leonardo DiCaprio, and some of the most spectacular effects audiences had seen in a long time. But let’s not forget that Inception is the exception, rather than the rule.

And don’t even get me started on 3D. James Cameron may have resurrected the long-defunct format with his breath-taking vision of a world populated by nine-foot blue giants, but the film studios just saw another opportunity to milk consumers for even more cash. Cameron spoke about immersion, using the technique to add texture and depth to his story. Every other film-maker (even the usually dependable Pixar) saw it as an opportunity to poke shit in people’s faces. Let’s all be grateful that Tom Six didn’t apply the technology to Human Centipede 2, otherwise that could have become a literal proposition.

With film quality at its lowest ebb in history, the commerciality of film has never been more important. And cinema chains are lining up to fill their own pockets too. On a recent trip to my local Vue multiplex, I found that the ticket sales office has been rendered obsolete – now you have to queue at the concession stand to even buy your entry into the film. And then you’re faced with a bewildering array of options that determine the actual ticket price. Having avoided any 3D screenings (and their £3 mark-up, plus glasses) I was asked whether I wanted regular or deluxe seating – to my knowledge, the biggest difference between the two seems to be the size of the cup-holder. Then I was told that the screening I wanted to attend was in the Vue Extreme screen. I asked the cashier to explain the distinction, and she told me that the screen was a bit bigger. Since there was no other option (other than leaving and coming back for an alternative showing), I still ended up having to pay a surcharge, for a regular seat to see a regular 2D movie. And it was still shit.

Blockbuster apologists might argue that one positive change in recent film-making has been the end of the old megastar era. Indeed, there are few film stars working today who can still guarantee a big opening. Which should, in theory, mean that we get more interesting casting choices. Unfortunately, studios have made up for this shortcoming by bringing back the ‘all-star cast’. This used to be a sure-fire way of guaranteeing bums on seats, as canny producers like Irwin Allen filled their disaster movies with A-list names, based on the assumption that audiences would happily sit through any old tut if it meant they got to see Ava Gardner crushed under a piece of falling masonry. Sadly, the all-star film is alive and well, only now they tend to come in the form of multi-strand romances, like Valentine’s Day, New Year’s Eve and the truly appalling He’s Just Not That Into You. Of course, we also still have plenty of disaster epics to wade through, but the stakes have been raised to such a preposterous degree that even a film like ‘Knowing’, which destroyed the entire planet in an apocalyptic fireball, managed to raise little more than an eyebrow.

The problem is that directors now have an extraordinary box of digital tricks at their disposal. But (to paraphrase Jurassic Park) they spend so long working out what they could do, they neglect to consider whether they should. This horrendous state of affairs reached its apotheosis last summer with Michael Bay’s mind-bogglingly incomprehensible Transformers threequel. I can’t deny that the effects were impressive, but the film held all the appeal of watching three blenders gang rape a George Forman grill. Occasionally, a film remembers to get the balance right, using digital effects to support the telling of a story, rather then other way around. Rupert Wyatt’s Rise of the Planet of the Apes is a great example, but once again loses originality points for being both a prequel and franchise reboot.

Ah, the reboot. Hollywood’s way of throwing out the bathwater, and hanging onto the baby just in case. Alongside Joss Whedon’s all-star superhero mash-up The Avengers, and Nolan’s Batman sequel The Dark Knight Rises, this year will also offer up two new superhero reboots, featuring Superman and Spider-Man. The latter promises to retell an origin story that was last filmed just 11 years ago. Elsewhere, the horror remake train also continues its drawn-out derailment, taking out such well-loved classics as Evil Dead, Poltergeist, Carrie, Child’s Play and The Birds in the process.

But don’t despair, there is a glimmer of hope. A couple of days before Christmas, it was announced that one impending remake had been indefinitely shelved. Citing irreconcilable issues with the script quality, Warner Bros grudgingly confirmed that they’d put a stake in the much-feared re-do of Buffy The Vampire Slayer. For once the fans were delighted, having argued all along that Buffy without creator Joss Whedon, would be like Julia Roberts without a shit-eating grin.

Finally, here was proof that someone in Hollywood understood what audiences have been trying to tell them for years. When it comes to complex narrative arcs, compelling characterisation and engaging story-telling, the movie business simply can’t compete with the quality of modern TV shows. In the land of TV, the writer is king. They create the concepts, select the cast, and in many cases, craft all the scripts. If Hollywood wants to experience a new golden age, maybe it needs to start looking for the new Joseph Mankiewicz, rather than the next Brett Ratner.

Frosty reception

2012-01-08T22:21:00.002Z

Forget about eating kangaroo bollocks or crawling through a cave full of reptiles, if you want to see celebrities in mortal jeopardy, Dancing On Ice is where it's at. In the Big Brother house, the biggest danger any of the celebrities face is picking up a waterborne disease from sharing a hot-tub with Frankie Cocozza, but our skating stars are constantly at risk of being cut to ribbons. Which, of course, makes for a curiously watchable show.

The concept of celebrities on ice has me conjuring up images of Walt Disney's head in a bell jar. But there are no cryogenic shenanigans here, just a bunch of low rent names who think that a near-death experience is the best way to rejuvenate their careers.

As usual the show opens with a routine from its royal couple-in-residence, Jayne Torville and Christopher Dean. In the seven years that they've been doing Dancing On Ice, Jayne has really slimmed down, but she still has a decidedly hefty air. So spare a thought for Chris, who's still able to smile despite having flung her around for the last three decades. He must have arms like a Pickfords driver.

In light of Holly Willoughby's departure, Philip Schofield has been paired with Christine Bleakely, who's a dead ringer for Dannii Minogue after a nasty bout of gastroenteritis. Our hosts call out all fifteen stars, giving us a chance to instantly work out who's going to blow us away, and who's got the emergency services on speed dial. As with most of these celebrity shows, there's an odd mix of 'where are they now' actors, TV presenters and someone from Hollyoaks. They've also drafted Chico to replace Chesney Hawkes, who came a cropper last week and had to drop out. Unfortunately, this means that Pip Schofield won't be able to use any of those 'The one and only' jokes he's been feverishly jotting down since the original line-up was announced.

According to Torville and Dean, they also 'broke' Keith Chegwin, but I thought Maggie Philbin had already taken care of that. To be honest, I'm quite relieved Cheggers won't be taking part, since there's always the danger he'd get confused and think he was back on The Naked Jungle.

It's all change this year, with a new 'Ice Panel' of judges to critique the performances. Karen Barber's passive aggressive temper tantrums last year obviously had the desired effect, since Jason Gardiner's been dumped and replaced with Louie Spence. As he lisps "I am daaaaaaance" into the camera, Panadol experiences a sudden spike in sales that's likely to last for the next 12 weeks. Christine introduces Robin Cousins and the rest of the judges, and Louie gushes "You're looking absolutely sensational." Credit where it's due - she managed to smile through a faceful of spit.

Tonight's first skater is Heidi Range, who you may recognise from the current line-up of Sugababes. After overcoming her fear of lifts, it looks as though they might have overdone the training, because her partner Sylvain has ruptured a bicep. I bet Laila Morse's partner is shitting himself. Heidi and her replacement pro perform to Katy Perry's ET, and the best thing that can be said about it is that at least we were spared a house-band cover version, which is what we'd be getting if this was on the Beeb. I know she said she's comfortable with the lifts now, but her hair-do looks like it could be concealing a crash-helmet.

Following Heidi's unspectacular opening, we've got one half of 'TV's Sam and Mark'. You know who they are - the poor man's Ant & Dec. So you can imagine what an embarrassment of riches that promises. Mark's pretty hopeless on the ice, managing to make me long for the grace and musicality of Todd Carty. When I was a teenager I once spent a very long evening at a Young Farmer's Disco in Huddersfield. The dancing there was about on a par with Mark's performance. His partner Frankie tells Philip that Mark started out "as an absolute zero" and, let's be honest, he's not come that far. After a harsh critique from Louie, Mark offers to snog him for more votes. That's what we want from our Sunday tea-time viewing, gay-for-pay prostitution.

Charlene Tilton tells us that "viewers in the UK would probably know me best as Lucy Ewing from Dallas." Presumably, she's earned some alternative notoriety in the States, but let's not dwell on that. She's actually a pretty good skater, starting off with a solo display that would have most of the other contestants shitting sequins. But it's not all good - watching her creakily raise her leg in the air for a spiral, I was reminded of trying to lift up a soup tin lid that hasn't been opened properly. Robin Cousins makes a weak pun using Charlene's song title, and a brief flash of panic appears on Philip's face. I do hope he wasn't planning on using the same gag when he reads out the phone vote number later.

After the break, Christine tells us "It's been a great night so far", and Phil enthusiastically agrees. The audience remain curiously silent though. Next up is Jorgie Porter from Hollyoaks, who's described by her partner Matt Evers as "an absolute sponge". Which'll come in handy when the bleeding starts. Once the performance begins she looks gorgeous, and she's very confident on the ice. She's been telling the tabloids that she can crack nuts with her arse, thanks to the training for this show. We'll I've got a bag of Brazils here, that she's welcome to.

Since we only get to see half the celebrities skating tonight, it's time to check in with the other eight to see how they've been getting on. Sam (of 'and Mark' sort-of fame) tells us that he wants to win, "just to stick it in Mark's face." Isn't that just another Saturday morning for him? We also get a glimpse of Laila Morse and Rosemary Conley, proving that advanced osteoporosis is no obstacle to taking up new hobbies. I'm not entirely sure why Laila's on here, except that I once compared this show to Nil By Mouth. Maybe someone on the production crew read that and got the wrong idea. Christine's so happy schmoozing with the contestants, she says that doesn't want to move. But her dress is so tight I figure she'd need a forklift to get anywhere.

There's always a sporting star taking part in Dancing on Ice, but this year they've actually found someone who's used to winter sports - skier Chemmy Alcott. She smashed her leg to bits last year, so although she's comfortable with the cold, she's not fully recovered from her injuries. Unlike the other male skaters, who all look like interchangeable Ken dolls, Chemmy's partner is more like Al Murray, complete with a beer gut. Tony Gubba's been retained to provide commentary for the show, so by the end of the series we'll all be talking about how easily spirals transition into a fish lift. Oh, just me then.

Our next contestant is Andy Akinwolere, a Blue Peter presenter who has obviously undergone extensive courses in how to be annoyingly over-eager. He's been paired with Maria Filippov, who's a tiny little pocket rocket, and tonight they're dancing to Moves Like Jagger. If nothing else, I think we can all be grateful that they didn't take the song's title literally - no-one needs to see funky chicken on ice.

Tonight's final skater is Andy Whyment from Coronation Street, who looks like a Chad graffiti come to life. Male soap stars don't tend to fare very well on this show, so expectations are duly lowered. Tony Gubba thinks that Andy's a 'natural comedian', suggesting that one of us needs to update our dictionary. Christopher Dean describes Andy as having experienced "the greatest journey so far" which is a bit of an overstatement. He stomped around the ice dressed like a magician at a kid's party, hardly on a par with Hannibal's march across the Pyrenees.

Next week, more talk of sequins, lines and toe-picks. And if we're lucky, a flesh wound or two.

There may be trouble ahead...

2012-01-05T21:15:00.000Z

Ever since Charlie Brooker unleashed the undead hordes on the Big Brother compound in Dead Set, it's been hard to take the concept seriously. Especially since Charlie's zom-com finally managed to visualise most people's desire that the set be locked down and all the cameras switched off, leaving the housemates to get on with it.

And yet here we go again, as another minibus full of minor celebrities pulls onto the lot at Borehamwood and vomits its contents into the house. This year, keen to maximise the value of their white elephant investment, Channel 5 has apparently pulled out all the stops in an attempt to attract the highest calibre of famous names. Even the TV ads, which feel like they've been running since my Christmas tree went up, make a point of certifying the housemates as 'proper celebrities'. Although given that Amy Childs and Kerry Katona are portrayed as arbiters of what constitutes a proper celebrity, I'll take that promise with a pinch of salt.

With so many celebreality formats clogging up the networks, sourcing the necessary 'talent' must be a thankless task. I imagine that there's a whole subspecies of barely recognisable names held in some sort of holding pen, like beagles in an animal testing lab. Every time a new show is lined up, the runners are sent into the cages to round up a dozen test subjects, throwing them back once they've been voted off.

It's nice that they opened up with a pause before announcing Brian Dowling as the host, as though that was supposed to be some sort of surprise. Brian's still trying to portray the inmates as jetsetting A-listers, in spite of the fact that most of their "designer bags" will have been picked up on Romford market for twenty quid.

Gettng things off to an epic start is Natalie Cassidy, best known as Sonia from EastEnders. But I'll always remember her as someone who naively opted for a boob job, when there were clearly more pressing matters for her surgeon to focus on. According to Marcus Bentley, Natalie also has a successful theatrical career, having tackled Chekhov and the Vagina Monologues. She's going to experience a whole different kind of talking cunt on this show. She's barely had time to look around the faux-Alpine chalet before Big Brother invites her into the diary room for a secret mission. She'll be taking regular instructions from the big guy in her earpiece, issuing her with regular tasks. And each time she fails, one of the housemates will lose their luggage.

If you're a Hollywood producer and you need an erratic lunatic, but don't fancy haggling with the insurance company over Gary Busey or Tom Sizemore, you could always ask Michael Madsen to get involved. Most people know him as Mr Blonde from Reservoir Dogs, which explains why he's decided to bleach his hair for the occasion. He makes a duff joke about blondes being stupid, which Brian fails to comprehend. Maybe that old cliche needs updating to reference Irish ex-trolley dollies instead. There was a time when Michael was considered a bit of Hollywood rough, now he's just plain rough. Picture Johnny Vegas doing a piss-poor impression of Clint Eastwood. Under Big Brother's instruction, Natalie tells him she loved him in Free Willy. Please God don't let him take that as a come-on. There's a really awkward bit where Madsen asks her "how'd you get this gig?" Fuck Big Brother's secret mission, Natalie knows that the real challenge here is to avoid revealing how the 'stars' get roped into this car crash.

Star number three has sung with Tina Turner and danced with Britney Spears. But since we're talking about Andrew Stone from Pineapple Studios, this could just be his way of telling us that he got Just Dance for the Wii at Christmas. He's died his hair, put on a load of makeup, and turned up looking like all three members of Human League fell into Seth Brundle's matter transporter. He says "cream rises to the top". So do turds. My favourite moment is as he reaches the top of the stairs and screams "I love you" to the crowd, as three hundred people collectively check their watches.

It's always good to have some pneumatic blonde starlets in the house, and here we get two for one. It's like the January sales here on Big Brother. Kristina and Karissa Shannon were both Hugh Hefner's girlfriends, which means they got to live in the Playboy Mansion and take it in turns to change his bag. They tell us that when they got to the mansion it was "like a breath of fresh air." But I don't suppose Heff opens the windows very open. Kristina and Karissa are identical twins (an observation made by our helpful host), and it's true - they're impossible to tell apart, right down to their horrendous nose jobs. Genetics are a wonderful thing.

Frankie Cocozza is the next housemate, who manages to just recycle the same "shag birds" bullshit he trotted out for his VTs every week on X-Factor. Grinning from ear to ear, he tells us "I've been a bit naughty, drug wise", which I guess means he started cutting it with detergent before handing it around. He's still wearing those filthy drainpipe jeans and rocking a hairdo that, in a certain light, gives him a look of Rita Fairclough. Not sure that's what he was going for. Meanwhile, in the house, Natalie is scoring an early victory by breezing through her task. And for all their talk of bringing a breath of fresh air into a house, Kristina and Karissa are pulling a face that suggests that their immediate vicinity smells more like burnt nylon.

At last, someone who's famous for actually being good at something - it's gay rugby player Gareth Thomas. His introduction is very matter-of-fact, and he doesn't exactly seem like a barrel of laughs. Equally dull is Nicola McLean, a glamour model and the sixth runner-up on series eight of I'm A Celebrity... I know, heady heights. We already have two topless blondes in the house, so a third is hardly going to win this series any diversity awards. Apparently she once had a spat with Natalie Cassidy, so that's going to be fun. Big Brother wastes no time stirring the pot, encouraging Natalie to repeatedly tell Nicola "I'm totally cool with you being in the house." She's won a few soap awards, so we shouldn't be surprised that she can sell a lie. But if you ever find yourself playing poker with her, listen out for when she calls you "babes". That's her tell, right there.

Kirk Norcross is our next housemate, and describes himself as "a bit of a donut", so don't be surprised if Krispy Kreme sue for defamation of character. His goals are to party and have a laugh, and his expression is similar to that of a Red Setter trying to solve the Times cryptic crossword. His ex-girlfriend, and former contestant, Amy Childs gave him the sound advice that he should "live each day like you don't know what's going to happen." As opposed to real life, where everything comes with call sheets and production notes.

In a dramatic change from the previous housemates, we're now introduced to Georgia Salpa, a glamour and lingerie model. Well, she is brunette after all. She's got a cracking rack and would look like Kim Kardashian if the latter hadn't been constructed in a laboratory. As she descends the staircase into the house, Kirk and Frankie have an unspoken moment, like one of them just called shotgun telepathically.

Natasha Giggs says "You may know me best for having an affair with my brother-in-law Ryan Giggs." What the fuck else would we know her for? Her album of acoustic guitar solos? Selling Tupperware door-to-door? It's not as though she comes to us with a string of accomplishments to her name. She's going to miss her kids while she's in the house, but it might be good practice for the inevitable custody settlement after that acrimonious divorce.

Marvin Dawkins is our next former celebrity to be thrust back into the limelight. Don't worry if the name means nothing to you, it's Romeo from So Solid Crew. He tells us he had "a few solo top ten hits." He actually only had two, but I'll forgive him for fudging the specifics. I mean, it's not like music stars have ever given a shit about chart placings. Natalie's still gamely playing along with Big Brother's excruciating task, almost drawing the line when he instructs her to tell the Playboy twins that she also modeled for the UK edition of the magazine. They might be as thick as a pillow sandwich, but even they struggle with their 'convinced' face.

And now it's time for our final housemate - Denise Welch. She tells us in all seriousness that "after Coronation Street, there's no higher pinnacle for an actor". Which must come as a crushing blow to the likes of Ben Kingsley and Ian McKellen who've presumably squandered the rest of their careers. Denise has a well documented history with drugs, so expect Frankie to stick to her like a damp Rizla.

Envelope Please...

2011-12-29T18:53:00.002Z

January is just around the corner, which means we'll soon be thrust headlong into 'awards season'. Two long months of self-congratulatory back-slapping, as the great and the good of the creative arts gather together in order to pay homage to themselves. But as all those talented and immaculately presented performers start pressing the creases out of their best party frocks, spare a thought for the also-rans. There's a whole world of entertainers out there, who show up week after week, learn their lines and give their all for the camera - but aren't likely to be trampling the shag on any red carpets over the next eight weeks. I'm talking about all the reality TV stars who keep us glued to our sets in a heavily medicated stupor. Isn't it time they received awards for excellence in their line of work too? With that in mind, here's my shortlist of winners for the first Reality TV Awards...

The Emergency Numbers Are On The Fridge Award goes to Simon Cowell, who left his precious firstborn to its own devices, while he focused on launching the X-Factor USA. At first, the novelty of three new judges, alongside safe-pair-of-jazz-hands Louis Walsh, seemed like a good idea. Unfortunately, this was televisual equivalent of giving the housekeys to a gang of joyriders and hoping your child will still be breathing when you get home from dinner.

The Future's Shite, The Future's Orange Award goes to the cast of TOWIE, who have managed to inspire a whole generation to paint themselves the colour of Etruscan ceramics. An honorable mention also goes to TOWIE star Chloe Sims, who refused to stop at spraying herself with Sadolin One-Coat, and has undergone a series of unnecessary cosmetic procedures that have made her a dead ringer for Daffy Duck when he inexplicably shows off a full set of teeth.

The Out of the Frying Pan Into The Deep Fat Fryer Award goes to the cast of Desperate Scousewives. With a name that boasts more wit than anything else in the entire series, the show managed to achieve the impossible by making viewers long for the authenticity and like-ability of the Essex crew. Despite its desire to show Liverpool's finest living the glamorous life, Scousewives ended up making most of the bedsits in Albert Square look like the model of aspirational living.

The Marquee Mark Award goes to surprise ratings winner The Great British Bake-Off, which attempted to distract us from the woeful state of the economy by telling us we'd all be happier if we knew how to make a mille-feuille from scratch. Millions tuned in every week to see Mel and Sue providing a running commentary to endless scenes of amateur bakers trying to perfect a shortcrust pastry. Along with Kirstie's Handmade Britain, The Great British Bake-Off was like porn for Daily Mail readers, full of explicit shots of sturdy women wiping their chipolata fingers down a striped apron. These shows provided a tantalising glimpse into a bunting-strewn fantasy world, as imaginary as Narnia or Middle Earth, where every day is the Summer Fete and everyone walks away with a rosette pinned to their blouse.

The Enough About You Let's Talk About Me Award goes to Nicole Scherzinger. She's an attractive woman and a talented vocalist, but as an X-Factor judge, she managed to make the certifiably insane Paula Abdul seem well-adjusted by comparison. When she wasn't busy hallucinating or telling sub-par performers that they were destined to change the world, she made everything in the show about her. The highpoint of her stint on the judging panel came when she wimped out of voting to save thirteen year old Rachel Crow. As the irritating moppet dropped to the floor in hysterics, Nicole rushed to the stage to show off her own photogenic tears, ensuring that Rachel barely got a look-in.

The Sorbet To Freshen The Palate Award goes to The Devil's Dinner Party, a lame attempt at fusing several successful TV formats into one giant Eton Mess. In each show, six strangers are invited to a dinner hosted by Pip Torrens, who conducts himself like the creepy emcee at an S&M club. Since no real mention is made of the food, we're stuck listening to the tedious conversations instead, as the contestants attempt to win votes as the most popular guest. The format had potential, but Pip's ridiculous voiceover made it seem as though we were witnessing a battle of Machiavellian wits. In fact, all anyone had to do to be in with a chance of winning, was smile agreeably and avoid calling anyone else at the table a cunt.

The Bullshitting Bride Award goes to Kim Kardashian and the rest of her ghastly klan, for their collective assault on the sanctity of marriage. Despite the fact that gays are being accused of tearing at the fabric of society for wanting to walk up the aisle in matching suits, Kim and her mother (the Lady Macbeth of Beverly Hills) saw the chance to make a quick buck off that most sacred of unions. Kim managed to squeeze a courtship, proposal, engagement and wedding into a single season of Keeping Up With The Kardashians. The resulting two-part special edition of the show wasn't just a ratings winner - it also netted the temporarily happy couple $18 million. Just ten weeks later, the newlyweds were officially separated, with Kim announcing "After careful consideration, I have decided to end my marriage. I hope everyone understands this was not an easy decision. I had hoped this marriage was forever, but sometimes things don't work out as planned." She has a point - look what happened when Ross married Emily. TV show marriages never work out if the suitor is just a guest star.

The Does Your Mother Know Award goes to Steven Tyler, who brought his own sleazy brand of rock-star swagger to American Idol this year. The craggy-chopped Aerosmith frontman was unwilling to let his uniquely weathered countenance get in the way of some age-inappropriate flirting with a barely legal contestant, commenting on 16 year-old Victoria Huggins' skirt "Ooh, yeah. Just the right amount showing. That's nice." Any ordinary pensioner would be added to the sex offender's register, Steven just added another couple of years to his contract as an Idol judge.

The Why Bother Keeping Up The Day Job Award goes to McFly, who according to reports are still a fully functioning boyband, but spent most of 2011 racking up the phone votes to win two separate TV contests. Just days after bandmate Dougie swigged a blended emu liver to be crowned King of the Jungle, Harry Judd swivelled his hips in an Argentine Tango and ended up raising the glitter ball of victory. Dont be surprised next year if the other two show up on Celebrity Coach Trip or visit Mel and Sue's marquee to show off their sausage plait.

In conclusion, our final award goes to this year's breakout reality TV star - Hilary Devey. With a voice that makes Christian Bale's Batman sound like Katherine Jenkins, and shoulder pads that could dislodge a door frame, the fearsome business woman made an indelible impression on every would-be investor who tiptoed nervously into the Dragon's Den. Finally, here was a fire breathing titan worthy of the title.

Winners and Losers

2011-12-22T21:42:00.000Z

Oh God. Just when I thought I was out, they pull me back in. Two weeks after saying goodbye to Little Mix and their Cannonball (although I think she prefers answering to ‘Jesy’) here I am again, staring down the barrel of another four-hour finale. Only Simon’s in this one, in body if not in mind.

As usual with the X-Factor, there’s always one breakout star that everyone’s talking about. Unfortunately, this series it’s Steve Jones, and no-one’s being especially complementary. In fact, looking back at my notes from this show, it’s really a tragi-comic single-hander. Like something Alan Bennett would write if he liked talent shows. The first show opens with Steve, floundering around in his bow-tie, PUTTING the emphasis on all THE wrong WORDS. Making this particularly uncomfortable is the fact that we all know he’s been dropped quicker than Christina Aguilera’s salad fork.

We’re provided a momentary relief from his awfulness, as he introduces the judges. Over the course of this series, they’ve each been working on their own distinctive hand gesture to give to the audience when their name is called. Now we’re at the final, it’s become like a carefully coordinated routine – LA Reid does kissy finger and a royal wave, Nicole does prayer hands and a dramatic bow, Paula offers her blow-kissy double hands, followed by ‘rock-on’ fingers, and Simon goes from military salute to exaggerated wink. Watched in rapid succession, it’s like American Sign Language for ‘Why aren’t you watching the Real Housewives of Atlanta instead?’

In an attempt to salvage what’s left of his once-promising career, Steve has obviously been on a presentation skills training course. Three days in a Trusthouse Forte outside of Guildford, practicing open palms and finger-thumb gesturing. When he’s not gripping his microphone tightly with both hands, he uses this training to ask for Paula’s famed insight. She comments how proud she is that the acts are so separate and distinct. I would love to see conjoined twins in next year’s final, just to watch her flounder.

It’s fair to say that the music performances in tonight’s show are going to be nowhere near as interesting as big Steve’s attempts to hold onto his job. So let’s make cursory mention of Josh’s gruff duet with Alanis Morrissette. Flat, tuneless and ineffective, it perks up a little when Alanis takes to the stage. She’s trying her best to look interested, but I’m sure she’s thinking “I used to chew on Ryan Reynolds, and now I’m singing in a fake wood with Fozzie Bear.”

Despite all the bluster and braggadocio before the show started, the debut season of X-Factor USA has been less than epic. It’s almost as though the disappointing ratings have forced a few budgetary cutbacks. Need an example? Well, those god-awful bits where we cut to a sports centre full of screaming supporters in the contestants’ home towns don’t even have a host. I mean, how much would it have cost to dump Kelly Osborne in Ohio for a couple of hours? Instead, they’ve just stuck a microphone in the hands of Josh’s grandmother. I’m sure she’s a game old bird, but the world of broadcasting didn’t exactly miss out on a bright shining talent.

Chris is on next, once again using his drug abuse as a bargaining chip. If we don’t vote for him to win, he’ll be firing up the crystal meth before the last glitter cannon has blown. He’s mangling an Avril Lavigne song, so it’s only a matter of time before she joins him onstage to show him how to fuck it up like a pro. Neither of them is in tune, and they’re rattling through more keys than a Victorian jailer. I’m also getting the vibe that this week’s theme is ‘Canadian guest stars’. Wouldn’t it be great if Melanie got lumbered with Rita MacNeil, the woman with a hair-lip who sings about Nova Scotian miners?

Before we get to that, the judges try their best to avoid mentioning how bad Chris’ vocals were, and Steve’s on hand to point out “You just did a duet with Avril Lavigne." Big help, fella. Meanwhile, Paula’s trying to make a point about relevance, but then goes on to say “That song Complicated is the antithesis of the foundation that you're built upon." Simon’s as confused as I am, so he offers up his own nugget of wisdom – “That could be a record.” And this from the man who gave Mr Blobby a recording career. Forget about Josh’s Grandma, now it’s time to hear from Chris’ next-door neighbour in Santa Cruz, California. Somewhere in Florida, Melanie Amaro’s dry-cleaner is getting very excited.

And here’s the young lady herself – Melanie gets to sing I Believe I Can Fly with R Kelly. Ordinarily you’d expect there to be some chemistry, but at 19 she’s probably a few years too old for him. She sounds shaky and nervous, rushing through the song in too low a key. Weirdly, R tells Steve "This girl is on her way to the mall," which must be a subtle way of saying that, if she doesn’t win, they’re hiring in the food court. The judges declare that I Believe I Can Fly is “One of the most important songs written in the last 50 years.” You know, that song from Space Jam. Fucking muppets. Meanwhile, in Florida, we get to hear from Melanie’s bishop and “her friend Edison”, who shrills “You just killed it girrrrrl.” Bishop Fernandez tells Melanie that he’ll be praying for her, but Edison shouldn’t be surprised if a few unwanted prayers come his way too.

Halfway through and it’s time for an intermission act from Cirque Du Soleil’s ironically titled show - ‘Michael Jackson Immortal’. It’s all rather pointless, but offers a brief moment of commentary when the dancing robots suddenly start flashing dollar signs.

For his second performance, Josh does an acoustic version of At Last. The song’s meant to be dreamy and languid, but Josh growls and bark his way through it, like he just got a parking ticket and found a cat shit in his favourite hipster loafers. Simon tells him "This is what we call the five million dollar song." Who calls it that Simon? This is a new show, so that’s not a thing yet.

Chris is still leveraging his drug addiction, even mentioning the fact that he’s eight months-clean in his second song. When they feel the pressure, most addicts speak to a sponsor, Chris performs a piss-poor, mid-90s sounding rap. Simon's on his feet, so I can only imagine there's a spring piercing the leather squab. He opens with his now trademarked "I'm going to say something to you..." and follows it with "That was your five million dollar song." Christ, he’s really trying to push that – he’d have better look making ‘fetch’ happen.

Closing the show is Melanie, who’s singing "The song that made such a difference on our lives, and her life." Maybe over-egging that one just a touch, Simon. Anyway, he’s chuffed that an enormous weight has gone off her shoulders, and I’m fighting the urge to make a cheap joke. Thankfully, Melanie nails ‘Listen’, smartly choosing a song with lyrics that reflect some of her experiences on the show. Nicole blubs "You made me feel I wasn’t alone. You empowered me." But Melanie looks like she just passed a kidney stone the size of an armchair. Time for one final visit to the screaming people of Sunrise, Florida, where an older gentleman is yelling for his life into a microphone. I can’t hear a word of what he’s saying, but someone’s going to need a throat lozenge tomorrow morning.

So now we move onto the grand finale – two more hours and we’re home free. Paula starts by saying "I can't think of a better way to open up this competition." Because she's obviously never watched the ‘paintball with live ammo’ scene in Child's Play 3.

Steve's coming to terms with impending unemployment, if his little happy dance is anything to go by. He’s been telling the press that if he wasn’t working with Nicole anymore, he’d be calling her constantly. I guess given the choice between listless interviews with petulant 14 year-olds or tapping the chief Pussycat Doll, Steve knows which side his bread is lubed.

Time for a quick reminder of all the stellar talent that missed out on the final, as they return to the stage for a performance of Edge of Glory. You know how when someone gives a bad performance and Simon calls it karaoke? Well, this is what happens when everyone in the karaoke bar gets up and sings at once. It's utterly abominable, and only improves marginally when our finalists join them. Melanie is struggling to walk in her heels, but we can forgive her given that she's the only one who bothered to remember the melody.

LA comments "Watching them all come back it brings back so many memories." Actually, they're called flashbacks. Nicole screams "Let's have some fun!" and means every none of it. And Paula, dear sweet deluded Paula, tells them "This stage is our gift to you, and what you do with it is your gift to us." I'll take a voucher thanks.

Since the votes have already been counted, the contestants don’t have to try anymore, so we wander through three fairly uninspired Christmas songs. Melanie does a good job of All I Want For Christmas, but Steve wanders on sighing “Fabulous stuff”, like he’s reading the heating instructions on a packet of soup mix. After a dull VT of family members crying, Steve pushes Melanieto tell him “What's going through your head right now?" She just shakes her head at him and looks devastated. See Steve, this is what your technique does to people.

Chris croons a horribly jazzy version of Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas, interspersed with those mid-90s "ohs" and "yeahs" that seem a little more excusable when he's doing the R&B stuff. Simon admires Chris for being an inspiration to people out there. He has a point - that last performance almost drove me to meth.

But remember, it’s not really about the contestants – it’s all about our imploding host. So the highlight of the night has to be when Steve asks Nicole what she's doing for Christmas, and then pushes her for an invitation. In proper nightclub style, she pretends not to hear him the first couple of times, until he makes it more explicit. She's not impressed, and contemplates tipping away the Pepsi she left unattended during the break.

Josh sings Bells Will Be Ringing, and it's just as good as anything a half-decent Joe Cocker tribute act could muster. LA Reid complements him for making him realise it's Christmas, because the18-foot tree wasn't enough of a clue. Nicole is very grateful to be his mentor, since he makes her want to be better. But that's OK, I think most of the audience at home want her be better too. Josh gets teary watching his supporters’ messages, and says that his life is finally beginning to make sense - if only we could say the same for his mentor.

With all the performances out of the way, it’s time for half an hour of filler. So we get Justin Bieber dressed as a Power Ranger shouting through a Christmas song. Halfway through, he's joined on stage by Stevie Wonder, who appears on his patented roll-out keyboard platform. It’s exactly like the thing in Jabba’s palace which hides the secret trapdoor, so I’m keeping everything crossed that Justin’s about to be fed to a Rancor. In a move that sums up everything that’s wrong with Simon Cowell's world view, Stevie gets dragged back into the darkness, as Bieber stays on stage for a medley of songs from his new Christmas album. He's Master Know-it-all.

In one nice touch, Justin invites Drew onstage, to fulfil her dream of meeting her idol. Stevie also gets ushered out to take a bow. And then Steve joins them and fucks it up with another excruciating four-way - there's literally no buzz he can't kill. He's the guy that turns up at a car-key party in a milk-float.

Time to drop one and move on. Without wanting to give the game away, this shouldn't be tough. Let's just say that I don’t suppose the producers broke a sweat working on Chris' winner's song. And there you go, I was right. He seemed to know it, even though Steve claims he can "Hardly believe it." Chris is gracious, saying God has blessed him. But we've known for a few weeks that Melanie has God in her camp. The Creator spent most of last night with his omnipotent digit poised over the speed dial for her number.

Steve introduces the five most shocking moments of the series, and weirdly it's not just his show-reel. Instead, we get a poignant reminder of what happens when you reduce the age limit to allow pre-teens to compete. Rachel joins Steve onstage in full-on pageant queen mode and tells him to his face that she's gunning for his job. Well, might as well get it out in the open. Funnily enough, she takes to the autocue like a pro and nails her segment. Steve skulks off into the darkness to contemplate his shortcomings, having been bested by a thirteen year-old.

Leona Lewis is here to provide the soundtrack for another four-minute highlights video, and remind people what professionalism looks like. Simon still looks as proud as punch, even though he's spent the last 12 months switching her to voicemail whenever she calls.

Paula's asked to summarise the evening - she says it's one of the best job experiences she's ever had. My sister once had a job experience where she had to nurse a chinchilla as it was put down. I think I’d choose the dead rodent over this.

As we lumber gracelessly towards the finish, we get another guest slot from Fifty Cent. The set designers have tried to create a penthouse environment for him, with a chaise longue, a baby grand and a roll-top bath. And they’re all dripping with whores. It doesn’t exactly fit with his introduction as a world-changing philanthropist, but hey-ho. Pitbull and NeYo also show up, to do one of those weird fusion tracks that seems to have replaced R&B. There's a euro-disco beat, then a guest rap appearance, and a main vocal that's been auto-tuned to hell. It's like whizzing through Now 87 on fast forward.

In another cost-cutting exercise, there’s no winner’s song. So Josh and Melanie nod and wink their way through a turgid duet, before Melanie is finally crowned the winner. Simon tries to summarise what a great series it’s been, but his eyes are as lifeless as Steve’s career. The contestants all rush onto the stage to congratulate Melanie, leaving our hopeless host to try and find her in the throng: "Can we push through, sorry. Melanie's the winner of the X-Factor, there she is." How much did he get paid for this, and where can I send my CV?

There's treasure everywhere

2011-12-19T22:24:00.003Z

This New Year's Eve, as most people are toasting 2012 and wondering how they're going to get home once the drinks have dried up, I'll be raising a glass in remembrance of a precocious six year-old who breathed his last, sixteen years ago to the day. For many readers like me, Calvin's sudden disappearance from the comics pages represented the end of an era. As he and his loyal friend Hobbes sailed down a snowy hillside one last time, we knew we'd never see him again. Which made their upbeat call-to-action "Let's go exploring" that much more bittersweet.

Comic strips are a largely under-appreciated medium, not least by the papers that pay to syndicate them. And yet there are a handful of genuine artists out there, willing to pour their heart and soul into those little monochromatic panels. More importantly, there are millions of readers for whom those little strips are a momentary highlight in an otherwise forgettable day.

I first discovered the genius of Bill Watterson when I was sixteen, by which point Calvin & Hobbes had already been running for six years. The early rough edges of Watterson's illustrative style had been ironed out (in particular, he'd perfected the dinosaurs which regularly stomped their way across Calvin's overactive imagination) and the supporting characters had found their own distinctive voices. Calvin's alter-egos Spaceman Spiff, Tracer Bullet and Stupendous Man had also made a number of appearances, meaning that I entered a world that was already fully formed.

On the surface, there was nothing particularly remarkable about another standard four-panel black and white strip. What drew me in was Watterson's unique drawing style and the expressiveness of the lead characters. But I soon discovered that there was also a depth to the writing that I'd never seen in any other cartoon. In one of the all-too-rare commentaries that Watterson added to a compilation of strips, he admitted that his first love was illustration, and he'd had to teach himself to write in order to give the characters something to do. But this typically self-deprecating perspective does a disservice to Watterson's incredibly perceptive voice.

Take the following exchange for instance, which takes place as Calvin attempts to justify his decision to draw a picture of a Tyrannosaurus Rex piloting an F16:

Calvin: "The hard part for us avant-garde post-modern artists is deciding whether or not to embrace commercialism. Do we allow our work to be hyped and exploited by a market that's simply hungry for the next new thing? Do we participate in a system that turns high art into low art so it's better suited for mass consumption? Of course, when an artist goes commercial, he makes a mockery of his status as an outsider and free thinker. He buys into the crass and shallow values art should transcend. He trades the integrity of his art for riches and fame.... Oh, what the heck. I'll do it."

Hobbes: "That wasn't so hard."

Try finding that in Fred Basset or The Perishers.

This dialogue also represents Watterson's somewhat idiosyncratic, and increasingly rare, world-view. As a former ad-man, Watterson had grown increasingly frustrated with the venal banality of marketing, but was equally turned-off by the pompous pretentiousness of the art world. By choosing to express himself in a comic strip, he found he could puncture both worlds with pin-sharp precision.

As the strip grew in popularity, Watterson repeatedly rejected his syndicate's desire to merchandise the characters, arguing that commercialisation would diminish their magic and invalidate many of the opinions he espoused through their dialogue. Many have speculated about how many hundreds of millions of dollars Watterson turned his back on, by rejecting the countless offers to license cartoons, stuffed toys and t-shirts featuring his characters' likenesses.

Whereas Jim Davis was quite happy to turn Garfield over to the manufacturers of press-on windscreen dolls, Watterson was concerned that a cuddly Hobbes toy would force readers to decide once-and-for-all that the tiger was an inanimate object who only existed in his playmate's imagination. Likewise, he argued that an animated series would irrevocably tie each character's voice to a single performer. Instead, he preferred to let readers decide how they sounded in their own heads. Even now, all these years later, the only official merchandise available is the series of paperback collections, for which Watterson produced beautiful water-colour covers and introductory stories.

These annual compilations also give readers the chance to fully appreciate Watterson's artistry, since they reproduce his famed Sunday strips in all their full-colour glory. Having being tied to four static panels for the other six days of the week, a full page layout allowed him to really let 'er rip. Insisting on colouring every illustration himself (as his contemporaries farmed out the task to underlings), Watterson used the opportunity to play with form, function and style. Perhaps the most effective of these experiments was the hyper-real style he developed to depict Calvin and Susie's attempts at playing house, which usually devolved into an outtake from Who's Afraid of Virginia Woolf? Given the different lead times required for producing a regular weekday strip and a Sunday instalment, it's remarkable that Watterson also managed to occasionally incorporate the larger colour format into several of his long running stories.

To those unfamiliar with the magical world inhabited by this young boy and his stuffed tiger, all this talk of integrity might sound a little po-faced. In fact, Calvin & Hobbes remains the single most hilarious strip ever published. Even as its author struggled with deep philosophical issues (the characters were named after 16th-century theologian John Calvin and 17th-century philosopher Thomas Hobbes) he never forgot to make his strip laugh-out-loud funny. From Calvin's parents' bitingly sarcastic interplay, to his own love-hate relationship with nemesis/paramour Susie Derkins, the writing was sharp enough to make Frasier Crane feel like a dullard. But Watterson was equally adept at illiciting a laugh with the bare minimum of dialogue, such as the time Calvin daydreamed that he was flying through the clouds courtesy of a propellor-beanie hat. Or when he blew a gum-bubble so large that his entire head popped with it.

Despite his innate grasp of sarcasm, Watterson wasn't immune to occasional bouts of sentimentality - at one point producing a genuinely touching series of strips depicting the death of an injured raccoon, that Calvin had attempted to nurse back to health. The final panel in the series offered no punchline or glib commentary, just the erudite observation: "What a stupid world." In its own way, this surprising change of tone was just as haunting as the much-lauded final scene of Blackadder Goes Forth.

That's why those of us who've discovered the treasure that's everywhere in Watterson's world, appreciate it so much. He managed to be funny without being contrived. He was sometimes scathing, but never bitter. And he could embrace his sentimental side, without ever lapsing into mawkishness. It was a tricky balance that he managed to maintain for ten glorious years. His insight into both children and child-rearing seemed uncannily accurate, especially since he enjoyed an utterly unremarkable upbringing of his own, and had no parenting experience to call upon. But to anyone who recalls the fearlessness of infancy, the joy of snowman-building, or the trials of an unrelenting babysitter, his cartoons are like an express ticket to a magical communal childhood.

When Watterson declared that he was hanging up his pen and retiring the strip, there was a genuine outpouring of grief as fans wondered how they'd cope without their adventure-seeking pals. And it seems that time has done nothing to diminish their appeal, as a recent pastiche called Calvin & Bacon (by webcomic artists Dan and Tom Heyerman) proved, when it went viral almost overnight. My own tribute to the incomparable twosome came in the naming of my two dogs. Somewhat appropriately, one of them has grown up to be impulsive, energetic and curious, whilst the other is rational, cautious and reserved. I'll leave you to guess which is which.

They think it's all over - give it six months

2011-12-11T19:43:00.001Z

This is it folks, we're about to find out who's won the second-most coveted title in music after MTV's Best Video With A Message. Of course, when I say 'about to', I mean in around four and a half hours' time. Just like last night, ITV plans to stretch tonight's final like a pair of Anne Diamond's Spanx. So bite down on a leather strap, make sure your glass is full of neat alcohol, and let's get started.

From the thousands who applied, only two remain. But sadly this is a singing competition, rather than a remake of Battle Royale, so all those hopeless also-rans are all still out there somewhere. Only two minutes in and there's already been more screaming than a Friday 13th marathon - this is going to get worse before it gets better.

Dermot's given up on the lame dance routines and has turned up in full black tie. Mine's the prawn cocktail thanks. Coming up later are Coldplay and Westlife. Talk about the bland leading the bland. The judges make their most dramatic entrance yet, descending on a slow-moving lift: Ground floor, perfumery, stationery and leather goods, wigs and haberdashery. So that's Kelly's outfit sorted anyway. As for Louis, he's been rifling through Hugh Hefner's wardrobe and settled on a red satin dressing gown. However, I think it's safe to give the Bunnies the night off.

"Expect flashing lights and maybe a couple of old friends" warns Dermot ominously, but his words are about as comforting as "It's fine once you get in." Here's one of the boybands that made the live finals, but given how much they swapped members, it's hard to tell which one it is. Joining them onstage are Misha B, Janet, Sophie and Two Shoes, followed by Craig, Johnny and Sami. They're doing a fast-paced recap of every song you got sick of hearing this year - like a horrendous Capital FM megamix. For some reason Goldie has also turned up - someone needs to tap her on the shoulder and tell her she's a few weeks late. She's wearing an odd outfit, combining one of Beyonce's glittery bikinis and Nanette Newman's marigolds.

Marcus has to choose his best performance of the series, and he's wisely chosen Higher and Higher. It suits his Motown vocal style perfectly, and it's uplifting without being anodyne. More importantly, it'll still appear to the millions of kids who've never heard it before. He's giving it 110 per cent (© Simon Cowell) and it's fantastic, with key changes that are intentional rather than accidental. Louis calls him a "born little pop star" which doesn't sound nearly as complimentary as he intended it to. Meanwhile, Olly and Caroline are still marooned in the stands exchanging platitudes with shouty scousers, and proving once and for all why they're best left on ITV2.

Do you know the Muffin girls, who live on Drury Lane? Don't worry if not, they're here now to reprise Don't Let Go in front of 'fousands' of people. They make an explosive entrance, firing out from beneath the stage and managing to land on both feet. Thank goodness there were no weight miscalculations, otherwise they could have been fishing Jesy out of the rigging. They're singing well, but they need to learn how to moderate their facial expressions when vocalising. I don't know whether they want to win the contest or go ram-raiding. Olly has found some Minimixers in the audience, so he does some beatboxing as they attempt to rap: L to the I to the T to the T to the L to the E to the MIX. Now I'm no urban music expert, but I've always thought that rhythmic spelling is best left to cheerleaders, rather than rappers.

With round one out of the way, it's time for the customary seasonal songs. "Ready for Christmas? It's about to arrive" drones Gary in his distinctly unfestive monotone. Oh sweet baby Jesus, they've saddled him with Last Christmas. I won't even compare it to Wham's original - it barely lives up to Whigfield's cover version. Still, he remembered to shout out the 'Merry Christmas' bit, and managed to make it sound a little more effective than JB's now legendary "Mewwy Cwissmas" when JLS murdered it a few years ago. Since we're at the final, none of the judges are going to criticise the performance, so there's just lots of well-meaning blah. Speaking of which, Olly and Caroline are still doing their half-arsed vox pops - this time with a salad-dodging Adele lookalike in opera gloves, and the Lord Mayor of Liverpool.

Tulisa introduces Little Mix using the exact same wording as last time, but with all the enthusiasm of your Mum leaving a voicemail. The girls look half dressed, and they're attempting an almost-acapella Silent Night. They're not quite as good as they think they are, so some of the more melismatic moments threaten to get away from them. Louis is scribbling frantically, looking awfully pleased with himself. I thought he was making a list of the girls' hometowns so he could tell them all to vote, but it turns out that his proud bon mot was "Little Mix, big future". Yeah, fuck you Dorothy Parker.

More stupid audience blather, as we realise that this week's motif is finalists rendered in food. Last night, Marcus was recreated using Marmite on toast, and tonight someone's turned up with a 'Little Mixican' pizza. As we return to the stage, the judges are asked for their most memorable moments, and it's as teeth-grindingly predictable as you'd expect. Gary tells us that he came to put a "musical stamp" on the show, but ended up with Goldie's legs wrapped around his head. Poor bloke, I wouldn't even wish that on Robbie.

To accompany a black and white recap of the story so far, Westlife are here with their farewell performance of a song originally written and recorded by an American Idol contestant. This is a world where music is just a commodity to be passed around, like a joint at a sixth former's party. Fair play to them, they're doing it live and it's not half bad, but I only say that because the footage of the contestants' journey was so dull that I had no choice but to actually watch them sing.

There's just time for yet another recap, in case you missed all the other ones, along with some stock phrases. No point me transcribing them, so please feel free to reorder the following words as you see fit: journey, amazing, first audition, can't believe I'm here, Wembley, journey, final, let anyone down.

The contestants are finally ready to unveil this year's winner's song, and it's Cannonball by Damien Rice. Another melancholy epic to help tip those seasonal suicides over the edge. But of course it's been rearranged to make room for a choir, a key change and gigantic swell in the final chorus. Who cares if it kills the meaning of the song? It's not like this show has ever been about the music. The changes are most noticeable when Marcus yells "Courage, teach me to be shy!" He's singing so hard that the veins in his forehead manage to displace the Botox. I have a feeling he's going to wake up with curiously stiff ears. "If I was looking for the perfect pop star and fed everything into a computer..." I don't want to think about what other horrors might lurk in his hard drive. Gary's either crying or he's coming down with a nasty case of pink-eye. Either way, he needs to start washing his hands in the bathroom. Let's have some video messages from Marcus' family, and Robbie Williams. Well, he was hanging around the studio and had a spare couple of minutes.

Tulisa's sleeping pills are kicking in, and the autocue's still stuck on her original introduction. "This is it guys..." Again. The Concrete Mixers are doing the same song, but their interpretation is a little softer. Jesy sings that she can't see what's going on. But it might help if she opened her eyes. Just saying. The girls harmonise well, but there's a little too much vibrato on some of the vocals. They've also pared back the arrangement to such a degree that what should have been the dramatic breakdown feels like they were ready to give up and walk offstage. The problem is, X-Factor loves to take these minimalist records and reconfigure them as epic tear-jerkers. So the acts have two choices - either keep it bleak and soft, or rip its balls off and throw it at the wall. The girls' rendition sat somewhere in the middle, neither fish nor fowl. Not to worry - the judges seemed happy enough, so what do I know?

A brief attempt to plug the next show on ITV's uninspiring schedule fucks up royally, leaving Dermot listening to his ear-piece as Philip Schofield and Christine Bleakley blather over a static shot of their bored-looking audience wearing christmas hats. Dermot seems pretty embarrassed - better late than never I suppose.

He cheers up momentarily to introduce Coldplay, who are here for the fill-in-time-until-the-results-are-counted slot. The stage has been daubed in neon paint, so I half expect to see the Blue Man Group on drums. Lasers are firing, glowsticks are being waved and the crowd is going wild. Chris Martin starts out on the acoustic guitar for the first song, then switches to the piano which he manages to sweat all over. If that's what he gets like after one song, I'm amazed he can get through a whole concert without turning to dust. Not the best advert for a macrobiotic diet. I know they're one of the biggest bands in the world, but neither of these songs has any substance to it - they could have been written by Louis' magic computer.

At long last we're ready to find out the winner of X-Factor 2011. Our finalists and their mentors take to the stage, amid random bursts of flame. Let's hope that's not what happens to their fledgeling recording careers. Little Mix are the winners, and although I was backing Marcus, it's probably the right decision. After what happened to Joe McElderry, Leon Jackson and Shayne Ward, it's clear that Syco don't have a clue what to do with young male singers. Since Little Mix have surpassed everyone's expectations and seem to be genuinely nice girls, maybe they've got a chance at filling the void left by Girls Aloud. Their encore of Cannonball ends with a ticker-tape explosion, which means that my enduring memory of this series will be Kelly Rowland attempting to fish silver confetti out of her bra.

Tonight's not quite the night

2011-12-10T19:58:00.001Z

After three interminable months, we've arrived at the final weekend of X-Factor. To be honest, it feels a little premature. But that's because Christmas falls on a Sunday this year, so the winner's song needs to be installed at number one a week in advance. Of course, cynics would suggest that scoring another Christmas number one is more important than establishing a robust career for a new recording artist. But let's silence those voices. For now.

We open with eerie black and white footage and a voice-over from one of the muffins, saying "To be a group in the final, and a girl group, it's just sick." I'll tell you what's sick - taking four hours to find out who's won this thing. They're going to drag this out as long as they can, so expect plenty of recaps, flashbacks and crap hats. Scratch that one, Matt Cardle's not in tonight's show. Instead, we can look forward to the finalists performing with their mentors, as the nation breathes a collective sigh of relief that we were spared the sight of Louis and Kitty giving us a rendition of Rene and Renato's Save Your Love.

With contempt and Lynx bodywash oozing out of every pore, Dermot treats us to an extended dance routine that sees him racing across London in a black cab. It's obviously a pastiche of Austin Powers, without the humour or entertainment. Dermot reminds us of that incredible recording contract that one of the contestants is going to land, hoping that none of us have read the tabloid stories about how little of the £1 million the winner actually sees.

For the second time this series we're treated to Live and Let Die, which temporarily raises my hopes about what fate will befall the unfortunate contestant who doesn't make it through to tomorrow night. Despite being slapped on the wrist by OFCOM for flogging her bottled stank, Tulisa's happily waving it around again. I guess it can't hurt now.

If we were playing cliche bingo, I'd have already scored a full house and would be onto my second glass of Gala's finest Cava - "Every step of the way," "I've come so far," and "I don't want to fall at the last hurdle". It's like a family reunion full of people you don't really want to spend any time with.

The finalists open the show with a rendition of Take That's Greatest Day, to remind us that even good songwriters can have an off-day. Amelia's sleepy eyes make her look as bored as I feel, but Little Mix are presenting themselves as a credible girl band. For once they appear to have been styled together in the same room, rather than each picking a seperate changing room and hoping for the best. After the break, Dermot welcomes us back to a "very quiet and understated final." Ha ha. That was irony. Well done to the script-writing intern who came up with that gem.

"Everybody, get... ready... for... Marcus... Collins" croaks Gary, with all the excitement of someone reading the shipping forecast. This week Marcus flew back to Liverpool in a helicopter, and revisited his school in his little red bow tie. A few years ago he'd have been bullied mercilessly for that. Now he gets a hero's welcome, so that's nice. Later on he visits his mum and is joined by Gary, who does his best 'man of the people' bit by asking for a nice cup of tea and "a gossip off Nana and Grandad." Unfortunately, time restrictions deny us the scene where Nana asks "Who's this boring tosspot?" But we did hear Grandad say "he was a little bugger". Many a true word spoken in jest.

Liverpool looks excited to be welcoming another local finalist, perhaps encouraged by the fact that Rebecca Ferguson's second placing last year didn't seem to do her career any harm. For his first song Marcus is doing Hey Ya! The performance starts out as a tribute to Catch Me If You Can, complete with half a jumbo jet sticking out of the backdrop and sixties-styled stewardess dancers. By the time they're joined by a bunch of glowstick-waving air-side staff in high-vis jackets, it's starting to look as though Heathrow is trying to sneak through their plans for that third runway without anyone noticing. Marcus has a great voice, but this song is right in the middle of his range, so it sounds flat and tuneless throughout. When the judges bleat on about song choice, this is what they're talking about. "You're what this show is all about." says Louis, and I'm starting to suspect that he's having a private joke at everyone's expense - he's secretly planning to get through the entire weekend by only using his stock phrases. "You are showing out" shouts Kelly. Come on, his trousers weren't that tight.

The move to Wembley isn't the only big change this year. Another tweak to the format has done away with the regional broadcasts, which usually involve a sports centre full of random acquaintances, and a yelled interview with a confused looking Lady Mayoress. Instead, we've got a rabble of local supporters in the crowd, being hassled by Caroline Flack and Olly Murs.

Back to Dermot, who says "Now the only remaining group, whose mentor is hoping to achieve what none of them have ever managed before..." Sadly, he's cut off before adding "...emerging from this car crash with even a trace of credibility or integrity". He's talking about Little Mix and Tulisa, who went on a whistle-stop tour of some of England's most salubrious locations: High Wycombe, Romford and South Shields. The north east is our final stop, and maybe it's just the Geordie accent, but I swear that Jade's mum described her daughter as a 'little store'. Like Budgens.

The girls enter on motorbikes, with engines revving. It's all very rock n roll, but the effect is killed somewhat as the dancers backpedal their hogs silently off-stage. They're doing You Got The Love, with a bit of Janet Jackson and plenty of Cheryl Cole in the choreography and styling. As for the girls, they're dressed head-to-toe in slashed denim, as if the cast of Prisoner Cell Block H got caught in a thresher. Louis screams "I love everything about you. Girl power back in the charts. Vote for Little Mix." He is, you know - he's having a laugh at our expense. Gary complements them on working out the "spacing on stage", and I just hope that's not a pop at poor old Jesy.

Kelly says that Amelia is ready to tear the house down, which I'm taking as a coded warning that we wouldn't like her when she's angry. Kelly and Amelia embrace in slow motion, which is probably because they didn't spend enough time together in Middlesborough to fill out the whole segment. As Amelia leaves her family home, there's a semi-naked pink man waving her on. I remember spotting him in the audience last week. Maybe Amelia sees this apparition everywhere she goes, like a camp version of The Grudge. Amelia's singing Ain't No Other Man, and although she makes a good job of it, she's no Christina Aguilera. For a start, she's about half the size. The judges mention the fact that Amelia went home, and then came back to the contest. That's the first I've heard of it. Oh God, the pink guy is here in the studio, and he's speaking. Does that mean everyone else can see him too?

The nation's hymens are about to collectively rupture as JLS and One Direction take to the stage in one giant X-Factor super group. JLS are on first, and open with their recent single "She Makes Me Wanna". I have an issue with this song, and it's the same problem that I had with Meatloaf's "I'd Do Anything For Love..." - so many unanswered questions. They're joined onstage by One Direction who perform "What Makes You Beautiful". Their collective vocal proves why no group has ever won the X-Factor.

Poor old Louis, sitting alone at the judges' table, thinking about what could have been. According to reports in the press, he's spent £30k on a hair transplant to keep up with the younger judges. Although I'm glad he didn't emerge in a wifebeater to show off a new tattoo on his arm (plugging Old Spice, natch), I question his investment in a follicular overhaul at this late stage. I have it on good authority that sticking a hair transplant on a man with Louis' idiosyncratic charms, is referred to in cosmetic circles as 'turd polishing'.

Time for the duets now. Marcus and Gary are singing 'She's Always A Woman', which Marcus has dedicated to his mum. Perhaps he should have reviewed the lyrics before making such a magnanimous gesture. They're both wearing velvet smoking jackets, which has me recalling that crushingly awkward Christmas duet that David Bowie performed with Bing Crosby. Their voices blend well together, but the standout moment has to be the lyric "She can't be convicted, she's earned her degree". And we've seen the graduation photo to prove it. Back to the audience, and someone's made a portrait of Marcus' face using Marmite on toast. As Olly takes a bite, a dark corner of my soul hopes that it's not really yeast extract that he's munching.

Little Mix say that Tulisa is the most amazing person in the world, prompting Nelson Mandela to sob into a scatter cushion and wonder about where he went wrong. It's no exaggeration to say that this is the first time I have ever heard Tulisa sing a note, so I don't know whether I'm pleasantly surprised or predictably disappointed. Thankfully, the Magimixers are doing a great job, and most of the vocal heavy lifting on their Alicia Keys medley. Or at least they were, until Jesy does a bit of awkward beatboxing that looks as though she's trying to get rid of a piece of Juicy Fruit without anyone noticing. One of the Mixers says they wouldn't have wanted to duet with anyone else, which is just as well, since it seems like the producers struggled to score any decent acts. Oh, and I take back what I said earlier - the mayor of South Shields is in the house. Which means that somewhere in the north east, his own house is probably getting robbed.

Amelia and Kelly are doing their best to show a united front, as Amelia says "I'd never in a million years think I'm pals with Kelly Rowland." Probably best that she keeps reminding herself of that, or it could get ugly. As much as I might find Amelia irritating, I have to admit that she and Kelly pulled off the best duet of the night, as they ripped River Deep Mountain High to bits. Amelia gushes that she couldn't have asked for a better mentor. Not even one who might have kept her in the competition for the entire run?

Olly tells us that someone's created a special Amelia Lily cocktail, which looks like a fishbowl of Pepto-Bismol. "What's it called?" he asks the young waitress next to him. "It's the Amelia Lily cocktail," she replies, suggesting that they spent more time chopping the fruit than coming up with a name for it.

As the technicians start tallying the votes, it's time for a couple of guest performances. First up, it's time for the triumphant return of Leona Lewis. Her pop-star status in something of a no-man's-land at the moment, but there's no denying that hers is the career to which every X-Factor contestant aspires. Tonight, she's singing Hurt by Nine Inch Nails. Coming up after the break, Tommy Steele having a crack at Radiohead. Not really - now it's Michael Bublé's turn to show us how it's done. The intro footage tells us that Bublé is the best selling male artist of the decade. Let's just pause and think about that for a moment. Happy to move on? Good, me too. It looks as though Michael has been celebrating his accomplishment with a slap-up pie or fifteen. Tonight he's singing one of the greatest Christmas songs ever made - Darlene Love's Christmas (Baby Please Come Home). Dermot asks whether that's off the Christmas album, proving that the researchers are working just as hard as the script-writer. Asked about his forthcoming ITV Christmas special, Bublé tells us that singing with Gary and Kelly was the highlight of his career. Even the judges laugh at the insincerity of this. 'Tis the season for contractually obliged appearances.

And now the moment of truth. Who's going through to the final, and who's looking down the business end of 18 months' worth of PAs at industry award ceremonies? Little Mix are through and they genuinely deserve it. Marcus and Gary are smiling, Kelly and Amelia not so much. That only gets more obvious when it's finally announced that Marcus is safe, leaving Amelia and Kelly offering up more forced smiles than the guests at someone's fourth wedding. Coming up next on ITV - Piers Morgan spends an hour interviewing Peter Andre. And for that reason, I'm out.

Big girls don't cry, but little ones do

2011-12-09T12:54:00.001Z

Hold onto your hats folks, there's an articulated lorry packed full of drama heading your way. Starting with a close-up on Simon's evil eye, we're warned by the voice-over guy that the battle lines have been drawn. Simon promises a big fight tonight, before changing his opinion and telling us that now it's war. One more take and he's going to be offering up mutually assured destruction.

Someone's obviously had a word in Steve's photogenic ear and told him to be more energetic. He's trying his best in his dull grey suit, but since no-one's bothered to turn down the music volume, it's like watching a mime trying to apply for a bank loan.

Stop the presses, Steve attempted a funny by going for some banter with Simon, but his boss shoots him down by admitting that he wasn't listening anyway. Crash and burn, you big wax muppet. Steve tells us that this is dance music week, which has got Paula wetter than one of Nicole's tissues.

Melanie is opening tonight's show, with her take on one of the biggest songs of the year. If you're not already sick of Someone Like You, in ninety seconds you will be. Unless you've spent copious amounts of time in the kind of bar that has a dark room instead of a cloakroom, you may be unfamiliar with this 140 bpm version of Adele's pitchy growler. Nicole tells Melanie that she's a rock-star diva, but I don't think Nancy Wilson is going to have too many sleepless nights about the competition. Simon complements her on the performance, and says that he's noticed she's been getting better, ever since she revealed her true self. To put things into perspective, she just started speaking with a Virgin Islands accent - it's not like she hitched up her skirt and revealed a cock.

Steve is back in the audience to do his intro's, which smacks of Bruno Brookes hosting the Christmas edition of Top of the Pops. LA Reid introduces Marcus, who's wearing a hat and doing a lackluster version of Ain't Nobody. Chaka Khan is an amazing singer, but she's got one of those distinctive love-or-hate voices. Sadly, Marcus seems to be emulating the latter. Having seen Brian Friedman putting his all into the choreography, its disappointing to see Marcus dancing like a not-drunk-enough secretary at her first office Christmas party. Nicole's a believer, and tells Marcus that "God has a plan for you." I think Simon just got a little hard when he heard his new nickname. Simon also complements Marcus, telling him "I don't like people who play the victim." Which is true, he prefers to make those decisions in the editing suite.

Steve reminds us that the winner will receive a $5 million recording contract AND an appearance in their own Pepsi commercial, as if they're equivalent prizes. Which gives you an idea of how much of that signing fee they'll actually see. Rachel is singing 'Nothin' On You' and it's veering dangerously close to Minipops territory. In this week's first weird outburst, Paula tells Rachel that her voice transcends all generations, whereas Simon mentions that she used to do "stand up comedy years ago". So whilst her contemporaries were potty training, Rachel was rehearsing mother-in-law jokes.

Josh is having a go at 'We Found Love' because the world has been crying out to hear a Joe Cocker/Rihanna mash-up. Despite an impressive vocal effort, it's quite evident that Josh would be less embarrassed if he'd been caught sodomising an alpaca in a branch of Footlocker. Simon and LA give him a tough critique, and tell him he's lucky to have a second song tonight. I'm really rooting for Josh to get through to the final, if only for the grand homecoming segment, when he'll finally get to return to the mystical land from Where The Wild Things Are.

Chris is closing the first half of the show, doing another Rihanna song - no wonder she's happy to pop up on the results show every couple of weeks. Chris is OK at what he does, but he's bringing back some uncomfortable memories of Vanilla Ice and Snow. Simon asks LA why he chose to include a travellator in Chris' performance, as though the music mogul was up on stage moments earlier, adjusting the speed with a socket wrench. Still, it's not everyone who can sell a song whilst making their way across Terminal 5.

Steve leads into the ad break with the revelation that last night, the contestants received some news that changes everything. Turns out, they're singing their own song choices, instead of those chosen by the audience. Did anyone else just feel the world spin off its axis?

Melanie's doing 'When You Believe' - the song that got Leon Jackson's career off to such a great start. Given that it was a Christmas number one, you'd think it would be memorable, but it's one of those drippy power ballads that you've forgotten before the singer's even finished performing it. Not to worry, Melanie is far and away the best singer in the contest, so she should be safe. Now it's time for her customary speech after her song. Steve's not going to be happy because he's going to have the producers yelling in his ear to rush Paula and Nicole's feedback. Nicole got goosebumps all over, and in her minimal outfit, we can pretty much see the evidence. Simon gives a shout-out to Clive Davis, who gives us a royal wave. The crowd goes wild because they think it's Tony Bennett, who just left his wig at home.

Marcus reveals that, if he doesn't nail this, he could be going home. Did he just read the instructions about how the show works? This time around he's singing A Song For You, which must surely hold some kind of a record for the number of times it's been trotted out on one of these shows. The performances tonight are only 90 seconds long, but like a true pro, Marcus made it feel like quarter of an hour. Nicole has been stealing Louis Walsh's script notes, telling him he reminds her of a young Al Green. Beats the shit out of Lenny Henry I suppose. Alternatively, LA Reid compares his protege to Muhammad Ali, but I'm sure that Marcus is just shaking because of the nerves.

Steve says "It's another of the girls, Simon Cowell". Does he not want to keep this gig? Rachel Crow is singing Music and Me, which should have been her song choice last week when they were rifling through Michael Jackson's back catalogue. That early MJ sound suits her voice perfectly, but she's been dressed like Jeanette Krankie in a rare appearance out of schoolboy drag. Speaking like a true Toddlers and Tiaras finalist, she tells Paula "My mission is just to inspire the kids."

Steve points out that Nicole's not paying attention, and she looks embarrassed, like a dog caught attempting to apply its lipstick. Growling so hard that I can hear the nodules forming in his throat, Josh is doing 'Something', and making Shirley Bassey's rendition sound whispered and low-key. Of course, he's a great singer, with a scruffy Gruffalo edge, but to those who are getting excited about his future, I have two words: Bo Bice. Paula says adjectives don't adequately describe his brilliance, but she's never allowed herself to be troubled by the limitations of language. Nicole has a rhyming dictionary, calling her artist a "male Adele" (pronounced Mell-Adele) and then referring to his performance as Krajcik-Magic. Guess who's angling for a song-writer's credit on her next album.

Chris is going to be performing his own composition, and so Stevie Wonder calls him to tell him how inspired he is by the young artist. In other news, Anne Widdecombe receives a letter from Joan of Arc, complementing her on her pioneering feminism. The song is nice enough, in fact his vocals are the best they've been all series, but it's got a Jason Mraz b-side feel to it. Paula invokes the universe and its mysterious ways. But compared with her little monologues, the universe is like Janet and John.

And now we move onto the results show to see someone's dream end. The show opens with LeRoy's older brother Lenny Kravitz, who doesn't seem to be putting too much effort into pretending to play his guitar. Just as he gets warmed up we switch into Are You Gonna Go My Way, one of the most annoying wedding DJ records ever made. It's always a worry when someone appears on these shows to plug their new material, and resorts to a reprise of their greatest hit within sixty seconds. Not the most compelling recommendation for the new stuff. Weirdly, the judges are already seated behind the table - suggesting that this show is going to be filled with content. But with just five acts left, and an hour to fill, I can't help but be suspicious.

To fill in the running time, we're treated to a backstage expose of what goes into the choreography, make-up and wardrobe. During this segment, we get to hear from Kristofer (seriously) Buckle and his spectacular gayface, talking about how people cope with "having six hands on them at once". For some people, that's just a regular weekend. There's also lots of talk of shirts coming off and hairpieces being thrown aside. Whatever it takes to keep Simon happy.

The judges and their acts are welcomed one by one. So spare a thought for Paula, standing alone at the judges' table, doing her wide armed slow clap. Josh is safe, prompting Simon to chew the inside of his cheek. Chris is also safe, and launches into one of Dermot's patented slow spins, before making a heart shape with his fingers. On this show, no cliche is left unmolested.

Melanie, Marcus and Rachel are backstage, and Steve "genuinely can't believe" that one of them is going home tonight. They're all talking about their fans, and "loving everyone out there" and having God's support. Steve tells them that they're not going to find out who's through just yet. And regrettably, neither are we. Instead, here's Mary J Blige to teach these chumps what a real star looks like. Remember my vertical light beams of victory? Well, no-one got them this week, because they were being saved for Mary J. She's pretty ace, but the song sounds a little twee for her, like Tiffany & Co setting a chunk of granite in an engagement ring.

Good grief, now there's even more recapping, as Steve reads laboriously through the judges' notes. The final act breezing safely into the semi-final is Melanie Amaro, which was utterly unsurprising. Rachel has switched up her eerie professionalism to 11 - we're in Village of the Damned territory now. Marcus is a little more sanguine about the whole thing, but that's because he's spent more time stuck in the bottom than a proctologist with big hands.

They're preparing to do their 'save me' song, which should be interesting given that they used up their original choices in the second half of last night's show. Marcus' choice is a tuneless mess, like he's actually singing for his life, rather than just a chance to be ignored three months into a winning contract with Syco. Interestingly, Rachel's incredible talent is paling in comparison to her obnoxious sense of entitlement. "Do I have to?" is a familiar cry from 13 year olds, but usually it's reserved for the moments when they're asked to clean their room. Not when they're given the chance to sing for survival. After Astro's outburst a couple of weeks ago, we should probably be thankful that she didn't start off by refusing. But she didn't look too gracious to be there.

It's all so predictable as Simon and LA opt to save their own acts. Which puts far too much power in the hands of Paula and Nicole. Why not give them a briefcase full of enriched uranium while we're at it? Nicole is getting upset, so the thirteen year-old counsels her from the stage, leaving Nicole with no choice but to take it to deadlock. The audience isn't happy, and Nicole pretends she's lost the ability to speak. If only Paula could develop a similar affliction.

The act with the lowest number of votes is Rachel, who suddenly reveals that she's actually a child, and not a forty two year old woman dressed a pink pleather jacket. Dropping to the floor and sobbing uncontrollably, she's comforted by her mother who promises that it's all going to be OK. "Do you promise, do you promise?" she screams, and it's all a little disturbing. Meanwhile, Steve stands there like someone who's just walked in to find his grandparents spit-roasting the vicar.

Rachel briefly manages to compose herself long enough to tell the audience "I love you so much for voting for me, even though you didn't." See, she's not even out of her teens and she's already mastered the passive aggressive back-handed compliment. This kid's gonna go far. You know what, nothing says entertainment like watching children cry. After this, I might throw on Who Will Love My Children, and go straight to the scene were the twins are sent to separate foster homes because one of them has epilepsy.

Sensing that the cameras are focusing too much on the devastated 13 year-old, Nicole rushes to the stage to offer up her own photogenic tears. That's right Nicole, as always, it's all about you.

'Tis the season to be jolly

2011-12-08T10:14:00.001Z

Most people have a favourite Christmas movie. Old school film fans will try to convince you that nothing comes close to the tear-jerking majesty of Capra’s It’s A Wonderful Life. Friends with kids tell me that Tim Burton’s Nightmare Before Christmas (actually Henry Selick’s, but Tim’s the guy with his name in the title) is their regular Yuletide pleasure. And people who like their seasonal cheer with a side-order of high-caliber bullet wounds tend to plump for a Die Hard/Lethal Weapon double bill.

But in my house, there’s only one movie that gets watched every Christmas without fail. In fact, I may have watched it more times than any other movie in my collection – which fills me with no small amount of shame. But to be honest, I can’t imagine spending the holidays with anyone other than the Griswold family.

Originally released in 1989, National Lampoon’s Christmas Vacation was the third in a loosely connected series of films about the misadventures of Chicago-based Clark W Griswold and his long-suffering family. It’s also remembered as something of a turning point in the career of writer John Hughes, as he moved away from the broad comedy of his earlier work, to the more schmaltzy, family-friendly fare that typified his 90s output. Although he followed it up a year later with the more successful Home Alone, it’s the misadventures of the world’s favourite inventor of non-nutritive cereal varnish that fill me with Christmas cheer. So here are ten reasons why Christmas Vacation is my pick as the ultimate festive film:

1) For some reason best known to a generation of coke-addled studio executives, the eighties were awash with incongruous animated title sequences. Despite following such undisputed classics as Mannequin and Troop Beverly Hills, Christmas Vacation manages to hold its own, thanks to a charmingly designed cartoon short showing that even St Nick can fuck up. It helps enormously that Santa’s blight before Christmas is accompanied by one of the best theme songs of the last thirty years. Performed by the legendary Mavis Staples, Christmas Vacation sticks in your brain like a particularly aggressive tumour.

2) Neither of Clark and Ellen’s kids escape unscathed from their family holidays, but Hughes tended to save the serious injuries for petulant daughter Audrey. Having marched his clan through waist-deep snow in search of the perfect tree, Clark is convinced he’s finally found it. But as he implores the kids to marvel in its beauty, Audrey remains unresponsive. Ellen whispers tenderly, “She’ll see it later honey, her eyes are frozen.”

3) When Hughes wrote Home Alone in 1990, he left behind his love of believable dialogue and witty dialogue, and replaced it with scene after scene of Joe Pesci being smashed in the face with an iron. He clearly used Christmas Vacation as a testing ground for this PG-friendly slapstick, but chose his moments wisely. It also helped that he had, in Chevy Chase, a comedian as confident with physical humour as he was with the wordplay. In particular, Chase’s repeated encounters with ladders are the standout moments, particularly the scene where Clark attempts to hide his presents in the roof-space. The sudden appearance of the attic ladder is short, swift and brutal. It’s also fucking funny.

4) Randy Quaid may now be best known for trying to avoid prosecution for residential burglary by seeking asylum in Canada, but I prefer to remember his glory days as Cousin Eddie in the Vacation movies. The undisputed king of boorish, redneck morons, Eddie secures his place in film history, clad in a dog-eared dressing gown and emptying his chemical toilet in Clark’s driveway, shouting “Merry Christmas - Shitter’s full!”

5) Clark may get the Christmas tree he’s always dreamed of, but it’s not without its problems. For a start, the straining branches end up being released with such force that half the living room windows get blown out. But this pine-scented outburst also leaves Clark drenched in sap, which leads to another stand-out moment of physical comedy. Anyone who’s ever struggled to wash real pine sap off their hands will empathise as our sticky hero finds himself attached to a magazine, his wife’s hair and, finally, a table lamp. Again, it’s Chase’s straight-faced sincerity that really sells the silliness.

6) Every neighbourhood has one house that overdoes the Christmas lights, inadvertently triggering air traffic control incidents as passing planes intermittently attempt an impromptu landing in a cul-de-sac. But Clark Griswold’s efforts put most British lighting displays to shame, making the Blackpool Illuminations look like a solitary energy-saving bulb hanging in a halfway house. After much frustrating back-and-forth, trying to get his fairy-lights to come on, Clark’s spectacular arrangement is finally revealed in all its retina-singing glory. The choir sings, the power supply surges and the next door neighbours are temporarily blinded. Clark’s noble efforts have even inspired a dedicated website (http://www.clarkgriswold.com), a tribute to excellence in exterior illumination.

7) Americans tend to have their big festive meal on Christmas Eve, which is when we see the Griswolds tucking into their giant roast turkey. Unfortunately, Ellen’s sister Katherine has taken charge of the bird, and is a little concerned that she may have left it in the oven too long. It looks golden and delicious, worthy of pride-of-place positioning in a lavish Dickens adaptation, but as Clark pierces its skin with the fork, the whole thing bursts open like Norris’ chest in The Thing. A foul belch of smoke clears to reveal a dry cavity where the meat should be. I’m usually still laughing as the camera takes a slow pan around the dining table to see the extended family crunching their way through an inedible pile of turkey scratchings.

8) With family strife taking up most of the film, there’s not much room for cameos or supporting roles. But Bill Murray’s brother, Brian Doyle Murray, scores major points for his performance as Clark’s gruff, impersonable boss. He’s indifferent to the feelings of his employees, choosing to cancel their annual bonus and replace it with a one-year membership to the Jellies of the Month club. Just so you know, that’s a real thing that people give as gifts, entitling the lucky recipient to a new jar of preserves every four weeks. Admit it, you’d be pissed off too. Murray’s finest moment is when he tries to avoid having a conversation with Clark, explaining that he’s in the middle of a very important call, before picking up the phone and barking “Get me someone… and get me someone while I’m waiting.”

9) One of the trademarks of the Vacation series is the moment when Clark finally uncorks the rage that’s been building with every ill-conceived misstep. Venting his spleen in a profane outburst of anger, Clark makes his boss, and the afore-mentioned Jelly Of The Month Club voucher, the focus of his ire:
"Hey! If any of you are looking for any last-minute gift ideas for me, I have one. I'd like Frank Shirley, my boss, right here tonight. I want him brought from his happy holiday slumber over there on Melody Lane with all the other rich people and I want him brought right here, with a big ribbon on his head, and I want to look him straight in the eye and I want to tell him what a cheap, lying, no-good, rotten, four-flushing, low-life, snake-licking, dirt-eating, inbred, overstuffed, ignorant, blood-sucking, dog-kissing, brainless, dickless, hopeless, heartless, fat-ass, bug-eyed, stiff-legged, spotty-lipped, worm-headed sack of monkey shit he is! Hallelujah! Holy shit! Where's the Tylenol?"

10) For all its broad slapstick and even broader characterisation, the film has become a holiday favourite because it manages to genuinely capture both the magic and misery of a family Christmas. Based on a short story Hughes wrote about his own childhood Christmas, it manages to feel believable and sincere, even as Clark rockets down a hillside on a sledge polished with industrial strength cooking oil. The truth at the heart of the film, is that Christmas is a time for unreasonable expectations, nostalgic reminiscences and the dawning realisation that nothing is ever as good as we remember it. More importantly, the family may irritate the shit out of each other, but they manage to love each other regardless, just like the real thing.

Misha B gets the Shorty straw

2011-12-04T14:55:00.001Z

Well, this is it folks. After what seems like an eternity, or at least time enough to gestate a baby elephant, we're about to discover who's made it through to the final of X-Factor. The excitement is palpable, especially judging by the bulging veins on Kelly's neck. Speaking of which, she's one of the performing guests tonight, alongside pubescent platinum popsqueak Justin Bieber. Someone stand-by with a crash-cart please, just in case this embarrassment of riches gets too much for me.

With his batteries now running about 23%, Dermot looks like a man beaten. He's going through the motions now, conveying all the seasonal joy of a child who's discovered that behind every door on his advent calendar is a picture of Norman Lamont. Tick those boxes - Bieber's in the house, thanks for buying the charity single, here's your finalists - does anyone care anymore? About anything?

I'm sure it was picked for its inspirational lyrics, but the group's mimed performance of Wilson Philips' Hold On, suggests the fact that they’re as fatigued with the whole format as we are. Hold on for one more day? There's another week of this shit to get through. Come to think of it, this song would have made a far better charity single, even if it is cheesier than a pack of Ritz sandwiches.

Since half of the results show is just rehashed footage from the night before, I'm going to take a similar approach. So here's a recap of the recap.

Misha challenged us to imagine a world without music, and by the end of the show I think we were all trying to. For her first performance she wore a dress made from shredded vinyl, a subtle reference to what this show has done to the industry. For her second song she tackled Pink's Fuckin' Perfect, but sadly stuck to the radio-friendly version. Still, credit where credits due - it takes huge balls to respond to those unfounded bullying accusations by performing an anti-bullying anthem. Gary even broke character to point out that this entire show is an offensive tabloid construct designed to build people up and pick them apart. He told Misha in no uncertain terms that there was no way she could win, thanks to Tulisa and Louis' ridiculous attack. Misha looked gutted. Or hungry. I don't know, her expressions are hard to read.

Amelia, who becomes less and less likeable every time I hear her speak, boomed that she was really happy with her performances last week, so it's nice that someone was. And Louis kept imploring specific regions of the UK to vote for certain acts, as though he was unaware that the whole country now has phones. Amelia sang Ain't No Mountain High Enough, but sadly the set dressers' budget couldn't stretch to icy peaks, so she had to make do with a wallpaper table. Before her follow-up performance, Amelia boasted that she can do anything, telling us "Just throw a song at me". Does it have to be a song? For her second song she chose I'm With You by Avril Lavigne, because it's one that she grew up listening to - a fact that makes me feel about a thousand years old. She also told us that she used to sing into a hairbrush, so the producers roll some footage of Amelia doing just that. This is all so idiotically literal, but the audience seemed happy enough. They like everything to be spelled out, which is probably why Gary pauses between each syllable whenever he speaks. The judges were nice enough to her, and Amelia responded by giving her best "Thanks, but I'm still going to key your car later" face.

Once again Tulisa introduced her "little muffins" - she's determined to make that a thing, even if it doesn't exactly do wonders for poor Jesy's body image. Sadly, the girls had a microphone fuck-up halfway through Keep Me Hanging On, and they struggled to get things back on track. Tulisa attempted to articulate what the girls represent, but someone should point out that they're competing in the X-Factor, not running for local government. Sensing that the girls were struggling, Kelly pointed out that "In a girl group there is always a lead singer" as she silently stabbed a Beyonce doll under the judges' table. It was a big night for the Mixes, as they got to genuflect in the presence of greatness, namely Jessie J who helped Tulisa pick them for the live shows. Jessie told her curiously spelled namesake not to cry: cue epic waterworks. By the end of their second performance, Tulisa had grown belligerent and angry. At one point during her rant, I swear she started yelling “My country ain’t fuck all.” But I could be getting confused.

Marcus' highlight of the week was filming the video for charity single 'Wishing On A Star'. Backstage footage revealed that one person's job was to sit with a bin-bag full of leaves and throw them at Marcus, prompting me to realise that I've wasted my life. Marcus is a good looking kid, but he's been so busy "wehhking" this week, he missed the end of Movember, and is still rocking a weasely top lip. Not to worry, Kelly wished he'd been singing 'My Girl' directly to her, once again missing some fairly obvious clues about a contestant's sexuality. After struggling through Can You Feel It (the second time this week that song almost undid an X-Factor contestant) Dermot sent the young lad off to the wings with a cryptic "For the time being, it's Marcus." Does that mean he’s about to pupate?

With the recaps done, it's time for awkward backstage cam, and a bit of pointless blather about how nervous/excited the contestants are. "Words can't describe...", "I've been on a journey", "It means so much to us...." If only William Hill were offering odds on contestant clichés – I could clean up.

Screeeeeeam - it's Justin Bieber. The world's most famous seventeen year old. He's dressed in a Thriller-era red and black leather jacket that would drown Dolph Lundgren, and singing something from his wretched new Christmas album. It’s about as authentically festive as a pile of soap-chip snowflakes, but he soldiers on, repeatedly referencing “Shorty”. After years in the showbiz wilderness, it's nice that Warwick Davis is getting the recognition he deserves. Justin tries getting a little seductive on the Judges' table, but Kelly looks as though she could use him as a toothpick. The performance ends, and twelve million people wonder how on Earth this uninspiring adolescent managed to become one of the biggest names in pop music.

Kelly's missing from her seat on the judging panel, because she's getting ready to plug a single that no-one's interested in buying. For a moment, this has me contemplating an alternate reality where Louis has to excuse himself to prepare for a live performance of his new single. But that takes me to a very dark place indeed, so let's cheer on Kelly instead. Over the last few months we've taken her to our collective bosom, but it's clear that she'll only ever be a ginger stepchild, rather than a proper member of the family. No doubt, Kelly's an attractive young woman, but in her sparkly hot pants, the word that springs to mind is 'sturdy'.

She’s performing a half-arsed medley of her recent David Guetta-fuelled dance hits, and making a great job of proving the point she made last night about every girl group needing a lead singer. There’s something slightly incongruous about watching a performance like this on a Sunday night. Maybe if I was off my face on GHB it’d be more effective. As it is, it’s a bit like being in a nightclub, just as someone turns on the lights for a fire drill. Kelly wraps up her slot with a major plug for her new album – silly girl, she could have just tattooed its name up her forearm. Meanwhile, the regulators are drawing up the paperwork for another breach of the rules.

We’re just moments away from revealing the results, so let’s watch some filler footage of why the contestants want to make it to the Wembley final next week. Amelia’s still stroppy about being dropped back in week one, and Marcus has grown as a person as well as a performer. It’s inspiring stuff, for sure. There’s a point where Marcus looks like he’s about to cry, but his Botox-frozen forehead makes it hard to tell. He could just be squeezing out a fart. Kelly talks about how Misha is something special and really deserves to be in the final – blink twice if she’s threatening you Kelly. And finally, there’s Little Mix, who’ve worked so hard that Tulisa can’t even find the words. Could she ever?

Dermot’s got the results in his hot little hands – first through is Little Mix, who put more effort into their screams than they did in either performance last night. Next, it’s Marcus. Of course he’s smiling, he always does, but let’s imagine that he’s happy about going through anyway.

Two acts, and just one place left. One of Kelly’s girls will go through to the final, and the other one will get a Christmas card from Kelly’s PA in a week’s time, signed “Kind regards…” It looks as though Gary’s in tune with the British public, as Amelia goes through and Misha bows out. Looks like Auntie won’t be getting that grain of salt Misha promised to repay her with. There’s lots of footage pointing out just how well Louis and Tulisa sabotaged her chances with the whole Bullygate fiasco. Hell, they even got me doing it.

Misha ends her time on the X-Factor with a performance of that Jessie J dirge 'Who You Are' as her final song. She’s written a new rap for it, which references Dermot's words of wisdom. I guess there's a first time for everything. The camera focuses on Tulisa to see if the guilt has helped her squeeze out a tear, but if she strains any harder she’ll burst a blood vessel.

One final word from our contestants - Amelia's chuffed to be through to the final, even if she feels like she should have been there in the first place. Yeah, we get it. Little Mix want to thank everyone, but neglect to mention all the god-awful girl bands who came before, and made them look amazing by comparison. Finally, Marcus promises to work hard over the next week. Louis, don’t get your hopes up – he means in rehearsals.

Making Michael proud

2011-12-01T11:18:00.001Z

First things first, let's get a caveat out of the way. Michael Jackson was a superstar, legend and pop culture icon. He left behind an incredible legacy of songs, dance moves and music videos, as well as a walk-in wardrobe full of gaudy, ill-fitting casual-wear. Just wanted to put that out there, in case I involuntarily criticise the self-crowned King of Pop in the next few paragraphs.

In case you didn't know, this week saw the world's second worst doctor (after the one who filled that woman's arse with concrete and super-glue) sentenced to four years' imprisonment for Michael's "involuntary manslaughter". In attempting to downgrade his sentence, Conrad Murray's lawyers argued that it's punishment enough that their client would be forever known as "the man who killed Michael Jackson". And yet, I have a funny feeling that, by the time tonight's X-Factor USA is over, there may well be a few other suspects in the frame. So sit back, get Jessica Fletcher on speed dial, and let's marvel at the rest of the Jacksons' ability to put their legal nightmares aside long enough to turn out and promote their dearly departed brother's back-catalogue.

The show opens with the contestants praising Michael's phenomenal talent, with Marcus commenting "no-one know how to do the moonwalk like him", except maybe for the guy he stole the moves from. We also get lots of footage of screaming, crying fans, packing out stadium after stadium. Just think, one of these lucky contestants might one day get to watch those scenes on a DVD.

The world's most unironic voiceover introduces Steve Jones, who walks out onto the stage accompanied by 'Bad'. Commentary from beyond the grave, you've got to love that. Unlike Dermot, Steve isn't comfortable moving with the "sexy dancing people", so he walks awkwardly, like a toddler carrying a full load. Despite wearing the facial expression of someone entering a car wash and realising he's left the aerial up, he's trying to convince us he's excited about tonight's show. Apparently, tonight features some of the greatest music ever created. And P.Y.T.

Great news everybody, the three members of the Jackson 5 that aren't Michael or Jermaine are here to lend their support to the ~~cash-raking~~ tribute. In more "incredible news", Michael's kids are also in the audience. Say 'hello' to Prince, Paris and Blanket, who really ought to be pushing for a proper name by now. Mustering about as much sincerity as Jeremy Clarkson at a Unison fund-raiser, Steve tells them "We're honoured to have you here. Your presence is going to make an amazing evening even more incredible." After a build up like that, there's absolutely no chance that we're going to be disappointed, is there?

Twenty minutes in, and no-one's performed yet. Although we did get an ad for Il Divo, which promised to make us "fall in love with music again". No mention of their role in making us fall out of love with it in the first place.

Josh Krajcik is trying to tell us he wore out Michael Jackson's records as a child, but skeet shooting will do that to vinyl. It's clear he doesn't give a shit about Jackson's music, so he's doing a self-indulgently grungy version of Dirty Diana. He's so out of time with the music, it's like those old satellite interviews that they used to do on The Word. Josh's dad tells us about seeing the joy on Josh's face - cut to scenes of Josh scowling like he was being tested for STDs by an Inland Revenue inspector. The vocal coach tells us it's like trying to fit a round peg in a square hole. Which is a little unkind - it could just be his glands.

I love it when Astro's family reminisce about when he was little. They're talking about four years ago, so it's not like it warrants the whole sepia treatment. In theory he's doing 'Black or White', but that means he's just performing his own rap as the backing singers tackle the actual melody. The dancers have got big red hankies over the face, which I assume is a nod to Jacko's germ-phobia and his ever-diminishing septum. Paula thinks Astro's words are important, but she's the sort of person who gets teary-eyed reading the message in a fortune cookie. She adds that she finds him "Influential and inspirational." He's also celebrational and Muppetational, but I could be getting off-track. The only lyric I picked up on, was when he said that "we're all made of earth and water." Poor kid, growing up in the projects, he probably never got to make a mud pie.

Michael's kids get put on the spot by Steve, who asks them what they think of the show. They have trouble hearing him, but it probably doesn't help that Prince is listening to his iPod. Given the choice, I'd reckon I'd opt for MP3s over the mess on stage too. The kids have always been dogged with speculation about their parentage, given their suspiciously light skin tone. Conspiracy theorists should have just listened to Prince's voice - he makes Brian Blessed sound like Joe Pasquale.

Drew's up next, doing a "stripped back" version of Billie Jean. The song sounds pretty good, but since every one of her performances is stripped back, it sounds less surprising than it should. LA Reid is gutted to admit that he likes it, and Nicole doesn't realise that it's her turn to speak. Maybe she was listening to Prince's iPod. Paula has taken on Simon's annoying habit of announcing portentously that she's about to say something, before actually saying anything.

Rachel Crowe is the first contestant to come across like an actual Jackson fan, and she wisely recognises that by the time he was her age, he was already a superstar. Weirdly, Simon has chosen Can You Feel It by the Jacksons, instead of I Want You Back or I'll Be There which might have suited her voice better. There's so much going on, with the choirs, lasers and glittery high-tops, it's easy for her to get lost in the performance. None of the judges liked it apart from Simon, who retaliates by referring to Paula and Nicole as 'Squiddly and Diddly', showcasing his coruscating wit.

Marcus doesn't want to be in the bottom two this week, so he's mashing up Usher's moves and Chris Brown's style in an attempt to tick all the modern R&B boxes. Unfortunately, P.Y.T. isn't a great vocal showcase, and the RedOne-style production makes it sound like the sort of track that Pitbull would turn up on. Just to be clear, that is not a good thing. Now Paula's talking about "perspiration and exhilaration". Seriously, if the Muppets don't show up by the end of the show, I'm going to be fucked off - anything Olly Murs can do... The judges are very complimentary about Marcus' back-flip, because nothing says 'great vocal' like desperate acrobatics. Just ask Aston from JLS.

Chris Rene is excited because his Grandad wrote Rockin' Robin, which was most famously recorded by Michael Jackson on his solo debut. Chris is singing I'll Be There, and it's mostly out of his range, so thank goodness for the rap section where he gets to do what he does best. He's wearing a letterman jacket which, like most of tonight's outfits, is slathered in cheap sparkles. I know it's supposed to be a tribute to 'The King', but it just conjures up images of Amy Childs running wild backstage with her vajazzling glue-gun. Paula points out that Chris "manifests in the heart department", as if she's trying to describe a haunted John Lewis.

Closing the show is Melanie Amaro, who's tackling one of Michael's most divisive tracks - Earth Song. The audience has already been checked for Jarvis Cocker-likes, and Melanie's exuding a new confidence after last week's barnstorming performance, so this could be good. Simon manages to turn "we've saved the best for last" into a non-sequitur, before introducing his newly-accented final act. The vocals are spot on, and the stage manager has given her the 'vertical light beams of victory' which are usually saved for the best performer of the night. Apart from the key change, which is a bit of a mess, this is great for anyone who likes Latino singers. If J-Lo had a proper voice, rather than a cat fart in a wet napkin, this is what she might sound like. LA Reid says "For one second, I felt like we were at a Melanie concert", which would be fine if he wasn't critiquing a two-minute performance.

Steve takes to the stage for a final summary, once again proving that his contribution to the show could be surpassed by a stage-hand shaking a magic-8 ball and reading out what appears in the little blue window.

Liver's too short

2011-11-28T21:39:00.001Z

I must be a sucker for punishment. As much as I might enjoy occasionally dipping my toe into the shallow waters of trash TV, the prospect of sitting through yet another scripted reality show, featuring an all-new cast of vacuous attention-hogs, fills me with dread. It seems as though every few weeks, a new one pops up on the EPG, like malignant melanomas on a sunbather’s neck.

This time around we're visiting Merseyside, to check in with another gaggle of fame-hungry wannabes. Why Liverpool? Well, I guess ‘Scouse’ lends itself more easily to punning titles than Aberystwyth. It also helps that the 'Pool is packed to the rafters with wannabe WAGs, models and stylists, all keen to elevate their 'minor local celebrity' status into something more durable.

With the stars of Made in Chelsea clopping over the horizon in their expensive shoes, and Mark Wright currently checking himself for ticks in the Australian jungle, the coast is clear for these new kids up on blocks (well, it is Liverpool after all) to take their turn in front of the cameras. Coming up in the next hour of ‘Desperate Scousewives’, we'll be meeting a couple of self-important bloggers, a gay 'power couple', the cousin of Abbey Crouch and a glamour model. Exciting times.

The name of the show is the only remotely creative thing about the whole enterprise, but even that falls apart when the opening credits begin. See, none of them are wives, and they’re clearly about as domesticated as a pack of feral dogs roaming a sink-estate. But that title has to be explained, so they’ve been dressed from the seconds bin of Ann Summers, and given a range of domestic cleaning utensils to brandish seductively. It does nothing for me, but I bet Ken Dodd’s got a rager.

Might as well start as we mean to go on, with a grating voiceover that’s like being kicked in the ear by a pantomime horse. This is Jodie, and she’s singing the praises of her home city, calling out all the things it’s renowned for, including “muzackhhhh, geyerrrls and billdins.” Jodie’s been away from the ‘Pool for too long, and now she’s back to stake her claim on the city. Her hair is whiter than Donnie Osmond, and the giant gold CND earrings seem like a last minute choice. But she gamely stands at the top of the steps outside the train station and bellows “Liverpool, I’m back”. It’s met with utter disinterest, except for one off-screen voice that mumbles “Gizzakiss.”

Later, Jodie complains to a loaf of Boswells (I believe that’s the correct collective noun) that in London, people thought she was Lady Gaga. Here in Liverpool, “No-one bats an eyelid”. That’s because they can’t – their lashes are simply too heavy. Undeterred by her hometown’s indifference, Jodie declares that she’s back in the ‘Pool to “smash it”. After one too many close-ups, I’m putting in money on the fact that the only thing likely to be smashed will end in seven years’ bad luck.

With our intermittent narrator now introduced, it’s time to meet the local bad-boy. Joe’s a player (we know this because every time he’s mentioned, someone points that out) and serial heart breaker. He’s currently trying to kick out Layla, having given her “a go” on his bed. Layla struggles gamely with one of the most artificial scenes I’ve ever seen on any of these shows, managing to muster a half-hearted sadface after Joe offers to walk her down to the cab he’d already called.

She’s left to stand on the street corner, all fur coat and no knickers – probably because they’re tucked behind Joe’s headboard. In a rare occurrence for one of these show, Layla finds herself with no-one to talk to, so she breaks the fourth wall and talks to the camera crew. She’s actually quite pretty, but her sullen demeanour makes her look like a depressed Thundercat. I shall call her Whine-O.

To perk things up a bit, we cut away to Debbie and Gill, who are out for a bit of early morning shopping with their hair in giant soup-can rollers. I imagine they’re supposed to be famous, so a couple of bystanders are goaded into approaching them for a photo with the opening line "We've seen all your modelling work and we think you're great." Remember the introductory voiceover that warned some of these scenes have been set up for out entertainment? I think this may be one of them. The two girls are browsing a dress shop, speaking in little four syllable bursts, every one of which? Goes up at the end? Like a question? But not really?

As Layla waits for her cab, another car whizzes past containing Elissa and Jaiden. She’s a ‘respected professional journalist’ and he’s the self-confessed ‘bitchiest blogger in Britain’. During the show, it emerges that Jaiden’s catchphrase is “I’m not being funny”. Having looked at his blog, I’m happy to confirm that fact. Since the two of them spend their days commenting on the other cast members, I suppose they’re our unofficial Greek chorus. Although I don’t recall Sophocles ever writing “Your hair extensions are shit.”

Jodie is now interviewing for a salon job with Mark and Chris. According to the show’s official website, Chris says "I think as a couple we will become a Power Couple. We have a positive image to promote amongst the gay community and hopefully help people who are yet to come out.” Someone should probably tell him that it takes more than a pocket-sized dog and a terraced house to be a ‘power couple’. In the only amusing exchange in the whole hour, Mark tells Jodie “We’re really looking at anal bleaching”, to which she responds with “That's a bit Hollywood isn't it. We're only in Anfield." She’s got a point, I can see plenty of orange twats, but not a single pasty arsehole.

In an effort to demonstrate her styling skills, Jodie gives a model what she calls ‘Scouse Eyebrows’ which end up looking like two strips of B-road running across the poor girl’s face. The boys don’t look too impressed, probably because the whole thing played out like a sketch on Russ Abbot’s Madhouse.

As the episode progresses, we realise that all of these characters are going to be attending the Juice FM Annual Style Awards. Perhaps there’s a new category for services to leopard print, in which case they’re all in with a shot. Even the boys. The editors insist on cutting back and forth between a bunch of people who all look the same, drinking Cava in push-up bras. I was going to laboriously describe each of these scenes, but it’d be even more boring to read than it was to sit through. So instead, let me tell you a story about the glory days of advertising.

Back in the 1960s, advertisers came up with a simple formula for selling products to housewives. The ads usually involved two women – an idiot, and the smarter neighbour who was here to show her the error of her ways, thanks to some miraculous new product. In advertising shorthand, this set-up was known as ‘Two cunts in a kitchen’, often abbreviated to 2Cs-in-a-K. Perhaps taking its cues from this tried and tested concept, Desperate Scousewives shows us 2Cs-in-a-bedroom, 2Cs-in-a-dress-shop, 2Cs-in-a-bar and 2Cs-in-a-hotel. It’s a shame they didn’t team up with QVC – a couple of product demos and they could have cleaned up. The only bright spot in these endless scenes of two women talking about bugger all, is when glamour model Amanda shows Chloe her sexy new calendar: “Ooh, how many pages are there?” asks her clueless protégé.

The less said about the ‘awards show’ the better, since it’s the least convincing event since Dale Winton married Nell McAndrew. The only people who seem to arrive are cast members of the show, and the two ‘paparazzi’ photographers look as though they’re probably on E4’s payroll. Meanwhile, our roving reporters Elissa and Jaiden hang out in the doorway snarking to people’s faces. Elissa says she’s waiting for “real celebrities”, so I hope she’s got thermals on under that green sack of a dress. She could be in for long night.

In a lazy attempt to initiate some fireworks, Elissa confronts Joe about their troubled history and Debbie makes a move on hotel magnate George. He tells her his family owns the Hilton hotel, but his last name is Panayiotou, so something doesn’t add up. Not to worry, I doubt Debbie does either.

The final scenes involve Amanda tackling Jaiden for his bitchy tweets about her. She tells Chloe she’s going to give him a piece of her mind, but I’m not sure she’s got enough to spare. “End of story,” she boldly declares, and I can’t help wishing that someone would. She and Jaiden argue about who ranks lower in the celebrity universe, accusing each other of being Z-list. In all honesty, neither of them even rank on the English alphabet. If there’s a celebrity list where these two belong, I think it starts with a Wingding.

Driving me Mad

2011-11-25T16:37:00.001Z

This been a banner year for comic book fans with a taste for nostalgia. Spielberg’s Tintin adaptation has kicked off an extensive online debate between bande dessinée enthusiasts, over the relative merits of the bequiffed Belgian and his historically dubious Gallic neighbour Asterix. Likewise, Karl Urban's imminent Judge Dredd reboot has reignited an enthusiastic reappraisal of 2000AD. But there's one classic comic that deserves its own tribute - a title that unites fans across the generations.

Unfortunately, Mad is unlikely to experience a similar resurgence of popularity, since instead of inspiring movies, it was content to satirise them. Nonetheless, for those who fell victim to cover-boy Alfred E. Neuman's gap-toothed charms, it remains without equal.

Growing up, we all had our heroes. But whereas most of my contemporaries worshipped football icons like Ian Rush and Kevin Keegan, my idea of a dream team involved the legendary pairing of Drucker and DeBartolo. From the moment I first picked up a copy of Mad magazine in the summer of 1985, it was love at first sight. Whenever my schoolmates would wax lyrical about Hoddle and Waddle, I reimagined them as sound effects in one of Don Martin's classic cartoon strips featuring those characteristically floppy shoes. Unlike sportsmen, who are lucky to enjoy a golden period of ten years at best, Mad's cabal of artists and writers remained at the top of their game for over four decades. So it didn't matter to me if they thought the 4-4-2 formation was shorthand for the ideal panel layout.

For the next decade I never missed an issue, even saving my pocket money in order to buy up old back issues, as well as the quarterly 'super specials'. In fact, I still have every copy I ever bought, although they now sit gathering dust in a grey packing crate in the attic. So it'd been a good few years since I'd last opened an issue. But all that changed recently when I took the plunge and bought Absolutely Mad, a single DVD-Rom containing full PDFs of every single edition published between 1952 and 2005 - that's over 40,000 pages on a single disc. Even better, I realised that the issues could be easily transferred onto my iPad, which meant that I was able to take over 600 issues of my favourite magazine on holiday.

Swiping effortlessly through the decades, I was amazed at how quickly the memories all came flooding back, right down to some of the individual gags and illustrations. It was like attending an impromptu school reunion, only populated by people I actually wanted to see again: Spy vs Spy, Dave Berg's Lighter Side, Sergio Aragone's Drawn-out-Dramas, Frank Jacob's incredible rhyming skills and Al Jaffee's doubly impressive legacy of fold-ins and 'Snappy Answers to Stupid Questions'. Good times.

And then there was all that breathtaking artwork. Jack Davis always had an army of fans, many of whom recalled his glory days as the flagship artist behind EC's gloriously grisly terror titles, such as Tales From The Crypt and Vault of Horror. But no-one comes close to Mort Drucker for his unnerving accuracy, and the ability to pack a double-page spread with more detail than could possibly be appreciated in a single viewing.

These days, the technique of caricature has been diminished by all those talentless hacks who knock out five-minute sketches for easily-pleased tourists. But Drucker was something else. In fact, he was so respected for his attentive artistry that he was even invited to create the official poster illustration for George Lucas' American Graffiti. Which stood him in good stead a few months later, when he found himself revisiting the film for Mad's inevitable spoof of the movie. By contrast, Angelo Torres always felt like something of an also-ran, his sketches lacking the warmth, shading and appeal of his more fondly-remembered colleague.

Revisited as a complete archive, rather than in monthly instalments, Mad becomes more than just a knockabout compilation of satire and spoofery. It's also a stunningly insightful document of social change, reflecting every major craze, fad and trend that emerged over five tumultuous decades. In particular, the seventies recorded shifting dissatisfaction with the war in Vietnam, the indignation of a country betrayed by its Commander-in-Chief, and the escalating friction between the establishment and those agitating for social progression.

Deserving a special shout-out is the December 1970 issue, which featured article after article satirising the "loud minority" and its impact on contemporary American society. Despite being aimed predominantly at school-age readers, the repeated references to civil disobedience, civil rights and drug use, vividly depict a country in crisis. Nowhere is this more evident that in Dave Berg's Lighter Side strip, usually the most conservative feature in any given issue. Having spent several pages criticising the counter-cultural movement for its double standards, the final strip offers up the depressingly downbeat admission that maybe the rebellious youth had a point. You didn't get that in the Beano.

Despite his conservative leanings, publisher William M Gaines had built a solid reputation for his socially liberal perspective, populating his controversial horror comics with bitterly ironic stories that exposed prejudice and avarice in everyday life. Despite the criticism that the comics received for their grisly illustrations and macabre set-pieces, it was these moral subtexts which really stood out for their young readers.

In contrast, as Mad grew into a comic institution, the editors took great care to ensure a more even hand on any topic, demonstrating a laudable commitment to exploring both sides of every argument. They even went so far as to run dual covers at election time, congratulating both candidates on their successful runs - a joke they repeated several times over the years. As long-time editor Al Feldstein explained recently, "We even used to rake the hippies over the coals. They were protesting the Vietnam War, but we took aspects of their culture and had fun with it. Mad was wide open. Bill loved it, and he was a capitalist Republican. I loved it, and I was a liberal Democrat. That went for the writers, too; they all had their own political leanings, and everybody had a voice. But the voices were mostly critical. It was social commentary, after all."

And yet, although the majority of articles ultimately pointed towards a more progressive point-of-view, revisiting them from a 21st century perspective, it's clear to see where the writers and artists struggled with the dawning of a new world order. The credibility of some great articles is occasionally undermined by a casual racism and homophobia. Blacks were often characterised as violent drug users, whereas homosexuality was carelessly conflated with transvestism and paedophilia. The fact that the editors were still comfortable in 1982 showing Christopher Reeve saying "I play a screaming faggot," when describing his role in Deathtrap, suggests that some attitudes took a little longer to evolve.

But these are really minor quibbles, since the 'Usual Gang of Idiots' set their own bar so high. If you want a comprehensive snapshot of the history of popular culture, politics and society, you'd be hard-pressed to find a more thorough or accurate representation.

Looking back now, the jokes are often stilted and predictable. Likewise, some of the second-tier illustrators had a decidedly amateurish technique. But I'm reviewing them through adult eyes, which is never how Mad was intended to be seen. And that's really the reason it endured as a satire powerhouse for over half a century. Jokes may not be timeless, but quality is.

The consistency of its tone and style allowed subsequent generations to discover Mad for themselves, via their own cultural touchpoints. It didn't matter what decade you were born in, Mad peeled back the veneer to reveal how the world really worked. It bit its thumb at marketing techniques. It exposed moralising leaders as venal hypocrites. And it happily deconstructed Hollywood's penchant for self-glorification. It introduced me to movies I was too young to see, told me about TV shows long before they were broadcast in the UK, and gave me a crash course in Yiddish slang. I didn't know what 'schmuck' meant, but I was convinced that my school was full of them.

As much a rite of passage as your first drink or adult movie, Mad represents a specific period in time for anyone who ever got lost in its black and white pages. I still marvel at the fact that I reminisce with people twice my age about the same magazine. Our recollections may differ, depending on the era in which we read it, but there's enough commonality for us to connect across the decades. In our minds' eye, the pictures may have changed, but the names remain the same.

Not much to be thankful for

2011-11-24T20:06:00.001Z

It's amazing how much can change in a fortnight. Two weeks ago, it seemed as though the UK's entertainment reserves had run dry, with the X-Factor showcasing about as much 'world class' talent as your average episode of Rentaghost. Meanwhile, Simon's experimental debut season of the show's US equivalent was laughing in our face with an endless parade of precociously capable singers.

By the time I got back from my holiday (lovely, thank you), the world of TV talent shows had rocked on its axis. Having purged itself of all the headline-grabbing novelty acts, X-Factor UK was finally starting to resemble a talent contest. On the other hand, X-Factor USA had devolved into a tedious blur of self-indulgent over-singing and too much talk of performers' "inner light". So let's see what delights our transatlantic cousins have in-store for us tonight.

Tonight's episode is the Thanksgiving special, so they're going to be dedicating their songs to someone who's made a difference in their lives. Sorry Brian Friedman, I don't expect you'll be getting too many shout-outs. Let's give a nice, warm who-are-you-again welcome to our affable, sorry, laughable host Steve Jones. He's the TV presenter equivalent of those books that IKEA use to dress their Ivar shelving units - handsomely bound but disappointingly empty inside. You know you're on a downward trajectory when you find yourself missing Dermot's agent-may-care insouciance.

Steve's eyebrows are dancing with delight at the news that two acts will be going home this week. He should be thanking his lucky stars that the audience don't get to cast votes for the presenter. Here come our judges, and we need to give a special shout-out to Paula's leathery chesticles, which seem to be acting independently of the rest of her torso. Perhaps sensing that his lunch was about to revisit him, the cameraman whip-cuts to Simon, who's also drawing attention to his fun-bags with a single finger. Now I can taste my lunch again.

Tonight's first performer is Rachel Crow, who sings like an angel but occasionally looks like a Chucky doll. It's hard to be cynical about a kid who was born addicted to crack, and it certainly shames the UK contestants' woeful sob-stories about asthmatic cats or a bad case of the sniffles. Rachel's singing a song that's "inspirational rather than sad", which is nice. Unfortunately, it's also shouty rather than tuneful. And I genuinely feel bad for a perky 13 year-old forced to dress like something you'd find on Susan Boyle's knick-knack shelf. In typically overblown style, Nicole's talking about her shining light, Paula's seeing angels on Earth, and Simon's got funny little dollar signs pencilled onto his eye-lids.

Marcus is a nice kid, and we get to hear about the sacrifices his Mum made to give her kids "positive energy". We get lots of digitally-aged black and white footage of Marcus growing up, which would be fine if it weren't for the fact that these scenes are supposed to represent the late nineties, rather than the Depression. He's sitting on a perspex staircase and singing an uncomfortably literal Boyz II Men song about his mum, who spends the entire song fanning herself with her hand. I'm not sure whether she's overwhelmed with emotion or just in danger of asphyxiating in the plumes of dry ice. They're really overdoing the fog machine - all that's missing is Jamie Lee Curtis and a hook-handed pirate. You'll notice I haven't mentioned the vocals - consider yourself lucky. Tellingly, the judges spend more time praising his mum's performance.

Steve's doing his best, announcing "we're LIVE in Los Angeles" only to be met with utter indifference. I'm sure that if the camera had stayed on him, we'd have seen an audience member lean in and say "Sorry, this seat's taken". Melanie's dedicating the song to God, who never let her down and is the only person who really listens to her. Fair point - I tuned out halfway through. If nothing else, the VT serves to demonstrate what an amazing job the stylists and make-up artists do on this show when it comes to the performances.

She's doing a great job with R Kelly's The World's Greatest. It takes an impressive set of pipes to avoid being drowned out by a twenty-strong gospel choir, but she manages it. Melanie spends the last third of the song staring at the roof, which means she's either connecting with her Lord or she's spotted a sniper in the rigging. Strangely, she has a little outburst after her song where her speaking accent suddenly changes into a kind of Virgin Island patois. None of the judges seem to notice, so we're all good.

Chris is up next, talking about his methamphetamine addiction, which ended up in a nasty car accident. After that, he cleaned up his act thanks to his counsellor, who gets a song dedicated to him. Everyone's very nice and thankful, but that might change when they hear his early-90s hip-hop version of Let It Be. Even Marky Mark's Funky Bunch would have given this a thumbs-down. Three of the judges are dancing, can you guess which one's sitting down? Honestly, that Paula's a miserable bitch. In the feedback, Paula talks about "why we fell in love with you in the first place", whereas Simon references "why we first liked you". And we wonder why Mezhgan Hussainy is no closer to getting him down the aisle.

Poor old Paula - she only has one act left. They may sound like someone's piss-poor attempt at creating a porn name, but Lakoda Rayne are actually pretty good. Imagine taking Wilson Phillips, and splitting the fat one in two, you'd have a good idea of what this photogenic foursome look and sound like. Correction - what they usually sound like. This is not a good week for them, particularly since they've been overwhelmed by a Taylor Swift song. Not that any of it matters, since the judges loved it, and Paula's weeping again.

Nicole is proud to introduce LeRoy Bell, the uncannily youthful 60 year-old. He may only look as though he's in his mid-thirties, but at least this is one contestant whose archive footage didn't need to be artificially aged. He's doing this for his mum who died a couple of years ago - it's very touching, until you remember that she was probably in her mid-eighties, in which case she had a good innings. He's wrapping his gravelly tones around Sarah McLachlan's Angel. Apart from Melanie, this is the only song that's been in tune all evening. He's even mastered the Westlife-style barstool key change maneuver: no doubt about it, the man's a pro. Here comes the choir again - might as well make use of them if you're paying for the whole hour. Paula's crying again, and I'm surprised that she's got any moisture left. If anyone else pushes her buttons she's going to need an IV drip. Steve's on hand to say "Amazing, it felt like you were singing it for yer Mam". Way to go Steve, demonstrating just how much attention you're paying to the show.

Next up it's time for Astro, the petulant little shithead who briefly refused to perform in the sing-off last week. There's no denying the kid has talent, since he writes most of his own raps. What's less convincing is the act of contrition he gives in his intro. He starts his song saying "What are you gonna do? I'm fifteen... I'm from Brooklyn". Well, that's alright then. The stage is mostly empty, but for a set of silvery steps. I'm really rooting for a guest appearance from Jo Frost - make the stroppy fucker sit on the naughty one for ten minutes until he's ready to apologise properly. Paula believes that Astro is "well on the way to being prolific", which suggests that she's using her only dictionary to prop up a wonky side table. She wants to be an 'Astro-Naut', which shouldn't be too much of a stretch for a space cadet.

Simon's nostrils are flared with delight as he introduces Drew, Carly Simon's fourteen year-old mini-me. She's dedicating her song to her best friend Shelby. Their mums reminisce about when they were "little girls", which must have been about six weeks ago. She's singing Skyscraper and it's a great showcase for her quirky vocals. We even get a close-up of Simon's now customary 'fuck me' face, which he does every time he hears something that sounds like the ker-ching of a cash-register. LA Reid complains that Drew isn't singing age-appropriate songs, which is odd since Skyscraper was first performed by Demi Lovato, who still can't drink legally in most US states.

Closing tonight's show is Josh, who's singing for his thirteen year-old daughter. He may have a face for radio, but he's got a great gravelly tone. If the music career doesn't work out, he'd make a great voice-over guy for movie trailers. Vertical light beams, grand piano and a storming version of the Stones' Wild Horses, result in an across-the-board standing ovation from the judges. Or maybe DVT was just setting in after two hours in those leather chairs. It was a great performance but Nicole's teary declaration that "your music will change the world" might be over egging it a touch.

Steve ends the proceedings by saying "On a personal note, it's been a special night." Someone give this man an Emmy. And a one-way ticket back to Wales.

Recipe for disaster

2011-11-23T22:36:00.001Z

There was a time when I couldn’t get enough of Come Dine With Me. I could happily waste four hours of a Sunday afternoon, listening to Dave Lamb sniping about posh housewives fucking up a soufflé, or ex-dinner ladies revealing their secret for a quick coulis – Robertson’s jam and a splash of hot water.

But the format’s starting to look a little tired, so lazy TV executives are keen to find a similar concept that will appeal to the same crowd, with just enough tweaks to make it feel fresh again. Like the telly equivalent of Monday leftovers.

And so it is that we’ve been invited to attend The Devil’s Dinner Party (cue ominous music). This new show mixes elements of CDWM, Big Brother and, my personal favourite, Without Prejudice, stirring them into a lumpy broth of snap judgements, bitchy backbiting and napkin rings. There’s also an ominous host – the unfortunately named Pip Torrens - who claims to be doing the devil’s bidding. Given that this is a Sky production, that might not be an entirely erroneous claim. Pip looks and acts like Lurch from the Addams Family, with a smidge of Evan Davies’ creepy ‘leather daddy’ vibe.

Pip explains that six strangers have been invited to dinner, and one will walk away the winner, having been voted the most popular guest at the table. Along the way, others will be eliminated. This is how Agatha Christie’s dinner parties usually ended up, so let’s see who’s going to end up on the business end of a shrimp fork.

After a burst of Apprentice-lite cab-porn, we meet our contestants. Francesca is a presenter “of mostly online stuff” which instantly gets the boys picturing her twiddling a phone cord around her finger and giving it the old come-hither. Amanda works with older people, and seems to have come disguised as one of them. Danny’s a recruiter in the city, and is so oily that he should come with his own breadsticks.

Layla is a brassy, take-no-prisoners Aussie, who claims to wear her heart on her sleeve. Unfortunately, she’s left the sleeves at home, along with a fitted bra. Since she’s going to spend most of the evening spilling out of her unforgiving LBD, I’m going to keep my fingers crossed that no-one brings a melon-baller to the table, otherwise this dinner might end with a trip to A&E.

Tony is a commercial interior decorator and part-time actor, but gives the immediate impression that he’s not been overly successful in either venture. More on that later. Finally, there’s Ryan, who works in IT and promises to “have chemistry with all the women”. He spends most of his VT complaining how stupid and dull everyone else is. Which is a little odd, since if I was stuck at a dinner party with him, I’d sooner strike up a conversation with the curtains.

As his guests make their awkward introductions, Lurch looms into view to announce, “I make the Devil’s mischief. It’s time to play.” Strap on your ball-gags, tonight’s safety word is “crabcake”.

The set dressers have gone overboard with the gothic styling, but all the candles in the world can’t hide the fact that it still looks like a Barratt’s showhome. Suddenly, Lurch is back to hit the guests with their first nasty surprise. Someone’s going home without so much as an amuse-bouche. The diners quickly vote, and it’s revealed that Danny will not be joining them for dinner. He might have professed to “enjoy meeting people” but clearly the feeling isn’t always mutual.

As the guests take their seats, their host tells them “You’ve earned your first £1,000. But here is where you start paying.” Throw in some sweaty leg warmers and this could be Debbie Allen’s intro to Fame.

Over the next twenty minutes, each guest is taken away from the table to answer a probing question, with the barked instruction “Write an answer. Do. Not. Speak.” Meanwhile, the other guests have to guess how their missing member would answer the question.

Ryan is first in the hot seat, and has to decide who he would offer a room to – a family of refugees, a 16 year-old single mum, a rehabilitated ex-offender, or a single man who’d had a mental breakdown. I’m guessing he’s not an Express reader, otherwise he’d have just tried to slash his own throat with the answer card, rather than make the choice.

Having guessed Ryan’s answer incorrectly (he’d take the guy with a mental breakdown), it’s time for Layla to face a grilling. She’s asked how attractive she’d score herself out of ten. They think she’s an eight, but would probably score herself lower. In fact, she confidently declares that she’s an eight. All I can say is that Lurch must pour a pretty strong drink.

Now it’s Amanda’s turn. Who’s the most forgettable in the group? Once again, they get it wrong because they’re all trying too hard to be polite. No-one wants to tell Francesca that she’s pretty but dull. So they make up some bullshit about her being out of Amanda’s line of sight. It’s not like she’s spent the evening crouched behind a potted palm.

Lurch is back again, with the ominous warning that someone is certain to suffer. Given the line up around the table, I’d say that they’re all in the same boat there. Meanwhile, Amanda throws Tony a non-sequitur “If you’re a single dad, how old’s your child?” And that’s from a psychologist.

Tony takes the hot seat next, to reveal how successful out of ten he thinks he’s been in life. Divorced, redundant, running a failing business – is there a therapist hovering in the utility room? No need to worry, he’s a happy eight. That irks Ryan no end, who points out that if Trump and Sugar are tens, how can Jacko from Brush Strokes possibly score himself eight?

Lurch returns to ask gravely “Ladies and gentlemen, do you think you can win this complex contest?” I’m not sure where he got ‘complex’ from, maybe he’s watching Mr & Mrs on a black and white portable in the kitchen while his guests are making short work of the sorbets.

The guests all take a card from a pile and it’s revealed that Layla’s is marked. According to Lurch, she has an unpleasant task to perform. I hope she brought some mouthwash, just in case he’s been nibbling the asparagus when no-one was looking. Not to worry, it turns out she just has to select her least favourite guest for immediate eviction. In a less than surprising turn of events, she chooses Francesca, who grabs her coat and makes a hasty exit.

The group’s final challenge sees Tony trying to figure out which of his fellow diners is a member of Mensa. He guesses incorrectly, choosing Amanda instead of Ryan, who scoffs in his VT “No-one else around the table would have a snowball’s chance of getting into Mensa.” That’s hardly going to see their membership applications soaring, unless they’re still operating a cunts-only door policy.

Before the chocolate fondants have even been served, it’s time for the group to select a winner. And in time-honoured tradition, they choose the biggest wanker at the table. One small consolation is that Ryan only walks away with £1,000 since they were all so hopeless at guessing the answers. He’s happy enough, telling the camera “I cheated, I lied, I did what I have to.” Sensing that this isn’t exactly an upbeat ending for the pilot episode, Lurch warns us that the wicked find no solace in sleep. That may be so, but an easy grand could help them locate it in Spearmint Rhino.

Terminator to Governator to Commentator

2011-11-21T15:13:00.001Z

It's hard to believe that DVDs have been part of our lives for over thirteen years now. In fact there's a whole generation of movie fans who never experienced the joys of buying ex-rental video tapes in giant display cases from dodgy market traders.

My first taste of the digital revolution came in 1999, when I snapped up a copy of The Exorcist on the shiny new format. At the time I didn't even have a DVD player, but I was so excited that William Friedkin's masterpiece was finally available for home viewing after years in the censorship wilderness, I couldn't resist splashing out the extra few quid. A few weeks later, with the necessary hardware duly connected (Scart-enabled plug-n-play, God bless you), I loaded the disc and sat in wonderment as a twenty five year-old film came to life, looking as pin sharp as the first time it gave ex-BBFC boss James Ferman the collywobbles.

But even better than the remastered picture and sound, was the promise of extra content. It used to be that the film itself was enough reason to buy a sell-through video, but DVD ushered in the era of bonus features. Out-takes, documentaries, gag-reels, EPK footage - all designed to gradually pick apart the magic of the movies, like watching a Nigel Slater cooking show in reverse.

As much as I love the behind-the-scenes footage, my favourite DVD extra has always been the director's commentary. A relic from the long-forgotten laserdisc format, commentaries invite viewers into an exclusive screening with the film's makers, as they lay bare the struggles and pressures of getting a film onto the big screen. Unlike the studio-endorsed promotional footage, where an endless parade of grinning actors wax lyrical about how "Rob Schneider is a true renaissance man", or how "Adam Sandler has singlehandedly transformed the concept of modern comedy", the director's commentary is where you find the real meat.

For instance, The Texas Chain Saw Massacre commentary features director Tobe Hooper and original Leatherface Gunnar Hansen, complaining about the fact that the actor who played Franklin was an insufferable arsehole. Elsewhere, you'll find film-makers bitching about studio interference, failed effects work and the perils of censorship. Locked away in a dark screening room, often with plenty of alcohol on hand, the artifice is stripped away, leaving you with a much clearer insight into what went on during filming.

However, not all commentaries are created equal. Robert Zemeckis might be a dynamic and visually inspired director, but his talk-tracks are about as much fun as giving Michael Winner a pedicure. Likewise, many once-vibrant auteurs quickly reveal themselves to be depressed geriatrics, less concerned with exploring the magic of movies than they are with staving off their inevitable return to the care home.

And then there are the literalists. The ones who can't help but describe what's happening on screen. Occasionally, this lapse in focus can be excused - when the film is truly compelling, it's easy to understand how someone can momentarily lose their train of thought and get hooked on what's taking place in the movie. Thankfully, most of them remember why they're there, and get the commentary back on track.

Arnold Schwarzenegger is not one of them. His two-hander with Paul Verhoeven (usually a must-listen commentator, thanks to his unapologetically brutal honesty) on the chat-track for Total Recall is a sublime exercise in stating the obvious.

A 'best bits' edit is currently going viral and it's worth five minutes of anyone's time - it's almost as if he thought he was providing the audio description track for partially sighted viewers. Particularly entertaining are the moments where he explains the subtle nuances of his scenes with Sharon Stone. Clearly, these are two acting titans at the top of their game, so it's understandable that we'd need their inner motivations explaining in graphic detail: "Because she's trying so hard for me not to see the news, you can see here with the eye, and then no matter what I do - the kissing, the hugging with her, I'm more interested in what's going on on Mars." Let's just hope that James Lipton is taking notes.

Elsewhere, there are other priceless gems, such as a shot of Arnold on a jackhammer - "Here I am in my job, I'm a construction worker". And let's not forget the triple-titted hooker opening her blouse as the Austrian Oak babbles excitedly "She has three breasts hah? That's the one with three breasts."

I know that not everyone can understand the appeal of commentaries. Even Steven Spielberg refuses to record them because he hates the idea of anyone, even him, talking through one of his films. But next time you're at a loose end and can't face rewatching something you've already seen a million times, try changing the audio track - you might just get a completely new perspective on an old favourite. Unless Arnie's doing the voiceover, of course.

Thief in the night

2011-11-03T17:01:00.000Z

The problem with the Daily Mail (as if that could ever be narrowed down to a single issue) is that it holds a morbid fascination for anyone who doesn't see life through the prism of Viz's Victorian Dad. Like the notorious 'Two Girls, One Cup' video, it draws people in with its hateful editorial stance and equally loathsome columnists. We know we're going to be disgusted, but we just can't help taking a peek. And then sharing with like-minded friends. It's the journalistic equivalent of trying those disgusting sweets that someone brings back from overseas, and then encouraging everyone else to have a suck, so they can experience the foulness for themselves. Meanwhile, Paul Dacre sits back in his throne and watches the web traffic spike.

It's happening again today, as Liz Jones continues her ongoing campaign of self-immolation by admitting that she stole her boyfriend's sperm and tried to impregnate herself while he was sleeping. It's bad enough being forced to picture her in flagrante, but the image is made a hundred times worse when imagining her staggering bow-legged to the ensuite with a used johnny full of man-fat and a hungry expression in her beady, lifeless eyes. She's like the Tooth Fairy, only armed with a turkey baster instead of a pair of dental pliers.

Since logic and humility have never paid more than a fleeting visit to Liz's door, I'm forced to contemplate the notion that she's actually a fictional creation. An impeccably drawn amalgam of Adrian Mole and Alan Partridge. Only a comic genius could rationalise sperm stealing from a prospective babydaddy with the bon mot: "I thought it was my right, given that he was living with me and I had bought him many, many M&S ready meals." Given her famous money worries, I just pray that she managed to score three courses for a tenner.

As Justin Bieber faces the consequences of thirty brief seconds "fucking the shit" out of a fan (someone should explain to him that's not how babies get made) he should perhaps heed Liz's words of caution for future reference: "I don’t understand why more men aren’t wise to this risk — maybe sex addles their brain. So let me offer a warning to men wishing to avoid any chance of unwanted fatherhood: if a woman disappears to the loo immediately after sex, I suggest you find out exactly what she is up to." In Liz's world, vaginal cleanliness is optional.

In customary fashion, the succubus of Somerset gives herself a free pass, instead choosing to point the finger at women in general. Apparently most women in their thirties are "duplicitous creatures", conspiring to wank you in your sleep and run off to the loo with a fistful of your baby gravy - like Geri Halliwell in the throws of bulimia, covertly fishing chocolate cake out of George Michael's bin.

Meanwhile, another classic Mail creation is busy pointing the cum-soaked finger of blame elsewhere, when it comes to illegitimate children. Amanda Platell, a woman who could curdle the milk of human kindness, has unleashed a vitriolic attack on Hugh Grant. She's still pissed off that the affable toff made a good showing on Newsnight and Question Time, speaking eloquently about the abuses of the press in light of the phone hacking scandal.

So she pulls no punches in accusing him of being a commitment-phobic lounge lizard who consorts with prostitutes and then dissolves into an "orgy of self-pity". Amanda has nothing but sympathy for the poor child, born to a "lonely, bitter" father. In fact, she fears for the day when Hugh's daughter "reads the lurid accounts of her father’s arrest for procuring a sex act in a car on Sunset Boulevard from a prostitute..." Hopefully, unless it's buried behind a paywall, she'll be able to find everything she needs in Amanda's many, many columns on the subject.

And there you have it. Women are a bunch of baby-obsessed jizz snatchers, harvesting men's seed by the light of the moon, and men are thoughtless brat factories; existing only to plough their furrow and dash at the first sign of a late period. No wonder the Mail wants us to return to the 1950s, if this is the best that 21st century humanity has to offer.

Welcome to the horror show

2011-10-30T22:45:00.002Z

True to its intentions, Saturday’s Halloween-themed edition of the X-Factor showed us unimaginable horrors, like someone had opened The Lament Configuration backstage at Fountain Studios. In just over a week the show has gone from slightly troubled to properly cursed. The judges can’t stand each other, one band member has flown the coop, another group had to find a new name and Kelly’s developed a conveniently-timed mystery illness. More on these fascinating developments later.

Here’s what went down on Saturday Night…

With Kelly stuck in LA, vacillating between being “unable to speak” and “talking to her girls on Skype everyday”, Dermot attempts to paper over the cracks, inviting Tulisa to send her warmest ‘get well soon’ to her fellow judge. Based on the insincerity of her performance, I can’t see too many people rushing out to see her new movie Demons Never Die.

But it’s not about the judges, we’re here for the talent, such as it is. Starting tonight’s show is The Risk, who’ve had a tougher week than Jimmy Savile. Just as they were starting to gel as a group, Ashley decided that the Halloween theme went against his Christian beliefs, and announced he was leaving the group. You’ll have to Google him, because I didn’t have a clue either. Not that it matters; he’s one of those boyband staples – the bookend who’s there to stop the proper singers from falling over.

After lots of crying and hugging, the boys shake it off and call one of the guys from Nu Vibe. Based on their phone technique, I’m a little worried that they think they’re on The Apprentice. Haven’t these people ever held a mobile before? Ashford is happy to accept the group’s kind offer, and they’re delighted that they don’t really have to learn any new names. Shorten it to ‘Ash’ and job’s a good ‘un.

Not that any of this matters, since Ashford’s arrival hasn’t made The Risk any better. This version of Thriller is the worst they’ve ever sounded, suggesting that the dearly departed Ashley was the boyband equivalent of Dumbo’s magic feather. Louis helpfully points out that “it’s a tough song to sing”. And so is any song if you’re not very good at singing. Alexandra Burke (actually Ronni Ancona doing a piss-poor impression of Kelly Rowland) shows off her extensive knowledge of boybands, but only manages to cite X-Factor endorsed groups. I smell a conspiracy.

Meanwhile, Tulisa is distracting me with her ill-advised costume. She was the only one who got the fancy dress memo, and turned up as Julie Newmar. The leather catsuit isn’t so bad, it’s the stick on ears that aren’t working. At times, it looks as if two members of the audience have brought their irons along to the studio and are offering to put a crease in Gary’s three-piece.

And now, “Here’s Johnny”, which he helpfully reminds us came from The Shining. Mark Kermode had better watch his back. Johnny’s keen to show a different side of himself this week, but since he’s so thin that he only exists in two dimensions, I’m concerned that the ‘other side’ will be the back of his head.

He’s doing a jazzy torch-song rendition of That Ole Devil Called Love, and it’s pretty good. Except for the fact that his entire performance is already in falsetto, so the key change is only discernible to dogs. Gary and Johnny’s flirting takes another step towards the kind of slash-fiction that nightmares are made of, and Louis burbles excitedly that Johnny’s a classic jazz singer who should be performing at Ronnie Scott’s. In other news, London’s most famous jazz club takes the phone off the hook and offers the remainder of its lease to a Subway franchisee.

Someone hit the snooze alarm, it’s time for Sophie to remind us all that she exists. As usual, the VT is full of “I really want people to remember me” guff, followed by a trip to the pub where she used to work. She meets a friend and they sit down for a quick catch-up: Sophie “What’s it been like down here? Everyone missing me?” Friend “And you are…?” She sang something, but I can’t for the life of me remember what it was. Funny that. Alexandra proved that it’s not just the contestants who can irritate the fizzy piss out of me, by saying “There was some slight tuning issues babe”. And it didn’t take too long for that perceptive nugget to start trending on Twitter.

Thankfully, Marcus was on hand to give the show a much-needed shot of adrenaline. We know how the X-Factor loves a good mash up, and so Marcus gives us Superstition, with INXS’ Need You Tonight running through it. After the uninspiring performances so far, it’s nice to see someone in command of the stage, even if he has overdone the guyliner. The judges point out that Marcus “is doing something right”. It’s called ‘singing’. Just FYI.

Rather scarily, we’re in danger of being entertained for ten straight minutes, as Marcus is followed by Misha, who’s sculpted her hair into a threatening rhino horn and tears up Tainted Love like a pro. Tulisa attempts to backtrack on last week’s bullying accusations, and explains that she just wants Misha to be her best. Strangely, she neglects to mention that she’d been getting well jelz about Misha calling her boyfriend Fazer. So it’s not just tuning that’s taken a holiday from this series, professionalism and maturity are also on extended leave. Louis offers us an unfortunate impression of Kelly, saying “You put it down babygirl.” The nation issues a collective shudder strong enough to trigger a seismic event.

What started out as quirky and interesting has now become tiresome and predictable, as Janet gulps and yodels her way through a flat rendition of Every Breath You Take. It seems as though her once distinctive technique has jumped the shark, before doubling back to bore it to death. She’s singing about the fact that wherever her lover goes, she’ll be watching them. But she might have trouble making out any of the detail with those clumpy eyelashes.

Continuing our descent into the gaping maws of hell, here’s Frankie with an irritatingly self-referential song choice. ‘Should I stay or should I go’ he yells, and ten million people bite their lip so hard they’ll be tasting blood until Tuesday. In his VT, Frankie admits “I done a few things I weren’t so proud of”. Like mangling grammar, for instance. As an aside, it’s worth mentioning that minutes after this show finishes, Frankie appears on the Xtra-Factor to announce proudly that this week he “banged” Holly Hagan, a random piece of detritus that washed up on Geordie Shore. Not that I can blame her, I’d like to bang Frankie. In a car door, until he loses consciousness.

Kitty’s up next, with two-toned hair, a horned corset and that curious Christian Slater brow of hers. She tells us that she doesn’t want to be someone else, which makes me question the wisdom of pursuing a career as a Britney Spears/Lady Gaga impersonator. She starts the show spinning on a knife-throwers wheel, as countless viewers at home subconsciously make a grab for the silver-wear. The judges don’t want to praise her too much, but Louis gets defensive when Alexandra accuses it of being “a little cabaret.” Burke shuts him down with the inane retort: “You gotta get the words right OK dot com.” And then Twitter explodes. Dot com.

Tulisa’s other group have also had a tricky week. Rhythmix, a music charity that works with disadvantaged kids, went public about their legal wrangles with Syco over the fact that they had the name first. Sensing that one too many scandals could kill the show, the girls are instructed to come up with a new name. And since Weetabix, Tixylix, Getafix, Magimix and Pick n Mix are all taken, they settle on Little Mix. Which sounds like a character from She-Ra.

The haterz have also made the last few days difficult for the girls, with Twitter bullies calling them fat and ugly. They’re clearly quite upset about it, so it’s good that the camera crew happened to be around to catch it all. Hopefully, the nastiness will stop as soon as they take away Misha’s internet access.

On with the show, and tonight they’re performing Katy Perry’s ET on swings. They’re wearing creepy make-up that’s been designed to look as if their faces have been stretched to fit their heads. I think it’s a tribute to Kitty.

Last, and not quite least, is Craig. He’s left his duffel coat on – but they do say that rapid weight loss can leave you feeling the cold. He’s doing an interesting version of Adele’s ‘Set Fire To The Rain’ that involves no consonants whatsoever. It’s a bold experiment, but not entirely intelligible.

Now we’re onto the results show, so consider that first part an extended recap, like the one that ITV uses to fill the first fifteen minutes of Sunday’s show.

Dermot starts the show by introducing the judges and special guest ‘Alexander Burke’. He’s ditched the shiny suits in favour of one that they could have buried Bill Owen in. Tulisa’s still trying to make that arm thing happen. I’d assumed it had something to do with the tattoo, but maybe she’s trying to point out a medical alert bracelet. Let’s hope someone’s on stand-by with an epinephrine pen in case she swallows a peanut.

Hurrah, the group song is back. If you needed any more proof that Marcus is really the best singer in this, consider the fact that he opens the song singing live, whereas the rest come on to mime their bits. But a special shout-out has to go to Johnny, who mimes ‘making love’ in a way that makes me want to mutilate my own genitals so that I might never know such horrors. The song finishes, and Little Mix shoot each other a look that says “Is that it?” This just reeks of professionalism.

Our first guest of the night is Cher Lloyd, and it doesn’t take long to run through her accomplishments in the introductory VT. She looks pretty and she’s singing reasonably well. But the best thing to be said about the song is the fact that it’s not Swagger Jagger. I know this show has a reputation for odd staging, but dressing the backing dancers like Grayson Perry must be the weirdest decision yet.

But that’s not all – we’ve also got Nicole Scherzinger in the house tonight. She’s writing around on the floor like she’s got a g-string full of fivers, on a set that could have been modelled on Peter Stringfellow’s en-suite. It’s a timely reminder of the fact that she’s glad to be out of the Pussycat Dolls, and doesn’t have to dress sluttily anymore. It’s the kind of vocal performance designed to say “Look, I can really sing”, but the song itself is lost in all the hair flipping, smoke, wind machine, glitter canons and disco lasers. All that’s missing is the stench of amyl nitrate.

Time to kick someone off, so “Here’s Alexandra Burke with Kelly’s girls”. That’s what they used to call office temps isn’t it? Might be worth keeping in mind if this singing lark doesn’t work out for them. And it’s all eyes on Kelly’s girls tonight, as act after act is saved, but none of them coming from Alexandra’s cluster. Finally, Janet breaks the curse, which leaves just Frankie, Misha and Sophie. And Frankie’s safe, because we’re a nation of twats. Kelly’s going to go fucking mental.

No need to wait for her shocked reaction next week. They’ve got her on the blower, croaking her best ‘phoning in sick voice’. Let’s just be grateful that she didn’t feel the need to tell us how many times she’s been to the toilet, or that it’s coming out of both ends.

The girls have done their ‘save me’ song, and I’ve already forgotten Sophie’s, whereas Misha sang ‘Use Somebody’ and broke down on the last note. I’d like to say that it could go either way, but the judges are having to look at Dermot’s autocue to remind themselves of Sophie’s name. Tulisa launches into a rambling monologue that would have Ronnie Corbett yelling “For fuck’s sake get on with it”.

With three votes already cast, sealing Sophie’s fate, Dermot says “Gary, it’s an impossible question, but how would you have voted?” Gary answers straight away, proving that anything is possible, and Dermot’s an idiot. Looking back at Sophie’s best bits (it was a short reel), we’re reminded that under that brutal fringe is a pretty girl. Sadly, it’s too late to sack the hairdresser. Dot com.

Blockbusters face extinction

2011-10-27T21:18:00.001+01:00

Admitting that you enjoy blockbusters is a little bit like telling people you watch X-Factor for the music. It's the kind of declaration that tends to be met with dramatic eye-rolls. Usually from people who'd have you believe that they enjoy nothing more than a wet Sunday afternoon curled up in front of Krzysztof Kieślowski's Trois Couleurs trilogy. Even though it's usually bullshit - they might tell you that they queued up for tickets to a Truffaut retrospective on the South Bank, but in reality they were probably watching Scooby-Doo 2: Monsters Unleashed.

It doesn't help matters that Hollywood has gone out of its way to dumb down its tentpole summer pictures to the point that they're so shoddily written and directed, they take on an impenetrable surrealism of their own. I'm willing to hold the likes of Michael Bay, Stephen Sommers and Brett Ratner personally responsible, for unleashing wave after wave of stultifying, wasteful bullshit, and making a trip to the pictures about as appealing as cleaning Gillian McKeith's toilet with a KFC wet-wipe. But there's no need to give up hope just yet - the Blu-Ray release of the Jurassic Park trilogy this week serves as a timely reminder of what can be accomplished when Hollywood's stars are correctly aligned.

When Spielberg's first (and best) installment originally opened, expectations were mixed. Although the film had a killer concept and promised some innovative GCI work from ILM, it was decidedly lacking in A-list acting talent. No-one's ever camped out overnight for a Laura Dern movie. Adding to Jurassic Park's troubles, was the fact that it was opening within a couple of weeks of Arnold Schwarzenegger's Last Action Hero, which was expected to leave the rest of the summer's offerings in its bombastic wake. However, the reality was somewhat different. Whereas Arnie's opus was a misguided, erratic and tonally inconsistent shambles, Spielberg proved that he'd lost none of his mastery in the 18 years since Jaws first transformed the concept of the big summer movie.

Lean, logical and meticulously paced, Jurassic Park worked like a greatest hits compilation of the bearded genius' best bits. Appealing kids, ordinary-Joe heroes, stunning effects work, John William's Oscar-robbed score and enough tension to turn a prosthetic knuckle white, all combined to make Isla Nublar the number one summer destination for 1993.

I can count on one hand the films I've seen more than once during their cinema run. That summer, I saw Jurassic Park five times, eventually running out of friends to coerce into a daytime trip to my local multiplex. Because, although the dinosaurs were undoubtedly the stars of the show, they were never treated as a crowd-pleasing gimmick. Unlike the old Ray Harryhausen monsters of yesteryear, which tended to pop up every twenty minutes to keep the kids engaged, Spielberg's film kept the beasts off-screen for the best part of the first hour. Aside from two short cameos by a tree-munching brachiosaurus and a sickly triceratops, the first half of the movie is almost entirely dinosaur free.

Call it a fortuitous accident, but Spielberg had learned early on that nothing could beat the power of suggestion, when it came to depicting a monstrous threat. Plagued with technical issues on the set of Jaws, he'd been forced to use music and whip-smart editing to hint at the terrors beneath the surface of the water. This time around he had no such issues with the creatures, but applied the same techniques to heighten suspense and make his audience hungry for the big reveal.

The T-rex attack, when it finally comes, is a masterpiece in sustained tension, beginning with a fantastic 'Where's the goat?' gag, and culminating in a pissed-off carnivore tipping an SUV off a cliff. When the kids scream for their lives, you're in no doubt that they're in mortal peril, and the T-rex's deafening roar still has the power to chill the blood. Especially in 7.1 DTS stereo.

But it's not just the epic moments that continue to impress, almost twenty years later. Tiny, almost inconsequential details add to the verisimilitude of the film. The torch light that dilates the T-rex's pupils; the snort of steam on the porthole window; or the velociraptor's impatiently tapping toenail. Now compare these sublime touches with Transformers, which gave us a giant pair of clanging robot bollocks.

The film's human cast also manage to appear three-dimensional, thanks to Spielberg's subtle handling of the dialogue scenes. With most of the expositional heavy-lifting handled by an animated DNA strand, the main characters are free to converse like real people, often mumbling or talking over one another. Watching the film now, this seems almost Altman-esque, devoid of glib one-liners and trailer-friendly quotes. There's even a fairly weighty ethical debate at the half-hour mark, as our main cast discuss the implications of cloning technology. Try finding that in The Mummy Returns.

As much as I might love this film, I'm not blind to its flaws. For instance, there's some appalling stunt double work, which at one point makes it look like Ellie Sattler is being played by Danny DeVito in a cheap wig. Dickie Attenborough's accent is patchier than a tramp's jeans, and there's a textbook example of deus ex machina as 12 year-old Lexi announces "It's a Unix system, I know this" and promptly reinstalls the park's security systems. Perhaps most glaringly of all, no-one ever asks whose clever idea it was to clone a fucking velociraptor. Why not just create a baker's dozen of Jeffrey Dahmers while they're at it? Since they're kept in a frond-filled subterranean cage, it's not like any of the tourists were ever going to see them anyway.

In fairness, these are minor quibbles. This is still a film which shows a true master at the top of his game. You only need to compare it with Spielberg's latest offering, the sorry Avatar/Jurassic Park mash-up Terra Nova. Eighteen years later and the original's menagerie is still the one to beat, making Terra Nova's pixelated beasties about as convincing as the pimped-up iguana in One Million Years BC.

Unfortunately, there are currently no plans to release the films individually, so if you want to revisit the park in all its high-def glory, you'll have to spring for the whole box set. But it's worth it, if only to remind yourself of the days when great movies ruled the Earth.

Don't Mess With The Lohan

2011-10-25T20:37:00.002+01:00

It’s hard to remember now, but there was once a time when Lindsay Lohanwas primarily known as an actress. And, by all accounts, a pretty good one. Fora moment she was even mentioned in the same breath as Jodie Foster, who successfullynegotiated the pressures of child stardom and managed to build a doubleOscar-winning career on the back of her precocious performances. It didn’t hurtthat Lohan even took on one of Foster’s early breakthrough roles, when shestarred in the remake of Disney’s Freaky Friday.

Perky and fresh-faced, rather than classically beautiful, the prettyredhead notched up a series of admittedly undemanding hit movies, culminatingin the fantastic Mean Girls. And then it all unrivalled quicker than a RiverIsland cardigan. It was as if she was taking all those cautionary tales aboutchild actors and using them as a ‘Fame For Dummies’ manual.

When she wasn’t falling out of limos with her skirt hitched so high wecould see her smiling at both ends, she was turning up at parties looking asthough her eyes weren’t just dilated, but seceding from her face altogether.

Dogged by accusations of unprofessional conduct, and a sense ofentitlement seldom seen outside of Kensington Palace, she found herself unableto secure a viable acting gig. Despite only being in her early twenties, she’dearned herself a reputation for being as unemployable as Jim Royle. For a whilethere was talk of Lindsay taking on the role of Linda Lovelace, in a biopic ofthe tragic performer with a capacious larynx. Sadly, the project went downquicker than its subject ever did, and once again Lindsay was left scrabblinground for something that would pay her mounting legal bills.

Lindsay just isn’t able to keep her nose clean, literally or figuratively,meaning that for the last few years, the only thing anyone’s seen her in iscourt. It’s a shame really – if she wasbased in Vegas rather than LA, she’d have clocked up enough repeat performancesto classify it as a residency. Celine Dion got a specially built colosseum forhers.

Custodial sentences and a spell under house arrest also failed inencouraging her to clean up her act, and last week she was hauled into courtagain for failing to show up for community service. Tough talking judge,Stephanie Sautner, dissed her errant charge, commenting “She is supposed to bean actress from what I hear”. Hasn’t she seen Herbie: Fully Loaded?

So where are her parents in all this? After all, she’s only 25 – even ifshe does look as though she’s got a couple of decades on that. Sadly, Michaeland Dina Lohan, who make Josef Fritzl look like the model of effectiveparenting, have figured that they can make more money from selling their “Myagony over Lindsay’s health” stories, than they can by actually getting theirdaughter clean and sober. Now that she’s an adult, they’re not eligible for acut of her earnings.

Not to worry though. She might have left her bail hearing another$100,000 lighter, but there’s light at the end of the tunnel. Unfortunately,it’s a just another flashbulb. According to reports, Lindsay’s agreed to do anude photoshoot for the legendary soft porn title for a cool million dollars.

There was a time when Playboy demonstrated its dominance of thepictorial self-help marketplace, by securing exclusive shoots with some of theworld’s most famous and desirable women. Posing for provocative yet artisticphotoshoots, the likes of Marilyn Monroe, Ursula Andress, Raquel Welch andCindy Crawford undressed to impress, helping to make Playboy the undisputed topshelf champ.

But something’s changed. In the same way that fame has become a measureof notoriety, rather than actual celebrity, Playboy’s quest for cover stars isnow plumbing the depths. Instead of immortalising the world’s most beautifulwomen, they’re settling for tabloid fodder and stunt casting. In recent years,Heidi Montag, Tara Reid and Paris Hilton have all made the front cover.

With teeth that look like a desecrated graveyard, and the pallid skin ofan anaemic elephant, Lindsay is anything but pin-up material. Which makes thiswhole venture feel like a cynical and entirely unerotic exercise in ambulancechasing. In the 1940s, photojournalist Arthur Fellig became the progenitor ofthe modern paparazzi, by tagging along with New York’s emergency services anddocumenting crime scenes through the lens of his camera. As Lindsay’s lifecontinues to fall apart in the glare of the spotlight, it’s not too hard to seethe parallels.

You can call him Al

2011-10-24T21:48:00.001+01:00

Thirty years is a long time in the music business. With tastes constantly evolving, and audiences proving notoriously fickle, any artist pursuing a long-term career needs to be willing to adapt to changing styles. Which is perhaps the best explanation for why ‘Weird Al’ Yankovic, who celebrated his 52nd birthday on Sunday, continues to be the world’s biggest name in the somewhat niche field of pop parodies.

To the uninitiated, Alfred Yankovic is the guy who made ‘Eat It’ twenty seven years ago, rendering himself a curious footnote in the MTV archives as the first artist to hit the charts with a spoof video. That’s the one anyone mentions, if his name happens to pop up in conversation, usually followed by an expression of surprise – “Is he still a thing?”

With thirteen albums, 12 million record sales and a Grammy award to his somewhat disingenuous nickname, Al’s most definitely a thing. And he deserves far more credit than the occasional dimly remembered recollection of a song about eating pie.

This time last year, London got its first taste of the comic legend, as he brought his labour-intensive stage show to Kentish Town for his first ever show in the capital. Admittedly, there was a whiff of the IT helpdesk in the assembled throng, but on the whole the crowd was as diverse as Al’s back catalogue. Because, whereas some artists find a style and stick to it for as long as they can, Al is something of an aural magpie - gradually working his way through music history and attempting to create authentic pastiches of pretty much every genre ever recorded.

It helps that he’s backed by one of the most talented bands working today, capable of recreating every style of music with unnerving accuracy. From the Beach Boys to Talking Heads, REM to Phil Spector, there’s nothing that they can’t replicate. So accurate are these pastiches, that in many cases, the original artists are keen to lend their support to Al’s efforts. Michael Jackson was a big fan, not only approving the use of two of his biggest hits, but even giving Al the run of the subway set from his pre-teen recreation of Bad, in the otherwise ill-advised Moonwalker.

Mark Knopfler, who is to fun what TOWIE is to Shakespeare, only agreed to licence ‘Money For Nothing’ if he was allowed to do the guitar solo himself. Even Kurt Cobain, not known for flights of lighthearted fancy, regarded Al’s ‘Smells Like Nirvana’ as representing the most sincere form of flattery, telling MTV “Oh, I laughed my butt off. I thought it was one of the funniest things I ever saw. He has some good people working for him. Those people really know how to... I mean, I'm sure he has a lot to do with it, but they really know how to reproduce things to the T. He had the exact same setup. It's the same video with him in it. It's great.”

But Al doesn’t just do reworded spoofs of popular songs, he’s also created an impressive back catalogue of original compositions, each based on a particular style of music. Again, Al’s ear for accuracy has ensured that the artists being honoured want to get involved. Ben Folds played piano on ‘Why Does This Always Happen To Me’ which was a parody of his alternative rock trio, and Ray Manzarek turned up on keyboards and bass, helping to recreate The Doors’ distinctive sound.

Legally, Al’s entitled to satirise any song he chooses, but as a matter of courtesy he always seeks approval from the artists in question. The vast majority say yes immediately, feeling (like Cobain did) that a Weird Al spoof is a sure sign that they’ve entered the zeitgeist. Occasionally, the record labels get involved and make trouble, with recent examples being James Blunt and Lady Gaga. In the latter case, Gaga was shocked to learn that her manager had said ‘no’ without speaking to her first. In the end, Al offered to donate the proceeding from ‘Perform This Way’ to the Human Rights Campaign, in honour of the original song’s humanitarian intentions, and he scored his biggest hit in half a decade. Incidentally, the only flat-out ‘no’ he’s ever received came from Paisley Park. Sadly, if you want to laugh at Prince, you’ll just have to watch Purple Rain again.

Given Al’s propensity for poking fun at pop music, it’s easy to dismiss him as a purveyor of unimaginative juvenilia. Admittedly, not all of his back catalogue works – apparently, even the makers of novelty songs get notes from the record label about the sort of material they ought to be recording. Then again, if I came up with a song called 'Girls Just Wanna Have Lunch' I'd be looking to shift the blame too. But when Al’s left to his own devices, he can deliver a level of wordplay and linguistic dexterity that would have given the great Ronnie Barker a run for his money.

Whether he’s composing a song entirely from palindromes (‘Bob’) or compiling every conceivable dismemberment pun for ‘Party in a Leper Colony’ (“There's a guy in the hot tub, I don't know who, Wait a minute, it looks like Stu.”), his way with words can be a wonder to behold. And he’s no slouch on the delivery either. Just check out the bridge on Hardware Store, where he spits out over 120 words in 30 seconds, even providing his own back-up harmonies.

Like most music artists, Al’s an acquired taste. Some people find his material puerile, anodyne and unimaginative – an out-dated relic from the early days of music videos. Others, like me, see him as a musical librarian, meticulously cataloguing every major genre trend, and finding a way to puncture the pomposity with a surreal perspective all-too-rare in American popular culture.

If you can get past the shameless mugging and occasionally dated references, here are five of Al's finest moments:

Hexed factor

2011-10-22T20:51:00.001+01:00

Oh dear, the X-Factor's in crisis. According to the tabloids, at least, it's all kicking off on our favourite talent show. It seems that audiences would rather watch Brucey fumble his way through a collection of jokes older than Arlene Phillips, and Simon's not happy about it. The contestants have been chastised for their laziness, Louis thinks the new judges are boring, and the prize fund has been dramatically lowered, thanks to Matt Cardle's unremarkable sales. It hasn't helped matters that the reigning X-Factor champ has been telling anyone who'll listen that he lost his credibility by appearing on the show. Not to worry Matt - I'm sure you'll be embracing that unsigned, low-key, indie-vibe in about eight weeks' time.

In a lackluster attempt to stir things up, there was a dramatic change of theme mid-week, switching from 'personal heroes' to 'rock week'. So brace yourself for enough Bon Jovi, Coldplay and Snow Patrol covers to breach the Geneva Conventions.

"Tonight, is rock" announces Dermot, accompanied by a random burst of guitar. Which tells you everything you need to know about how much this show understands the genre. As usual, we're introduced to the judges twice, only instead of Carmina Burana, they're playing Jump by Van Halen. It makes a nice change, but it's hardly appropriate given the two girls' outfits. If Kelly tried jumping in her leather mini-dress, she'd show the whole world her Destiny's Child. And Tulisa can barely walk in hers, never mind partake in a burst of energetic calisthenics.

On with the show - here's Marcus who's been prompted to turn on the waterworks in his VT, and he duly obliges. He's having a crack at Are You Gonna Go My Way. It's not bad, and he's a confident showman, but at times it's less Lenny Kravitz and more Time Warp. Kelly's playing around with our favourite X-Factor cliches, telling Marcus that he made the stage his own. Gary doesn't understand the concept of a standing ovation, waiting until it's his turn to speak before standing up and pointing like a car park attendant. Marcus gives it some 'phone vote finger'. Suddenly, it feels like we're back in familiar territory.

Kelly tells us that Janet is continuing to come out of her shell, making her sound like a little ginger hermit crab. We get to see Janet enduring a grilling from a bunch of tabloid hacks, and she's surprisingly confident, stopping just short of telling them to 'fuck off' if they don't like her squeaky Cranberries schtick. Tonight it's Guns 'n' Roses, but performed with a harp, drums, and an enormous mass of ginger curls. Florence Welch is looking up 'copyright infringement' on Wikipedia. Louis loved it, Tulisa didn't, and Gary and Kelly thought she was amazing. Unfortunately, I missed most of their comments because I was distracted by Tulisa's uneven colouring - her face is a completely different shade to her shoulders. Remember how Worzel Gummidge used to switch heads when he wanted to impress someone? It's a bit like that, but with less straw.

Louis and Gary are bickering over Sami, with the little Irish pixie suggesting that they "agree to disagree", and Gary slaps him down with "I'm the chief judge, beyotch." Note to the stylists - don't ever dress a plus-size woman in a skin-tight pleather dress. She looks like one of the binbags outside my local on a Sunday morning. Then again, we should be thankful for small mercies, since she's tackling Turn Back Time. At least no-one suggested recreating Cher's iconic look from the late eighties - no-one wants to see Sami straddling a cannon in a see-through catsuit and g-string. The vocal was weird, like she was delivering the backing harmonies for a main act who was performing offstage. Gary got booed for telling her it was shit. He may be as dull as Holby City, but at least he's taking the show seriously. Louis, on the other hand, just sits there clapping like a wind-up monkey missing its cymbals.

Rhymix are mashing up Ke$ha's Tik Tok with Push It, and it's as shambolic as you'd expect. But it goes perfectly with their styling, which is half Victoria's Secret, half Toys R Us. Once again, the judges are bickering - this time it's Gary Barlow from Take That and Tulisa from N Dubz attempting to define 'rock'. These are end times, people.

Sophie is worried that she's boring, not helped by the four tabloid journos confirming her fears and asking why she dressed as Carol Vorderman. She's singing a pared down version of Living On A Prayer and, based on her patchy vocals, its an apt description of her tenuous footing in the contest. Louis worries that Kelly is spending more time on Misha and Janet, but that's because Kelly understands how a competition works. Kelly's predictably furious, making a 'durhhhh' noise/face that could take the heat off Ricky Gervais.

Craig is talking about how much he misses Nu Vibe, even though they told the papers this week that he's a "bum boy". Nice one lads, keep it classy. Craig's a pretty good singer, but he's singing Stop Crying Your Heart Out. Say what you like about Leona Lewis, but she sang the arse off that song, and any other X-Factor contestant is only ever going to suffer from the comparison. Louis is doing his double pointy fingers and poking fun at Noel Gallagher. I don't see that ending well for him.

Kitty appears to be confusing phone votes with "vindication that I'm not a crazy person". Sorry love, not the same thing. Oh great, Kitty in a bra - pass the Optrex. It's all going mental on the stage, with pianos, fire-eaters, hair-whipping and pyrotechnics. She's belting out Live and Let Die, and to be honest, that wouldn't be a tough choice for me.

Oh shit. Now it's time for Frankie, the boy who puts the 'cock' in Cocozza. I'm sure he's been primped and styled within an inch of his life, but to coin a phrase my Mum used to use, he dries a mucky colour. Gary's not happy with Frankie's debauched antics, and it's clear that his patience is growing as thin as his top lip. For all the behind the scenes black-and-white footage of Frankie making his way to the stage, it's about as authentic as a three year-old girl tottering around in her mum's high heels. And the hair, sweet Jesus, the hair. It's not really based on a style, more one of those doodles you make when you're testing a biro. Get Your Rocks Off - and that's all he's good for, chucking his mess up a parade of bar skanks. Oooh, sound the controversy klaxon. Gary's just admitted that he lied last week when he said Frankie performed well. I don't tune in for honesty or integrity, keep that shit to yourself Barlow.

Once again Tulisa has shown that she doesn't really understand what rock week is all about, by getting The Risk to sing a dance cover of Crazy. No doubt she'll justify her selection by pointing out the guitar riffs in the background, bless her. One of them's got laryngitis, and based on their weak vocal performance, I'd worry that it's gone airborne. Gary applauds their work ethic, making a pointed reference to 'other acts in the competition'. Frankie, he's talking about you.

Johnny's worried about being a pantomime circus act. Bit late for that, like closing the stable door after the horse has pressed on its false eyelashes. He's dressed as a man this week, but unfortunately he still looks like the Phones4U zombie off the TV Burp idents. He's having a go at the Darkness, and bizarrely, it might just be weird enough to see him through to next week.

And finally, it's time for Misha B, Louis' idea of an 'Urban Queen'. The short version is that she nailed Purple Rain, despite backcombed hair like Whoopi Goldberg in Sister Act. The long version is that Tulisa decided to school Misha for her diva antics backstage, with Louis piling in to complain that she's bullied one of his acts too. Having sat through two hours of this, there's a few contestants I'd like to take behind the bike-sheds for a good kicking. I want to be in Misha's gang.

The Price of fame

2011-10-17T23:03:00.002+01:00

Welcome to Katie Price's search for a supermodel, perhaps the lowest conceivable rung on the TV talent show ladder. It's also slightly ironic, given that our illustrious host now resembles one of the leatherette flip-flops I bought in Abercrombie & Fitch last summer. How that qualifies her as an arbiter of aesthetics, I'm not entirely sure. But, vive la difference.

After last week's adventures, which saw Katie and her co-judges sit stony faced in a bunch of post-apocalyptic shopping centres as a bunch of hopefuls wandered past in their underwear, it's now time for boot camp. Katie promises "with my expertise, I'll take them to the top", but I think she missed out the word "shelf", based on some of the woeful contestants.

The narrator tells us that "from small beginnings, Katie Price has made it big," thanks largely to a parade of surgeons who knew where to hide the air valves. She's now one of the UK's most talked about women, mostly amongst people who say "What the fuck does she look like?" But don't worry, she's got 17 years' experience in the industry. "Been there, done that, worn the t-shirt" she says. Except the t-shirt never stayed on for that long.

On her journey, Katie's joined by "top TV exec" Glen Middleham (think Moby, but even more punchable) and "renowned casting director" Bayo Furlong. As the would-be models rock up at a country mansion that must rent by the hour, Katie and her new Gay Best Friends are hanging out of a window, slating their outfits. Welcome one and all. They don't know what to expect, with one exclaiming "Oh my God, is Katie gonna be here, is she gonna be looking at us?" Admittedly, it's a complicated format, but hopefully one of the show runners is on hand to talk them through how this works.

The panel are already doubting some of their earlier decisions, and are standing over a giant light-box to review their selection. Someone should have warned Katie that, as a modelling expert, she should know never to hover over harsh lighting. Unless she plans on hanging around in someone's living room window on Hallowe'en.

Time for the first cull of the show, as the shortlisted contestants are called into the house one-by-one. Among the lucky few are a pair of twins who look more like the mutant babies from 'It's Alive', rather than would-be models. But Katie tells us she knows what she's talking about, even if the rest of us haven't a clue.

"For the rest of you, your dream is now over!" announces Katie, with all the emotion of someone browsing for bath-taps in B&Q. As the rejects sob their way onto the bus to take their shattered dreams home, Katie decides that she wants to see the remaining girls looking natural. Presumably, there was a brief break as one of the producers popped in to explain the concept to her. Meanwhile, everyone's assembled in a giant wood-paneled ballroom, where there's so much orange on display, all that's missing is the man from Del Monte.

Whereas the girls need to show off their natural beauty, the boys have to strip down and squeeze themselves into some tiny hot pink swimming trunks. The girls are peeling off their nails, hair extensions and eyelashes. In fact, I swear one of them actually unscrewed half her head, like Robocop when he went rogue and started eating baby food. Katie is particularly impressed with Sylvia, who has an impressive figure and was smart enough to rock up in a pair of Katie's own-brand knickers. Maybe it's the unfortunate lighting, but to this uninitiated viewer, Katie's pants aren't recommended if you're trying to conceal a cock.

In contrast, Katie's disappointed by a girl called Laura, who has ridiculous boobs and a face that would make Pete Burns wince. Apparently, she misunderstood the brief about what kind of underwear they were supposed to wear. In her defense, she "didn't think". Don't worry love, that certainly hasn't held Katie back. And now here come the boys, looking like they'd rather be anywhere but here. Then again, so does Katie. She's trying to appear interested in what's going on, but other than a cursory package check, she could be listening to the shipping forecast.

Time for some high powered business now, as we flash back to a meeting of the Black Sheep Management Company, three weeks before the auditions began. We're told that it's a business meeting, when in actuality it's a couple of people sitting on some rattan garden furniture, listening to Katie talking about hard graft. Somewhere, there's a bunch of factory workers, wiping their empathetic tears away with what's left of their bloodied finger stumps.

It's been at least five minutes since Katie made someone cry, so here comes another cut. The first six hopefuls get a bit of the old "this has been a tough decision" schtick, only to be told they're through. One girl is so excited that she can't even walk out of the room without falling over. As she drops out of view, the other contestants step over her. Welcome to the harsh world of modeling. Katie's busy running through her favourite reality show cliches, from the fake-out evictions to Alan Sugar's old "with regret" firings. Don't be surprised if she knocks together a mille-feuille to soak up some of the Great British Bake-Off audience.

Speaking of The Apprentice, we're now onto the business challenge segment of the show, where out contestants are divided into teams and tasked with designing a range of t-shirts. They've been told that they have to come up with a concept, but since no-one seems to know what the word means, they're settling for a bunch of woeful slogans that no-one's dared utter since the pilot episode of Absolutely Fabulous twenty years ago.

A landscape gardener called Jamie Roche is particularly excited about being team leader for his group, taking several minutes to enthuse about what he thinks a team leader might do. The rest of the team are distracted by stick-on bobbles and glitter, so no-one seems too bothered either way.

Over in another team, Tayla seems to be mutating into Grotbags, if the TV witch ever tried to sneak into the Pink Windmill disguised as an Amy Winehouse tribute act. She complains to the camera about their team leader Amy, who's annoying everyone by being naturally pretty and able to enunciate. As Tayla grumbles away, I'm distracted by an odd shadow on her face, which is either cast by some seriously fake eyelashes, or someone off-screen holding a pitchfork over her head.

The teams are bickering over the challenge, despite the fact that a kindergarten class would have finished and been halfway through their milk cartons by now. Sensing drama, the camera crew whip Amy outside to bitch about her team. She might speak well, but a posh accent can't disguise the fact that she talks absolute bollocks, kicking off her t-shirt pitch with the opening statement "Obviously, obesity kills nearly more people than cancer." I'd like to go into detail about the other business pitches, but really, it's like watching a bunch of idiots trying to figure their way out of a phone box.

The judges are trying to cut down twenty to the final twelve - Katie doesn't like one woman because all she ever talks about her kids. And let's face it, Katie understands that the only time to talk about your kids is when someone from OK! is waving a checkbook. She also complains about her co-judge's poor taste in women, which is a bit like complaining that a diabetic knows fuck all about chocolate.

As Katie names her final short list, we get all the predictable shock and awe reactions. One successful bloke tells the camera "things like this don't happen to people like me". Actually, things like this happen to people like you several times a night. Especially on this channel. Interestingly, the second name in the end credits after the narrator, is for show psychologist Jo Hemmings. After spending an hour in Katie's world, I'm wondering if she does out calls.

Another one bites the dust

2011-10-12T21:17:00.001+01:00

October’s a brutal month for the TV industry. With new shows debuting on every major US channel in September, all industry eyes are glued to the ratings, in the hope that audiences are adopting a similar position. Sadly, despite the months (often years) spent developing a show, the axe falls on underperforming programmes with ruthless efficiency. There’s no time for a slow start – a bad premiere is forgiven, a poor follow-up tolerated. But if the audience is still unconvinced by episode three, you’re as good as dead.

And that’s the hand that was dealt to The Playboy Club last week. NBC’s big new drama of the season, The Playboy Club was set in the 1960s, and was clearly hoping to emulate Mad Men’s runaway success. However, unlike Don Draper’s cable show, The Playboy Club was constrained by the fact that it was airing on network TV. That meant no swearing and certainly no nudity. In essence, it was portraying a world where people genuinely buy Playboy for the articles.

As the show’s third episode posted its worst viewing figures yet, NBC pulled the plug quicker than a gold-digger pointing out the ‘do not resuscitate’ sign in her husband’s hospital room. To be honest, no-one seemed particularly upset by the decision, least of all the right wing Parents Television Council, which released a statement celebrating the show’s cancellation, reading: “Bringing The Playboy Club to broadcast television was a poor programming decision from the start. We’re pleased that NBC will no longer be airing a program so inherently linked to a pornographic brand that denigrates and sexualizes women…” Next they’ll be accusing Dora the Explorer of being a climate-change propagandist.

In this instance, NBC may well have made the right decision. However, the networks don’t always get it right. Some shows take a while to cast their spell – needing time for the writers to find their voice and the cast to find their feet. So in honour of The Playboy Club’s swift demise, let’s celebrate a few shows that deserved to be kept on life support a little longer.

Firefly

OK, let’s get this one out of the way first. No ‘gone too soon’ list is complete without a reference to Joss Whedon ‘space and saddles’ saga. It may have only run for thirteen pacey episodes, but that was long enough to establish it as one of the best-loved, short-lived TV shows of all time.

Forget about Cowboys & Aliens – if you want a compelling, funny and genuinely interesting mash-up of sci-fi and western, Firefly is where it’s at. Although, interestingly, Whedon was insistent that there would be no aliens in his interplanetary tale. Instead, it was up to the eclectic mix of mercenaries, rebels, whores and preachers to create the drama.

Fan support was so strong that Universal picked up Fox’s dropped ball and financed a mid-budget big screen adventure for Mal and his crew. If nothing else, this means that Buffy’s creator can claim the dubious honour of having made a hit TV show out of a failed movie, and a hit movie out of a failed TV show.

The Comeback

When the world’s biggest sitcom finally called it a day after ten glorious years, everyone wondered what the cast would do next. And, more importantly, who’d be most successful. Whereas most of the Friends settled for roles and opportunities not a million miles away from their Central Perky personae, Lisa Kudrow went in the opposite direction.

Realising that reinvention after a successful role is nigh-on-impossible, she did precisely that, and even wrote a show about it. If you’ve never seen The Comeback, I recommend you give it a go. As well as giving Kudrow a chance to show her considerable acting skills, it’s a stunningly prescient vision of reality TV from a time when the concept was still relatively new.

Kudrow plays Valerie Cherish, the one-time star of a hit sitcom, who’s being filmed by a reality TV crew for a show called The Comeback. They follow her as she auditions for a cheesy new sitcom, the condition being that she’ll only get the reality series if she wins the role in ‘Bed and Bored’. Problem is, Valerie is grasping, shameless and utterly transparent. It’s not a comfortable watch, in fact, you’ll cringe so hard you may need to see a chiropractor. But if you enjoyed The Office, The Comeback is well worth a few hours of your time.

Family Guy

Not all these stories have an unhappy ending, as occasionally a network will bow to fan pressure and resurrect an aborted project. Family Guy is as show that actually got cancelled twice - once after the second season, and again after the third.

Unable to find anyone willing to pay for the rights to air old episodes, Fox practically gave them away to Cartoon Network’s Adult Swim. At the same time, seasons one and two were released on DVD and became a massive hit. In fact, Family Guy was 2003’s biggest selling TV DVD.

The following year, sniffing out a chance to make money, they welcomed series creator Seth MacFarlane back with open arms, and the show has been running ever since. Looking back at the three-year hiatus, Seth claimed that the show benefited from its cancellation, since it have the team a chance to re-evaluate what did and didn’t work. Many shows aren’t nearly as fortunate.

Tripods

Introduced during the summer of 1984 as a replacement for Doctor Who, The Tripods was a big-budget sci-fi experiment for the BBC. Co-financed with Australia’s Seven Network, it told the tale of three young boys determined to fight back against a race of all-powerful aliens who’d enslaved humanity and dragged society back to the middle ages, like a Republican party wet dream.

To my nine year-old eyes, the Tripods was terrifying, thrilling and breathtakingly tedious, in equal measure. Every Saturday for two consecutive summers, my sister and I would be glued to the screen, biting cheese flavor Hula Hoops off our fingers and cheering our hapless heroes on their epic journey.

As the second series finished, Will escaped the City of Gold and Lead to return to the rebel stronghold in the White Mountains, only to find that it had been destroyed by the Tripods. We didn’t bat an eyelid when JR took that bullet, but this was a cliffhanger that had us desperate to see how the story would be concluded.

Months later, an announcement followed in the Radio Times that there would be no concluding series. Effectively muttering under its breath, the BBC told its viewers that the show’s high budget and comparatively low ratings, meant that a third series would not be commissioned.

Eldorado

It’s not just the big budget serials that get killed off in dramatic fashion, soaps can also fall victim to merciless executives. I’m not going to talk about Albion Market, since there are probably only three people in the UK who miss that show. And that’s because they were in it. However, I’m sure I’m not alone in lamenting the premature demise of Eldorado, the BBC’s sun-dappled alternative to the decidedly downbeat EastEnders.

Clearly originating in a late eighties brainstorm where the words ‘European community’, ‘diversity’ and ‘international sales’ prominently figured, Eldorado took the Albert Square model and plopped it down in mainland Spain. With a cast that represented pretty much every country in Europe, but not a single reputable acting school, the early months were a disaster. Many of the performers spoke so little English they had to learn their lines phonetically. And you’d be forgiven for thinking the same about some of the British performers.

Bizarrely, a couple of major culls and some drastic rewrites actually did the trick and against all the odds, Eldorado became a soap worth watching. Just as Alan Yentob signed the death warrant. Sadly, we never got to see the much talked about bus crash ending, which had promised to send the entire cast on a day trip, only for them to topple over a cliff like some alternative ending from the Italian Job.

Without Prejudice

In a world of reality trash and tacky game-shows, it’s doubtful that anyone would mourn a hybrid of the two formats. But that’s because they probably never tuned into Without Prejudice, which only ran for two short series. On the surface, it didn’t appear to be anything special – a panel-based game show hosted by Lisa Tarbuck. Already Cash in the Attic is starting to look like an appealing prospect. But this feisty little show had a concept that elevated it to instant classic status.

Each episode involved two groups of five people – one group acted as the judging panel, whilst the others were the contestants. In five simple rounds, the panel simply had to decide who deserved a £50,000 cash prize (reduced to £20,000 in series two). The panel had nothing else to go on, other than their own preconceptions and prejudices – hence the bitterly ironic title. And although you often found yourself rooting for a particular contestant, the real joy of the show was watching the panel in action. If ever you wanted an insight into the dark heart of a Daily Mail reader, or the ignorance of a red-top fan, this was the show for you. “I’m sorry, but I’m completely opposed to giving this money to a bloody lesbian” was heard far more often than you might imagine.

It really was extraordinarily revealing, and often ended in particularly vitriolic exchanges. In one memorable episode, a single mother who wanted to go back to university to finish her studies was denied the money by a judging panel dominated by a bingo-winged matriarch with frosted tips. Instead, they gave £50,000 to a man who had already made his fortune, arguing that he was more likely to spend it wisely.

After the money was awarded, and they were finally allowed to ask how he intended to spend the money, he told them “I plan to buy three bracelets, one for my wife, one for my daughter and a third for my ex-wife.” One of the panelists was inconsolable with grief at the missed opportunity to change a life. Of course, the real tragedy in all of this, is that Channel 4 cancelled the show because no-one was watching it. Audiences would rather their reality TV come partially scripted and entirely staged, rather than holding up a magnifying glass to the ugly side of human nature.

Police Squad!

Hot off the success of Airplane!, Zucker, Abrahams & Zucker pitched a half-hour comedy show to ABC. Carefully constructed to replicate the scattershot format of their big screen disaster spoof, Police Squad took its inspiration from two popular police procedurals – M Squad and Felony Squad.

As we all know, the show continued Leslie Nielsen’s late-in-life shift towards broad comedy, and immortalized him as the hilariously inept Frank Drebin. Only six shows were ever made, but that didn’t stop it inspiring the hugely successful Naked Gun series several years later. For the record, the DVD commentary claims that the President of ABC Entertainment took the decision to cancel the show “because the viewer had to watch it in order to appreciate it." Imagine that.

Despite its frustratingly short run, Police Squad gave us some classic TV comedy moments – my favourite being the scene where an undercover Drebin breaks into the villain’s office and gets caught snooping around: “Who the hell are you and how did you get in here?” He asks. “I’m the Locksmith, and I’m a Locksmith” Drebin replies. Pure genius.

Pass the Nurofen

2011-10-09T23:16:00.000+01:00

Sunday's a great night for TV. Once the thrills of the X-Factor eviction are out of the way, you can settle down into a sumptuously mounted, no-expense-spared, BAFTA-winning costume drama about an utterly unfamiliar lifestyle. Or, if you don't fancy The Only Way Is Essex, I guess you could always have a crack at Downton Abbey.

TOWIE is described by its producers as a "semi-reality show", in the same way that Steven Spielberg might describe his forthcoming Tintin adaptation as "semi-live action". Only his characters look a little more realistic. In preparation for tonight's episode, I checked out the official TOWIE Twitter feed, which asked "Who's looking forward to this evening's episode of TOWIE? It's going to be explosive!" Perhaps Nanny Pat's sausage plait needed a bit longer in the oven.

As is the norm for ITV shows, we begin with a recap of what happened on the last episode. Harry discovered a link between the MRI vaccine and paralytic poliomyelitis, Lauren took time out from DJing and running a bakery to stage an oral reading of The Iliad in its original Greek, and the Georgiades twins had a major barney about their wildly varying interpretations of A Brief History of Time. I may have imagined some or all of the above.

In tonight's show, Kirk and Joey are busy beating their meat in the kitchen. Hilariously, they're not wanking, they're tenderising a steak with a rolling pin. Although, the odd bulge in Joey's shorts suggests that the alternative explanation wouldn't be out of the question. Meanwhile, Billie and Sam are planning a girls night in, and Gemma's fringe is driving her mental. Gemma's the first to say "At the end of the day..." and it's only about ten in the morning. She's also "Not being funny..." but she didn't need to tell us that.

Lauren, Maria and a spare Lauren (useful in emergencies) are sitting in a shop full of handbags, talking about Maria's big date. At times, it's hard to tell where the voices are coming from. My tip - if it's got a clasp on the front, it's probably not one of the cast. The fat characters are working out with the twins, who tell a side-splitting tale about a time they tried dating the same girl. But they both look exactly like Louis Spence, so it's about as convincing as the rest of this ridiculous show.

Something's going down between Kirk and Mark, and it's all starting to get a bit confusing. I've got a degree, and I'm able to hold down a regular job, but I seriously don't have a clue what's going on. All they've done is marinade some meat, plan a slumber party and do some sit-ups, but I'm starting to feel like I'm watching Twin Peaks. Come to think of it, I wouldn't be surprised if one of them suddenly had a vision of a scruffy killer clambering across the sofa.

Mark's in his walk-in wardrobe and here's his friend David Walliams to explain some kind of complicated arrangement for a drink this evening. Mark pulls a face like a chimp trying to read an Ordnance Survey map in Welsh. I guess this means he's not happy.

The girls night in looks like an amazing time - they can't wait to "get all the gossip on everyone's love life." Don't they have Sky+? They could have just caught up on Wednesday's episode. They're all talking about getting bunches of flowers and Gemma doesn't look too impressed. But that might be because one of the blondes is blocking her access to the cake stand. No, it turns out she's annoyed with Maria for going out with Mick, despite being the one to set them up in the first place. Ever the diplomat, she makes it up with a "Love you babes." Said with feeling. Despite the high drama of that confrontation, I suspect the real reason she's in the kitchen is to stock up on those Haribo false teeth.

Now the girls, and the gay kid who looks like an orange KFC spork, are talking about feeling secure enough to take a shit in front of their boyfriends. "You've got to keep something a secret" cautions one of them. Maybe your original cup-size? Meanwhile, Mario and the gang are lamenting the fact that James has run off to be Mark's bitch. But who can blame him, since the Champagne's flowing and the silver tongue is out in full force: "Yo girls. You wanna come for a drink." For the girls in question, playing hard to get means saying "Cos you're so charming yeah?" then going for a drink anyway. One of them is a page three girl, which comes as a complete surprise to absolutely no-one. Unfortunately, the boys don't get too far with their potential conquests, since Mario, Lydia and Lucy have turned up at the same club. Mark thought it might be helpful to point out that he slept with Lucy three weeks ago. It's all kicking off, and now the unhappy couple are "taking a break."

And finally, here's Denise Van Outen phoning in a voice-over with a teaser of what to expect from the next episode. Problem is, all the clips are from the show we've just sat through. If the editors aren't paying attention, how the hell are we supposed to follow it. Fuck this, I'm going to watch Tinker Tailor Soldier Spy instead. That's got to be easier to understand.

Here we go again

2011-10-08T23:07:00.002+01:00

Don't get me wrong, I do enjoy the X-Factor. But after several weeks of tears, sob stories and laughing at the mentally disadvantaged, I'm already starting to feel a little fatigued. So the prospect of a two-and-a-half hour live show doesn't quite fill me with joy. Professional to the last, I've glugged enough Lucozade to turn my piss orange for a week and have eaten nothing but Kendal's mint cake for the last 48 hours. Here goes nothing, perhaps quite literally.

After a slightly revamped opening title sequence, here's Dermot in another suit from the Mr Byrite end-of-season sale to tell us our Saturday night starts here. Sorry Dermy, but mine started two hours ago when I starting cutting the Lucozade with vodka. The more things change the more things stay the same - hence the double introduction to the judges. Ooh, there's a big twist too. Which will come as a shock to precisely no-one, since it's been in the press for days. There's no public vote this week; instead the judges will need to send home an act each. Louis is notoriously bad at this, which at least explains how they plan to pad out tomorrow's results show to sixty minutes.

Kicking off tonight's show is Amelia Lily, who's died her hair a dirty pink colour, to make sure that no-one compares her to Pixie Lott anymore. She's going to be 'fighting for her life', which has me imagining a far more interesting sing-off than we're likely to see this series. In a pair of cut-off denim shorts and a red leather jacket that could have been fished out of Cher's recycling bin, she's hacking her way through a rocky re-do of Billy Jean. If the current manslaughter trial hasn't got Michael Jackson spinning in his grave, this'll have him rotating like a lazy susan.

Oh shit. This is going to be painful. Here's Johnny, a drag queen without a make-up bag and falsies. He's excited about living in a house with "a few more modern cons" than he has at home. I thought they'd all been dropped last week because of their visa issues. Wrapped in a Bacofoil raincoat, he's squeaking his way through 'Believe' in a voice that makes the Chipmunks sound like Barry White. Bless him, he's clearly having the time of his life, even though it's making me question my own.

Doing it for the girls is Rhythmix - they've had an exciting makeover, which at least means they might not look as though they just crawled from the wreckage of a joyriding accident. They're having a crack at Nicky Minaj's Superbass and it's a bit of a mess. More worryingly, it's reminding me of Michael Keaton in Duplicity. He invented a cloning machine, and each copy was a little more fucked up than the last one. So imagine that, but replace Michael Keaton with Cher Lloyd. And shudder. Gary thinks they're the best girlband that's ever been on the X-Factor. Which is a bit like trying to choose your favourite flesh wound.

"Lock up your daughters," warns Gary, "It's Frankie Cocozza." You might want to put any soft fruit on a high shelf too. Frankie's been in the tabloids this week, having shared a hot-tub with Kitty - honestly, where's a carelessly discarded hairdryer when you need one? It's all a bit scruffy and erratic, much like the boy himself. Not that any of it matters, since Gary believes he's a 'real artist'. And that's just what the X-Factor needs, another Matt fucking Cardle.

Kelly's giant earrings are jangling with excitement as she introduces Sophie, the girl that no-one remembers from the earlier parts of the show. In fact, her whole VT is about the fact that she's utterly anonymous. Sorry, what were we talking about? There's a girl on a piano singing a torch-song interpretation of Katy Perry. That must be Sophie. Just when you think the tempo's going to pick up, it doesn't. The pianist helped lift her down, and Kelly gave her a subtle nod to remind her to hitch her skirt back down. It might be the first live show, but that's not the kind of big opening we're looking for.

Fresh from giving Louis a slipped disc by lunging at him on a garden bench, Jonjo is here to remind us that this is even more scary than fighting in Afghanistan. I can assure him that it's just as grueling to watch. The judges aren't impressed, but at least Gary gets to make this week's tired homophobic joke at Louis' expense. LOLZ-a-plenty here on the X-Factor. Jonjo leaves the stage looking like he's expecting a dishonourable discharge.

Time to turn the volume down and adjust the contrast settings - it's 2 Shoes. Everyfink's amazin'. They love singing, they love nails and they love their mentor, who they describe as a 'third shoe'. Couldn't have put it better myself. Dark Shoe has lipstick smeared all over her face, but they wear so much it's hard to tell whether that's intentional.

Here's James to give us the first sob story of the night. Apparently he and his family keep getting kicked out of rented accommodation. Still, he reckons the whole of Widnes is rooting him on, except maybe the people at the housing association. Weirdly, the set designers have surrounded him with projected images of terraced houses, like a Jim Bowen 'here's what you could have won' reminder of what's at stake.

Good grief, are we really only half way through? At least it's Misha next, one of the few genuinely interesting contestants and the only one who didn't really need a makeover. In fact, she'd have been better sticking with her own wardrobe, since the costume department have wrapped her in newspaper like a piece of battered cod. Just as 'Rolling In The Deep' gets going, she throws in a rap which has fuck all to do with the rest of the song. Louis is treading on dangerous ground, opening up his creaky box labelled 'You remind me of...' When he wimps out and compares her to Kelly, his fellow judge gives him a legendary side-eye.

Hoping to recreate the success of JLS and One Direction, it's NuVibe. They're very good at slowly moving from side-to-side and looking at each other like they've just met in the bathroom of the Two Brewers. The vocals are appalling but none of that matters, since the lead singer remembered to lift his shirt up and show his abs at the end. At least someone understands how this show works.

Marcus is singing this week's number one, 'Moves Like Jagger'. If nothing else, this should remind a large percentage of the audience how long it's been since they actually listened to the charts. He smiles a lot, which is fine when you're singing something upbeat, but can be off-putting when tackling a ballad.

Unfortunately, the make-overs can only do so much. So although Sami looks a little less like Geraldine McQueen, she still sings like Jane McDonald. And neither of those comparisons are going to do her any favours. If we were a playing a drinking game, we'd all be loading the shot-glasses for Louis' inevitable "Yorradiva". Yep, there it is - everybody drink.

Next up, it's The Risk - Tulisa's idea of a supergroup. They're no Traveling Wilburys, but the lead singer's vocals are alright and thankfully they don't look as though they only met for the first time backstage on tonight's show. The judges are all working their favourite "this is why you're in this competition..." cliches, and my vodka bottle is starting to look worryingly empty.

Craig is on a diet, eating lettuce whilst the other contestants tuck into burgers. No-one's used the 'f' word but it's on everyone's mind. Maybe he just needs some time away from the biscuit factory. He's singing really well, but someone's fucked up the mixing of the backing vocals so it sounds as though he's performing both sides of a duet.

Little Miss Marmite is on next, telling the world that she wants to be controversial and talked about, then complaining that she gets upset when she sees what's been written about her. She's singing 'Who wants to live forever' and I'm in no rush to talk her down from the ledge. The loud bits are annoyingly competent, but she's as unfamiliar with subtlety as she is to humility.

Looks like they've saved the best for last, as tiny Irish pixie Janet brings the house down with 'Fix You' by Coldplay. Everyone loves her, right down to the company that sold the production team a group discount on teeth whitening. The judges are doing their pained faces at the prospect of having to ditch an act tomorrow, but anyone who was paying attention should know that Kelly's the only one likely to even break a sweat. The rest of the judges have been entirely forgettable this evening, but Ms Rowland is outsassing Whoopi Goldberg in Ghost. "Sami, you in danger girl."