It wasn’t supposed to happen this way.
The paparazzi were waiting outside ITV with their wide-angle lenses attached, the party in Blackburn’s village hall was ready to go (crisps, pop and some raw horse meat for Susan Boyle to tear into), and a lady who lives with 30 cats in Wisconsin had pre-written a Wikipedia entry and was sat with her finger hovering over the ‘Submit Now’ button.
But the horrible truth was revealed, and hecklerspray were left to wonder: how do we write hilarious words about Diversity? It’s like turning up for a fight and finding Mike Tyson when you expected Stephen Hawking.
Saturday night. A date with destiny for ten lots of oddbods, misfits and Scottish virgins who wanted to win ?100,000 and an evening spent performing their unfunny/out-of-tune/untreated-epileptic/cute/abusive-relationship/arms-like-ham-hocks acts (we think that covers them all), in front of a sleepy Queen.
And a date with disappointment for millions of overweight ladies who like cats,? sweaters with Bible verses on them, and meals-for-one.
So, with heavy heart and a sense of sadness that Susan Boyle will no longer be around to provide a big, blocky target of fun, we present our final review of the finalists. In the Final. Finally.
2 Grand, old man and grandchild. How can we possibly write anything bad about a loving granddad singing with his granddaughter? An old man shouting random song lyrics over his stageschool-voiced young relative? No way. You go, 2 Grand. But carefully: there’s some steps to get down from the stage.
Shaheen Jafargholi, big-voiced, tiny-bodied Welsh lad. Since the demise of Mr Poo earlier in the week, the voters of Wales have been fully behind little Shaheen. But as there’s only about 30 people in Wales, and everyone else thought he was a smarmy little turdpot, the lad had no chance.
Shaun Smith, contortionist singer. Looks like someone began making a plasticine model of Zac Efron, but decided halfway through to do Morrissey instead. Has apparently been told by his singing teacher that emotion is best expressed by “squirming around like you’re trying to shit out a bag of rusty nails”.
Stavros Flatley neckless Cockney tubbies. After the performance the dad nearly died from a heart attack, the son looked surprisingly unafraid of dying from shame, and we almost died from the effort of resisting the urge to throw our cat through the telly screen. It’s a plasma, see.
Pretty rare, those plasma cats.
Simon Cowell loved them, especially when told by Flatley Senior that “you must have a bit of Greek in you”. We’ll leave it up to you to decide which bit. Meanwhile, Amanda Holden (who had gone with the surprising choice of ‘Wartime French prostitute’ for the final) told the dancing lard sculptures that “you made me laugh my head off”. At which point a technician hurried into the studio to tighten some bolts. We’d love to tell you what Piers Morgan‘s reaction was , but honestly, when he talks all we hear is the sound of an eel trying to climb out of a bucketful of slugs.
Diversity, awe-inspiring talent vortex. Amazing performance from the D-Crew, simply stunning. Rhythm, passion, a touch of humour: they had it all. Worthy winners.
Susan Boyle, hairy angel (TM). The singing orc returned, carrying the world’s hopes and dreams on her massive, powerful shoulders. With thirteen trillion YouTube views behind her, she could not fail. But more on that later.
From the moment the cameras revealed the wee Scot (and after a slight pause as the viewers mentally adjusted from “Why the hell is there a foil-wrapped potato on stage? With a wig made from armpit hair stuck on top of it?” to “Aah, it’s her. But still, why is she wearing a wig made from armpit hair?), through a powerhouse performance marred only by a bizarre shaking of the head at one point (presumably she was trying to dislodge the beetles which nest within her eyebrows), Susan awed the world. The judges loved her, Simon praising her for dealing with the recent tabloid storm:
“You could have walked away from this, and you could have had a lot of stuff coming your way in America… For what? For you to sit at home with your cat?”
To which Susan made a “stroking my pussy” hand motion, the mental associations of which caused 14-feet of intestine to make a bid for freedom via our mouth.
Just like the Titanic, she weighs approximately fourteen thousand tons and is braced by steel girders around her midsection was unsinkable. And just like that notable vessel, her hopes were sunk by an iceberg awful bunch of dancing wankers. Proud in victory, gracious in defeat: bless you, Ms Boyle, and all who sail in you.
We have perhaps confused ourselves a little here.
Farewell, BGT, we shall never see your like again. Not for several weeks, anyway: America’s Got Talent starts soon. And considering the weirdos that Britain managed to spew onto our screens, just imagine what levels of depraved freakery the combined efforts of Arkansas, Texas and Utah will produce.
guida says
what a terrible terrible article. Its author must be the talented owner of a totally frustrated and psychotic mind to be able to write it…