In many ways, Susan Boyle’s journey on Britain’s Got Talent is much like the history of America’s Civil Rights Movement.

Both have shown that it is wrong to judge people based on appearance. Both have proven that the oppressed can, through strength of spirit and unshakable belief in what is right, break down barriers and rise above discrimination. Both are close to Oprah Winfrey‘s heart.

And both have gone on for so long now that decent society must look deep within itself and ask: what is wrong with us, that after all which has gone before, we still must confront these things?

Susan Boyle: success or failure? One hit wonder or platinum megastar? Shooting for the moon or reaching for a dole cheque? Her own hair or a misplaced mirkin?

These are the questions the whole world has spent the last few weeks wrestling with – much as we imagine Susan spends her weekends back home in Blackburn, Scotland, tussling with a rampant stag while the rest of the village stands around cheering and placing bets.

And they were answered on Sunday night, when the blocky lass opened up her vocal pipes and… well, just carry on reading to find out if she was Manchester United or Newcastle United, as we review the first set of contestants to ask the public: please can you validate my meaningless existence for another week?

Diversity, street dance wank. Their Michael Jackson/Mission Impossible mashup should have been a confusing mess of imagery, but somehow…it was much worse than that. They got through, though, so we’re looking forward to their next performance: perhaps a Bee Gees/Indiana Jones hybrid, in which the lads pull some disco moves while running away from a big rock? Go rock.

Sue Son, miniature violinist. plucky little Sue famously plucked up the guts to jettison her useless best friend in the audition rounds, at the suggestion of Simon Cowell. Though we think it was probably just a game on his part, to see what humiliations he could make unknowns perform in the name of fame. Not shown on TV was the audition of a mother/daughter singing act, at the end of which Cowell turned to the girl and said: “Hmm, interesting. You’re good, but she’s holding you back. Here’s a sword, now kill her”. Anyway, Sue Son was predictably useless and got kicked off.

Darth Jackson, worryingly unstable virgin. Probably. With a stageshow apparently concocted by a gay man who’d been given a handful of acid and told to “Give us Star Wars On Ice As Imagined By Graham Norton’s Dress-Sense. But more gay”. After his performance, Darth made the terrible mistake of revealing what lay beneath the helmet. Answer: quite possibly the scientific definition of the smallest possible unit of sexual attractiveness. A sex photon, if you will. Sadly, Darth seemed to realise his terrible mistake, and we were forced to bear witness to a man upon whom was descending the realisation that he had just spunked away the one molecule of pride he had left, on a theatre stage, in front of tens of millions of people, who now all hated him more than anything in this world because no amount of mindbleach would be enough to ever scrub the image of his creepy face from their brains.

Natalie Okri, popchild. Sang a Jamelia tune, but for some reason decided to perform it as a puppet operated by an epileptic on a treadmill, voiced by an drunk, asthmatic three-year-old.

Julia Naidenko, softcore porn. Julia, the Latvian bellydancer, had mixed reactions from the judges. Simon Cowell somehow restrained himself from throwing a bunch of fivers onto the stage. Amanda Holden watched with the icy detachment expected from what is basically a Borg in a pretty dress. And Piers Morgan had to be wiped clean of the three litres of drool which ran from his stupid, floppy, just-eaten-a-raw-lemon face. Sadly, nice lady lumps failed to save Julia tonight.

Nick Hell, Gothic self-harmer. Nick HELL (do you see how evil he is?) and a fat midget brought their best tonight. Sadly, that meant a half-arsed attempt to shock the audience, by sticking a drill up his nose and gurning.

Faces Of Disco, big-boobed dancing men. They dance. While wearing masks of famous people! People you’ve seen on the telly!! Dancing!!! LOLZ!!!! Nice that they went to the effort of getting breast implants for their Cowell routine, though.

Susan Boyle, big-boned singing Orc. If we knew how to put her name in a big, colourful font with sparkles and fireworks, we’d do it. We love her, you see. Not in that way – only mentals and water bison love her in that way – but in the way which involves writing nasty, spiteful, childish, hurtful, rude, true words of naughtiness about her. Oh yes, we love her in that way.

As she arrived on stage, the world gasped: “Makeup? Is she wearing makeup? Gods, now she looks like a transvestite hooker. And what the hell have they done to her headpubes?”. Yes, Susan Boyle – the woman who looks like a Gummi Bear that’s spent two weeks down the back of a sofa in a “pound-a-peek” lapdancing club – has had a makeover. Instantly elevating her from ‘So you’re telling me that’s a real person, not something rescued from a Russian circus?‘, to ‘Well, yeah, I can sort of see the human in there. Though it is still hidden beneath several layers of Hobbit‘.

Anyway, she came, she sang, she conquered. Obviously. Simon Cowell just had to sit back and wait for millions of morons to apply pudgy thumbs to mobile phones. Which they did.

As did we. Because if Susan Boyle wasn’t in Britain’s Got Talent, we’d have nothing to write about except nervous children, dancing gays and a million interchangeable urban dance acts.

You! Follow hecklerspray on Twitter!