The X Factor Finale

With a fully-topped up phone and a fridge full of beer, The Chapman Family‘s Kingsley Hall prepares for The X Factor final…

The Christmas trees of London are burning; the streets are covered in paint; baton scarred students litter the pavements; the Metropolitan Police have been attempting to recreate the Grand National in Parliament Square and our heir to the throne and his delightful wife have just been attacked in their armoured Rolls Royce to the sounds of dubstep and cries of “off with their heads.” Stacey Solomon is our newly crowned Queen and in the desolation of a northern tram crash Sally Webster has finally found out the truth about her husband and some tart that lives next door. It’s just another fun day in Cameron’s paradise.

Naturally all of this will be forgotten about by Saturday night as the entire nation settles down to be entertained and encouraged to lose all of their text credits by the latest crop of the best karaoke puppets Britain has to offer. Except us. We’ll be in Crewe.

I have a schizophrenic love/hate relationship with X Factor. It contains within it pretty much every single aspect of the music industry that I hate: shameless manipulation of public opinion; the importance of pound notes over musical notes; bland, charisma vacuums dressed like Hollyoaks extras thowing their very souls at Cowell and co. in exchange for the kind of celebrity that Shayne Ward can only dream of; the over emphasis on style over substance; people sitting on stools playing acoustic guitars; talentless corporate pop monkey judges telling the nation what “the industry needs right now” and the dubious definitions of “edgy” and “class”. It’s a show where U2 are seen as the absolute pinnacle of “rock”, Robbie Williams is credibility personified and Katy Perry is a beacon of pop perfection. In other words, it’s fucking shit. But… every year - every single fucking year - like a police horse’s hoof to a student I keep coming back for more. It’s the absolute opposite of everything that I think is good about music and I really should be more bitter about the whole shebang considering the battles I’ve had with my band from getting our first gig (“you’re a bit too dark for us mayyyyte, we can’t put you on”) to trying to fit all our equipment and a band in the back of a knackered Citroen to trying to explain where Stockton-on-Tees is to every fucking person in the world who lives below York. It’s been hard work. Queueing for a couple of hours outside of the NEC just to sing a boyband ballad seems like a piece of piss in comparison.

I honestly despise Mr Cowell with all my heart, he has created a shitty style over substance celebrity obsessed world inside the magic kingdom that is “pop music” and it really pisses me off; Wor Chezza’s Nation Sweetheart crown is finally slipping and her lack of any discernible talent is eclipsed only slightly in no-mark status by Dannii (I must have missed the meeting where everyone agreed that her opinion mattered for anything whatsoever what with her being the lesser talented sibling of an averagely talented soap opera dwarf and all that); and as for Louis… – look, I begrudgingly support him every year even though he continually peddles dated stand-up-sit-down boyband landfill (The ‘Life); always gets the shittest category (it was funny the first time); and tried to convince us last year that Jedward were anything other than irritating hyperactive bell ends. It’s fairly obvious that he’s in league with the devil in some way but regardless of his crimes against music/fashion/EVERYTHING he’s still the only one who every now and then throws some honesty into his “appraisals” and isn’t just thinking about his act getting to the final – usually because he realises he doesn’t stand a chance the poor bugger.

This year, for my sins, I blame Wagner. I’m not proud of it now but I was one of those typical bastards that championed him from the start. I voted for him so much that in one of the weeks I think it was my votes alone that kept him in the competition ahead of tortured soul Aiden Grimshaw. As much as he would like to believe that we’re all trying to ruin his and Konnie fucking Huq’s party I was never even doing it as some sort of Anti-Cowell vote either. I was furiously voting for Wags as I genuinely preferred watching him entertain me in his own special way than sitting through the nightmarishly dull world of the other more traditional fame-cravers. He had “The X Factor” for me and that’s why I was voting, I wasn’t being spiteful, I just thought he was the best. I was usually a little bit drunk though…

Anyway, it’s The Final that everyone expected. Here’s the runners and riders:

Rebecca Ferguson: Despite being described as “classy” for the last million weeks simply by standing still, singing and having Audrey Hepburn-esque hair she bucked the trend last week by showing her versitility and walked six whole steps whilst still holding the microphone and singing at the same time. It’s moves like this that will benefit her when they market her to the territories, or whatever it is they do. She’s as original as cabbage and is “exactly what the industry needs right now.”

One Direction: The single most cynical marketing exercise X Factor/Simon Cowell has ever came up with. Well done to all concerned, really, well done, I hope you and your marketing department all sleep comfortably at night in your beds made of gold. Apparently they’re “the most exciting pop band in the UK at the moment” or something. I thought that was Frankie & The Heartstrings? They’ll probably win it. Well, their backing track with comical amounts of layered pre-recorded vocals combined with that cutesy footballer huddle they do will probably win it. The actual sound of hell freezing over, which is “exactly what the industry needs right now.”

Cher Lloyd: Essentially doesn’t stand a chance and she knows it which is a shame as even though her attitude is way stronger and more watchable than her talent it’s not a trait that easily translates into votes. You know when Cowell moans on (as he has done a lot this series) that he’s bored with watching the same-old-same-old year-in-year-out and that he’s tired of the traditional formula (hence making stuff like Cher seem like something from another planet), well ask yourself who the fuck created that shitty little world where all pop stars are bland personality-less cunts who think that singing a crap Miley Cyrus ballad is “a breath of fresh air?” Even though she’ll be out before you’re drunk enough to care on Saturday night her brand of edginess “deserves a place in the final” and she is “exactly what the industry needs right now.”

Matt Cardle: Cheesier than Brie. It’s like watching Jo Whiley’s live lounge from 2002 on repeat over and over and over again. He seems like a fairly normal lad – bit of a geezer, looks a bit like a builder, wears a hat : it worked for Olly Murs last year so it’s a good tactic – we like to vote for people you could probably meet in the pub so well done to the stylist. Have a fucking star. I find it tough discussing Matt as he’s just tredding the well trodden classic X Factor path of “chasing his dream” and “never giving up.” He’s been in a couple of failed MOR “rock” bands that you can easily find on MySpace, you might have even played with him once and thought “he’s got a decent voice but the songs are shite.” As a last resort he’s probably just thought fuck it, even though Kurt Cobain is my idol, let’s give X Factor a go. Saying that though, even though I personally think we don’t need yet another David fucking Gray, he’s “exactly what the industry needs right now.”

If we still have a Britain left to live in next year and the students and police haven’t turned any more cities into abstract expressionist firey monstrosities I just hope my X Factor fascination will have finally left me. I honestly don’t think I need it in my life anymore, I can’t handle the drama. In the meantime, just like you did in the General Election, vote for no one, Wags is out now so there’s no point in wasting your phone bill. It’s all a fix anyway… Probably.