Notice how the sun’s not shining quite as brightly today? Notice how everyone looks considerably more miserable today?

It’s because Jedward were kicked off X Factor last night. And Lloyd wasn’t. Honestly, people are stupid. Anyway, last night’s X Factor was George Michael night and, by and large, it was a gigantic disappointment. We were looking forward to seeing Olly doze off behind the wheel of a Range Rover and Danyl masturbate furiously inside a public lavatory. Didn’t happen. Heartbroken.

Still, at least the X Factor recap is here to cheer us up…

Lloyd Daniels – Lloyd knows that he’s probably the weakest act left in this year’s X Factor, which is why he prefaced Saturday’s performance with the declaration that he was going to sing harder than he’s ever sung before. And that was demonstrated during his rendition of Faith. Or, as Lloyd sang it, Fuhhhhf. Because, you see, Lloyd’s idea of singing harder than ever before involves sounding like a weasel’s fart instead of a mouse’s fart. Honestly, it was awful – as weedy and disinterested as listening to an Open University audiotape of a middle-aged librarian flatly listing different types of dust. On the other hand, Lloyd decided to change the angle of his hair by about 15 degrees for Saturday’s X Factor – which is obviously a creative vault on a par with Dylan going electric – so no wonder he’s still safe. Christ.

Stacey Solomon – Having jettisoned the whole ‘moving around’ experiment for good, possibly on the basis that she moves with all the grace of a newborn giraffe trying to ice-skate after its first taste of alcohol, X Factor has decided to rebrand Stacey Solomon. She’s now ‘The Voice’. That’s not strictly accurate, because Stacey is technically ‘The Two Voices’ – the quite good singing voice and the speaking voice that makes her sound like Janet Street Porter in the middle of a debilitating panic attack. But still, on Saturday’s X Factor Stacey demonstrated her new title by singing I Can’t Make You Love Me in a way that made every note last just a little bit too long. And to her credit, Stacey gave a classic X Factor performance. Classic in the sense that it was boring, didn’t really go anywhere and made us turn over to idly watch a few seconds of a BBC2 documentary about German architecture in the middle, but whatever.

John And Edward – On Saturday’s X Factor, John And Edward performed a medley of I’m Your Man and Wham Rap, which was billed as their toughest performance yet. Which it obviously was, since it marked the first time that John And Edward had attempted a song that has actually got notes in it. And, despite performing most of it from the top of a dangerously unstable-looking scaffolding rig, John And Edward more or less pulled it off. However, when it was over Simon Cowell raised the issue of whether they were being asked to do too much, because their performance was essentially made up of two different songs and a high-energy dance routine. But we say tish to all that – we wanted them to be given even more! Next week we wanted to see John And Edward sing 14 different songs while reversing climate change, tap-dancing like Sammy Davis Jr and defusing a dirty bomb. With their arses. But that won’t happen now, will it Britain? You wankers.

Danyl Johnson – It was widely reported last week that Danyl Johnson had thrown a gigantic tantrum during X Factor rehearsals because he was being forced to sing a crap song. So what was he given as a replacement? That’s right, Careless Whisper. You’re a sick man, Simon Cowell. Anyway, this was a brave reinterpretation of Careless Whisper – not only was the famous saxophone introduction removed, but Danyl also decided to add a part in the middle that went “AARRRRRRRRRRRRRRGH!” Aside from that, it was typical Danyl Johnson performance – it was loud, cocky, performed in the style of a South Park Canadian and for the life of us we don’t understand why anybody liked it.

Olly Murs – Throughout X Factor, Olly Murs has only been given old-fashioned songs to sing. So, to mix things up, X Factor decided to make him sing something current on Saturday. You know, something contemporary and modern. You know, something to establish his credentials as a bleeding-edge performer for the 21st century. So they made him sing Fast Love. You know, the song from 13 and a half years ago that sounds identical to that song where Jimmy Nail shouts “She’s lying!” a lot. And, to be fair, it is a contemporary song – there’s a good chance that crappy local radio stations still play it on Friday nights to help pikeys gear up to binge-drink themselves into unconsciousness at horrible provincial nightclubs called things like Rusty’s. Still, Olly’s version of Fast Love allowed him a brief dance interlude, which might have been good if only Olly hadn’t used it as an excuse to shake a little nugget of poo from the bottom of his trouser legs. At least that’s what it looked like he was doing, anyway.

Joe McElderry – When Joe McElderry finished singing Don’t Let The Sun Go Down On Me on Saturday’s X Factor, all the judges gave him a standing ovation. It was odd – at first we assumed that a fire alarm had gone off and the studio was being evacuated – because it certainly didn’t deserve a reaction that enthusiastic. It might have been similar to the original from a technical standpoint, but it was a horrible John Barrowman of a performance. All the notes were there, but there was nothing behind Joe’s eyes. Apart from teeth. That boy sure does have a lot of teeth. And he didn’t even shout “Ladies and gentlemen, Mr Elton John!” halfway through the song. That’s the best bit. And you can’t trust anyone who sings that song and doesn’t change the words of the chorus to “Don’t let your mum go down on me,” either. Stupid Joe. Stupid world.

Follow hecklerspray on Twitter

Separating the sweet, juicy flesh from the stone and skin of this week’s major label releases.

This is it: the Christmas moneygrab officially starts here. The record companies have been softening us up recently, with small-arms fire from the likes of Sting and Ronan Keating. But this week, they pull the camouflage netting away from their yuletide Howitzers and begin pounding us into bloodied submission.

The SuBo: Boom! The Glambert: Bang! The fat DJ who can’t shave his corpulent, slobbering face properly: well, let’s wait and see about that one…

Okay, here’s your Mango. Three reviews, three thoughts. Let’s do it.

Firstly, I Dreamed A Dream, Susan Boyle. Eschewing the album titles we sent them (‘Look! It’s That Fat Lass You Saw On YouTube!‘ and ‘Susan Boyle: Smeared With Goosefat And Trussed Up With String For Your Yuletide Pleasure’) SuBo’s record company have played it safe.

And that’s probably wise, as we suspect her average fan doesn’t like anything more mentally challenging than working out which of their 32 cats has done a plop on the dresser again.

That title track is here, of course. Now with a quite mind-blowingly dense level of orchestration including bells, trumpets and what can only be the entire heavenly host descended unto Earth for to open up their celestial windpipes in support of the Great One.

Also present is a ponderous, emotional recording of Wild Horses (which first appeared on an album called Sticky Fingers, whose cover had a closeup photo of a genitally-satisfied man in tight jeans). We knew that Mick Jagger long ago transformed from a sexually threatening wildman into an accountant who does some singing on the weekends, but releasing the rights for this? Wow.

These, and the rest of the songs, are sung with that big old voice and that big – huge – vibrato. Every single line finishes with a powernote, Susan’s voice quivering like a leaf being held by a wobbly toddler who’s desperate for a wee.

In summary: Susan Boyle’s debut is exactly what you expected. And, if you’re a fan, what you wanted. It is represented by the thought:

This is a gal who really speaks to me. She knows who I am and what I feel. Now, if I can just stretch my obscenely bloated arm far enough to reach that wand, I can prod at my keyboard and order it from…ooh, a Twinkie.

My life needs Susan Boyle’s album. That and many, many pottery statuettes. Take me there now.

Secondly, For Your Entertainment, Adam Lambert. Debut album from the screechy emo who didn’t win American Idol. Sadly, we were unable to secure a promotional copy of the album, so we are unable to tell you how the thing sounds (note to Glambert’s people: do feel free to advance us a copy of his next one. Get in touch here: PaulGibson@SlantedScience.com).

Actually, that’s not quite true: this is an Adam Lambert album, so we can be confident that we do know. It sounds like a sackful of cats, angle-grinders and Janet Street-Porter impersonators being thrown into a woodchipper. It sounds like a hyena being sodomised by a badly-tuned violin. It sounds like the noise a soul makes when it realises that life is nothing but a pointless series of disappointments and regrets.

Check it out this week, and try telling us we were wrong. In the meantime, we have rearranged the album’s genuine song titles so that they tell a little story. We’re so naughty:

Loaded Smile
Whataya want from me
Pick U Up
Down The Rabbit Hole
Aftermath
Broken Open

You’re welcome. This album is represented by the thought:

Only Glambert understands me. He knows the pain of my existence. No one else can…ooh, mum’s got dinner ready. Hope it’s chips.

I need Adam to heal me. Take me to him, please.

Thirdly, Chris Moyles, The Parody Album. If you’re old enough, you might remember Weird Al Yankovic. His schtick was this: grow wacky hair, take a song popular at the time, rewrite the lyrics so they sound similar but are faintly absurd, record the song with new lyrics. It was an awesome formula which gave us classics such as Eat It and Addicted To Spuds.

Here, Chris Moyles (flabby aural irritant, and a man who never saw a viral phenomenon he couldn’t suck the last molecule of fun and spontaneity from) rehashes Weird Al’s idea.

Does it work? Is the pope a bear? Is there a grizzly taking a dump on the floor of the Vatican? Is scrotal surgery performed by a detoxing alcoholic a fun way to spend the weekend?

If you can possibly – possibly – envision yourself even beginning to think about ever buying this (even as a joke gift for the crazy office prankster), then please leave now. There’s no room at the Mango Inn for your sort.

We mean it, bugger off.

This album has not a single redeeming feature. The lyrics are overworked, schoolboyish. Inability to sing can be whimsically charming (Lily Allen), but here’s it’s just one more layer of pain. And lying over the whole thing, like a gigantic musical Jabba The Hutt, is Moyles. You’ll be able to imagine the glint in those porcine eyes as he first realised that Tom Jones’s Sex Bomb could be sung as Big Bum.

This album is represented by the thought:

Hahaha! Moyles has done a comedy album!  Nice one Moylesey! LOLZ! Top work big guy!!! HAHAHAHAHAHAHA!!!!!!!!!! I’m gonna play this all week in work LOUD! LLLOOOLLLLZZZZ!!!!!

I am the kind of soulless prick who thinks that practical jokes aren’t funny unless their target is ruthlessly humiliated to the point where they are genuinely mentally damaged by the gag. LOLZ!!!!!!!

Follow hecklerspray on Twitter

Warning: Brace yourself for a sickening display of cinematic affection.

As far as movies based on lunar missions go Moon is up there with the best of them. With only one man and a computer voiced by Kevin Spacey, this is a film that blows the dust away from the sci-fi genre.

This is movie that not only pays homage to the likes of Blade Runner and 2001: A Space Odyssey but also turns expectations and marks itself as a visionary exploration on what it means to be human.

It is helped in no small way by Sam Rockwell, here playing the aptly named Sam. The film relies completely on his performance and if you are familiar with Rockwell then it comes at no surprise that his enigmatic screen presence makes Moon not only absorbing but also completely believable. Dealing with agoraphobia, mortality and paranoia, Rockwell never falters in his portrayal, and further cements himself as one of the best ‘oh, I recognise him from something’ actors out there.

What helps the film is its sheer restraint to be anything bordering on mainstream. One time Zowie Bowie (son of David) Duncan Jones directs the film with care and passion. Not relying on computer generated effects – something that has become a prerequisite of modern sci-fi – and instead using practical methods of creating an environment that not only looks startling (and not just in crisp high definition) but also adds a layer of authenticity often lacking in today’s cinema.

This method also helps you feel connected to the environment and helping to add to the unsettling nature of the picture. When Sam falls deeper into the mystery surrounding an accident, we are never sure what is real and what isn’t. Can we truly believe a narrator who seems to be both mentally and physically deteriorating before our eyes? The film constantly makes you question what is going on, leaving the audience constantly in the dark – a brave decision in an impatient age.

As the pieces of the puzzle fall into place then it becomes clear that each twist and turn has been clever crafted and the story forms together to create something truly memorable. It may be compared to the likes of Blade Runner but as far as intricate storytelling then it is on a par with recent directional debuts such as Christopher Nolan’s Memento and Richard Kelly’s Donnie Darko.

Much like the aforementioned it takes the genre to new levels, often by making the ideas big and the storytelling simple – Something that Hollywood seems to have forgotten to do.

The Blu-ray release delves deeper into the process, featuring commentaries with Duncan Jones, Q&A sessions and behind the scenes footage. The only thing it lacks is major input from Rockwell. Still, you can’t ask much more than a high definition package that makes a visionary film truly visually spectacular.

Hecklerspray rating: 4/5

Now pardon us for our break in usual Hecklerspray cynicism so now enjoy a return to our normal programming…

Follow hecklerspray on Twitter

So you’re a Dancing With The Stars voter. Your actions will decide who makes the Dancing With The Stars final.

You have four remaining dancers. One is Mya, perhaps the best celebrity dancer in the show’s history. One is Donny Osmond, the beloved cultural icon. One is Joanna Krupa, a smouldering bikini model. And one is Kelly Osbourne, who is Kelly Osbourne. You have to eliminate one dancer, effectively stopping them from wriggling around a studio in a barely-there scrap of sequinned spandex the following week.

And you choose to eliminate Joanna Krupa. Dancing With The Stars voters, you confuse us sometimes.

Spoiler alert: Mya wins the Dancing With The Stars final next week. She has to, surely. We’ve looked at this from every angle and it seems clear that Mya – who’s received two sets of perfect scores in the last fortnight – can’t not win Dancing With The Stars. Just look at her competition. Sure, Donny Osmond might be all lovable and toothy and less prone to spontaneously falling over than his sister; and Kelly Osbourne might be, you know, still inexplicably part of Dancing With The Stars, but Mya’s the only actual dancer left.

But what do we know? Nothing, that’s what. If we were in charge of Dancing With The Stars then things would have all been so different. Kelly Osbourne would have been eliminated back in September, and we’d have only booked Aaron Carter as part of an elaborate plan to use springs to fire him through the studio roof and into the lion enclosure of the neighbouring zoo on the first day of rehearsals. And Joanna Krupa definitely wouldn’t have been eliminated from the show last night.

But, alas, she was. Despite possessing everything we like about models (physical attractiveness) and nothing we dislike about models (self-awareness, basic cognitive ability), Joanna Krupa was given the heave-ho from Dancing With The Stars last night, meaning that she’ll miss the grand final. And, boy oh boy, was she angry when she found out. E! Online reports:

“It’s been such an amazing experience and I’ve grown as a person,” the 30-year-old model said after hearing the disappointing news. “Thank you to the judges. Thank you for giving me the opportunity. I had a great partner.”

Yeah, that’s right Joanna! You tell those bastards!

But while Joanna Krupa has been forced to hand in her glittery unitard and go back to a life of wearing bikinis, swathing herself in goose fat and pulling sexy faces that make it look as if she’s trying to work out a particularly difficult Sudoku puzzle, the rest of us get to look forward to next week’s Dancing With The Stars final. Who’s going to win?

Well, Mya, obviously. We said as much a few paragraphs ago. Seriously, you people have terrible memories.

Follow hecklerspray on Twitter

The concept of two sexy young women scrubbing the brain fragments off of a bathroom floor might sound to you like some niche Japanese Manga porn. Unfortunately it’s only another dysfunctional family indie drama.

Sunshine Cleaning has the indie genre down pat; colourful titles, top actors, interesting backdrop and troubled characters. In fact, it is walking the line so straight that it borders on the mundane. It works hard to be the next indie breakthrough like its predecessor Little Miss Sunshine, but the story doesn’t have as much to do.

Amy Adams is as likeable as ever and here she is playing Rose Lorkowski, a downtrodden single mum who is struggling to make ends meet as a cleaner. A character with zero self-esteem or vocational outlook, she is convinced that the world of crime scene cleaning is her way to fortune.

Obviously this is a messy job and she soon finds herself knee deep in all sorts of excrement. She is helped along the way by her sister Norah played by Emily Blunt. Here, the wayward sister, she lives at home with their father Joe (Alan Arkin) whose own business ventures are far from successful.

What we get is fairly ‘amusing’ situations, but because they all pretty much take place in the same setting, it never really takes off and – as you would expect – there is minimal comedy to be had from the stains left from the dead. All the cast do very well in their roles, particularly Arkin, but he is pretty much playing the same character he played in Little Miss Sunshine.

What it really seems to be doing is trying too hard; each character has an issue (all pretty much stemming from the same place) but they all have their own little moments of clarity. Sometimes it works and sometimes it comes across as excessively quirky (notably Norah under the train rails) but it always fails to click.

Neither the characters nor the surroundings come across as particularly easy to relate to. Adams always has the ability to convince, but it’s hard to care about the most popular girl in school who grew up to be a loser.

The film is just adequate, never fully taking off but not too dull either. It’s a small victory that anyone managed to make a film about cleaning up dead people that’s even remotely amusing. Be warned, though, as this is not the next big indie hit but instead is a film coasting on the merits of predecessors.

The DVD release packs in minimal extras but a so-so commentary from the writer and producer and a strange behind the scenes documentary about real-life crime scene cleaners. The documentary at least proves that the film is 100% more entertaining to people in the business, if that can be taken as a recommendation.

Hecklerspray Rating: 3/5

Follow hecklerspray on Twitter

Separating the sweet, juicy flesh from the stone and skin of this week’s major label releases.

Another week, another Monday. Another soul-grinding day of pretending to like your colleagues. Even Dave in security, who will tell you all about his weekend’s sexploits despite the whole office knowing he hasn’t seen any ladybits in fifteen years.

Well come ye here, settle down in front of the glowing slavemaster, and bury your face in this week’s Mango…

Three reviews, each represented as a thought that the thought-havers who buy them might have thought.

Firstly: Keep Calm And Carry On, Stereophonics. We’re unsure, but the title of this latest album from the Welsh subpubrockers may have been chosen as a message to someone browsing the racks of a music store. A moment of blind panic, as he sees the word ‘Stereophonics’, and wonders whether the band’s continuing existence is a sign of The End Times. The innocent browser, frozen in his horror.

Then, those soothing words catch his eye: ‘keep calm and carry on’. Ah, yes. Released from his binds of terror, the man is free to move on.

Because they really are terrible, aren’t they? Most of the songs on this album wouldn’t be too bad, in the right context. I Got Your Number, for instance, might be quite catchy if it had been sung by McFly. But when Kelly Jones gets his raspy, smoky, constipationy vocal cords around it, the thing goes downhill quicker than a fat man in a barrel.

But do you know what’s the worst thing about this album? Well, we give to you the words of Trouble:

I’m in trouble, you’re in trouble. Deep, deep trouble’s gonna burst our bubble.

Stereophonics: now taking inspiration from Shampoo. This album is represented by the thought:

Christ, those lasses from the 90s have really aged badly. On this song, which I can only assume is a re-release of their biggest hit, the blond one sings like a constipated Ent.

I hate myself, please take me to this album on Amazon.

Secondly, Winter Songs, Ronan Keating. Ronan, who Wikipedia claims is 32 years old, releases an album of Christmas-themed songs. There is no way this can end well.

Softer than an angel’s feather. Sweeter than fudge dipped in icing sugar. More shit than the elephant enclosure at Whipsnade the day after an accidental release of Dulcolax into their drinking water.

None of these comments made it into the album’s press release, and that’s a shame. Because people do need to be warned about albums like this. “Parental Advisory: Terrible Lyrics“, perhaps. Or, “Do not drive or operate heavy machinery while listening to this album, as it may cause you to enter a psychotic fugue state and plow your car or heavy machinery into innocent people”.

Oh, but it’s a stinker. How the hell do you suck every last atom of emotion from the classic Homeward Bound? How do you make Little Drummer Boy even more sickly cloying than anyone else has previously managed? That includes the saxophone version by Kenny fricking G.

In fact, that’s the absolute worst thing we can say about this album. Keep the snark, here’s your take-home message. Ronan Keating’s new album: worse than a recording of Little Drummer Boy by Kenny fricking G.

Here’s your thought:

Okay, I’ve got all my little pottery dolls lined up here. Each one’s got a little cup of tea, lol so cute! And I’m sucking on a lovely fudge-wrapped sugarcube. Now let’s listen to the new album by Ronan Keating, my fave, I love him lol! Oh. Oh God. Oh my God. That is even worse than the sax version of Little Drummer Boy by Kenny fricking G.

I promise I will not drive or operate heavy machinery, please take me to this album.

Thirdly, Against All Odds, N-Dubz. Ah, the Dubz. Riding in on a big, strong horse to rescue this week’s reviews from total tedium (presumably, a tricked-out horse, with green LEDs under its belly and 18 inch chrome horseshoes).

Grime, garage, urban, nuskool flip flop: call it what you will, it is presented here with levels of charm and – steady yourself – sophistication that put it well beyond their competitors. And if you don’t agree, our very own Stuart Heritage can tell you that Dappy will be round your house to make you look small, then bury you. Scary.

This album is represented by the thought:

Dappy’s got a silly hat! It’s silly! He’s the nuskool flip flop version of that knobfiddle from Jamiroquai.

I enjoy music for the emotions it makes me feel, like happiness and giddiness. Please take me to this album.

Have a good week, Mangons.

Follow hecklerspray on Twitter

Last night Jamie Archer was kicked out of X Factor, and our weekends just aren’t going to be the same ever again.

Admittedly that’s because there’s now going to be a space of two minutes during our weekends where we won’t hunt our living room for some knitting needles to jam into our ears, but still. Jamie Archer left X Factor on Queen Night which, if you didn’t know, also doubles as Deliberately Make Freddie Mercury Try To Curse Brian May From Beyond The Grave Night.

But, hey, let’s give you that X Factor recap you’ve been gasping for, eh?

Jamie Archer – Because Jamie used last week’s X Factor to sing a song about crying from a film about a prostitute with Down’s syndrome and about three people didn’t completely hate it, Jamie realised that it was a turning point for him. From now on, Jamie declared, he’d do things his way. And it turns out that ‘his way’ basically means ‘performing Radio Ga Ga to a backing track so deafening that you can barely hear him at all, constantly shouting ludicrous cruise ship singer platitudes like “Are you with me?” at the audience and generally coming off like an obnoxious child in a clown wig acting out his favourite Hitler fantasy to such a horrific extent that it’d cause him to be voted off X Factor forever’. Who knew?

Lloyd Daniels - You know what? We want Lloyd to stay in X Factor for a little bit longer. We don’t want him to win, obviously – we’re not mental – but we’ve realised that Lloyd does provide the best entertainment of every Saturday night. Not with his singing, obviously – we’re not mental – but because of the moment when it becomes painfully clear that his celebrity mentor hates him. Robbie Williams hated him, Whitney Houston hated him and, on Saturday, it turned out that the remnants of Queen hate him too. And you could see why – watching his rendition of Crazy Little Thing Called Love was like watching a barely sentient toddler nervously free-associate to himself. And, despite prattling on about what a big performance he had to give, all Lloyd actually did was stand still while a handful of girls with wing mirrors jutting out of their tits waggled around next to him. That said, it was Lloyd’s best performance of the competition. That said, it still made us want to kill ourselves.

Olly Murs – On Saturday’s X Factor, Olly performed Don’t Stop Me Now, which seemed like an unnecessarily cruel taunt. Actually, that’s unfair. In truth, Olly is rapidly emerging as the frontrunner to win X Factor. That’s OK because a) rather him than Jamie Pubehead, and b) he’s bound to be a Leon Jackson instead of a Leona Lewis, so he won’t be around for long anyway. But there is one thing that concerns us about Olly Murs, and that’s his dancing. At various points through his performance, Olly wiggled his fingers about like a paedophile, violently jerked backwards and forwards like someone was ramming a red-hot poker down his urethra against his will and goose-stepped around like he was cautiously trying to navigate a narrow corridor that had been covered in giant steaming hot clods of animal shit. Maybe he should try shattering his femur instead of his little finger next week. That should put an end to it.

Joe McElderry - Here’s what we hated about Joe McElderry’s version of Somebody To Love on Saturday’s X Factor – 1) It was another musical theatre version of a song, only this time the musical would also star Michael Ball and Michael Crawford and be called What A Horrible Bunch Of Cocks. 2) Judging by the profound lack of passion that Joe put into the performance, we can only assume he thought it was a song about somebody looking his slippers. 3) We can’t see Joe McElderry sing without thinking “But if you’re here, who’s starring in all the late-1990s TV commercials for Sunny Delight?” 4) He’s got way too many teeth. Here’s what we liked about Joe McElderry’s version of Somebody To Love on Saturday’s X Factor – no, just kidding. It was unremittingly terrible.

John And Edward – Something really weird happened on Saturday’s X Factor. John And Edward were good. And not good in a ‘wahey, let’s destroy Simon Cowell!’ way, either. They actually showed a base level of musical competency. They performed a mixture of Under Pressure and Ice Ice Baby, and the singing was in tune and the rapping was in time and they more or less danced properly, too. This sounds weird to say, but John And Edward have – gulp – grown as performers. This might be a terrible sign – it means that next week they’ll probably perform a stripped-down, painfully sincere version of I Want To Know What Love Is because they want to show ‘the real Jedward’ to the public – but it might mean that John And Edward and going to keep improving every week until they can cure world hunger with the power of their voices alone. The prophesy was TRUE!

Stacey Solomon – For a few weeks now, X Factor has been buggering about with Stacey’s formula by trying to get her to sing up-tempo numbers, and this hasn’t been good for her. However, on Saturday’s X Factor they just let Stacey do what she does best – blast out a full-tilt power ballad and then gibber like Frank Spencer having an asthma attack immediately afterwards. Stacey’s version of Who Wants To Live Forever – apart from the cheapo fanfare at the beginning which was meant to make her look like the queen but actually made her look like the host of a particularly ropey 1980s gameshow – was possibly the best of the night. It was almost like watching Shirley Bassey belt out a prime-era Bond theme, but not quite as good, because Bond themes traditionally don’t have middle-aged Irish pixies yelling “Stacey, it’s loike yew’ve bin doing dis fer yeers un yeers un yeers” into the sky like fat little dickheads immediately afterwards.

Danyl Johnson – So, Danyl Johnson – the man who’s been uniformly criticised for his unwarranted cockiness since X Factor began – chose X Factor’s Queen Night to sing a song called We Are The Champions, as originally performed by a man who unironically used to wear a crown and a velvet cape. This was never going to end well, and it didn’t. But not for the reasons you might think – instead of being his usual overbearingly smug self, Danyl’s version of the song was actually desperately underwhelming and not celebratory in the slightest. But still, at least Danyl located what was missing from the original – a bit that goes “Wooooah-a-oooah-a-oooooah” in the middle for absolutely no reason whatsoever. Git.

Follow hecklerspray on Twitter

Admit it – for a moment there you were worried that Aaron Carter was going to win Dancing With The Stars.

It’s OK, we were worried too. Just the thought of renewed public validation of Aaron Carter filled us with absolute dread. What if he was allowed to bring back his reality TV show House Of Carters? What if he got to re-release his album Aaron’s Party (Come Get It)? What if he was driven so berserk by renewed fame that he started legally emancipating his parents again?

Well, relax. Aaron Carter was kicked off Dancing With The Stars last night. We’re in the clear.

We’re one week closer to discovering the winner of Dancing With The Stars. Actually, we take that back. We’re one week closer to discovering that Mya has won Dancing With The Stars. Because, goodness, it’ll be a sad day if any of the others beat her. Especially if it’s Kelly Osbourne. If we were Mya, and Kelly Osbourne was deemed to be a better dancer than us before an audience of millions, we’d go away and shatter our shins with a clawhammer. Just saying.

But we’ve got that to look forward to. At least we know for sure that Aaron Carter definitely won’t beat Mya at Dancing With The Stars, because he was booted off the show last night. Poor Aaron, he’s provided us with so much entertainment over the years – by taking all the drugs, embarking on the world’s most disastrous engagement, having it off with Lindsay Lohan and generally being so obnoxious that even Hulk Hogan’s family, the most obnoxious family in all of mankind, picked up on it – but he’ll just have to live with the fact that he isn’t as good at dancing as Kelly Osbourne. AP reports:

Carter cried early in the competition after harsh remarks from the judges… Head judge Len Goodman praised the young singer for his dedication. “You’re an inspiration to all young people that anything is possible,” Goodman said. “If you were my son, I would be so proud of you.”

And you know what? We’d be proud of Aaron Carter if he was our son, too. True, we’d have immediately crushed our testicles between two breezeblocks the instant he was born to prevent us ever repeating the atrocity, but if he ended up coming fifth in a televised dancing contest then we might be slightly proud of him. Fleetingly.

But at least Dancing With The Stars protected Aaron Carter from the magnitude of his failure this week. He may have come last, but at least they booked Susan Boyle and Michael Buble as musical guests to ensure that he wasn’t the very worst thing on the show. Although, based on this formula, to make Kelly Osbourne look good on the week she’s eliminated they’ll need to feature vocal performances by Josef Fritzl and Mumm-Ra The Everliving. Or something.

Follow hecklerspray on Twitter

Night at the Museum 2 isn’t a film content with itself. When it isn’t vying for the title of most irrelevant sequel, it decides to take a trip to Ben Stiller’s house for a mass celebrity circle jerk.

This isn’t just an excuse to make a mundane sequel, but for a bunch of overpaid comedians to make few laughs out of big ideas.

Growing up, adventure films would appeal to the simplistic nature of our naive brains and inspire us to climb trees and swashbuckle imaginary friends until our parents took us into psychotherapy.

What gave these films their longevity? Their lasting appeal for adults, their refusal to patronise and their universal humour. Now, what we are left with is Ben Stiller slapping two monkeys round the face – times have changed.

Night at the Museum didn’t set the world on fire. A night guard at a museum pitted against the exhibits as they came alive at night – it was a premise that had potential to be an exciting adventure tale, but the end result was underwhelming.

What we get in the sequel is more of the same. We get a brief glimpse at the larger scale objects that are sure to amaze but nothing really takes off. The only thing that is substituted from the original is the location and – instead of the father and son relationship anguish – it has Larry doubting his newly found fortune. Amelia Earhart (the adorable Amy Adams) lends support and acts as a strange love interest (considering she turns to wax come sunlight – something they get around with a cop-out, come closing credits).

One of the most surprising elements of the film is how it can be so packed with great comedy actors, some old (Christopher Guest) and some new (Bill Hader), but all of whom make damp squibs of their respective roles. Ben Stiller just seems to mope about in a role that actually gives him less to do than the original.

As an aid to the little ADHD, dribbling spawn that the film is aimed that, there are enough colourful characters and monkey-slapping action to keep them transfixed for quite a while. Otherwise there is little here for anybody to really connect with. Stiller is going through a mid-life crisis of sorts – something your average eight-year-old finds as interesting as their veg – and appears dull to adults. The historical figures are about as accurate as a pack of Top Trumps cards, with only Al Capone proving entertainment value.

When it comes to the finale battle, neither Steve Coogan entering stage left mounting a squirrel or eagle-headed Spartans make a spectacular finale. This throw-it-at-the-wall approach to studio comedy is ineffective and a reflection of a business that thinks sticking a bunch of ‘it’ name comedians in a bluescreen room with a blank page in front of them equals comedy gold. This is instead a display of Ben Stiller polishing his ego and giving a generous cheque to all his buddies.

Hecklerspray Rating: 2/5

Follow hecklerspray on Twitter

X Factor has ditched Lucie Jones. And it hasn’t ditched John And Edward. We feel dirty saying this, but we want to kiss  Simon Cowell on his face.

But anyway, Saturday’s X Factor was Songs From The Movies night. And, in fact, it was the first episode of X Factor where all the contestants chose to perform numbers from the same movie – a 1983 VHS home recording of a feral street cat being repeatedly punched in the testicles. Or that’s what it sounded like, at least. We might be wrong.

Anyway, you came here for an X Factor recap, so let’s give you one…

Stacey Solomon – For Saturday’s performance of Son Of A Preacher Man, the entire X Factor production team did its best to make Stacey look like a saucy little sexpot. How did it accomplish this? By squeezing her into a pair of trousers three sizes too small for her, teaching her to wobble about as if she was drunk and getting her to sing a middling version of a song that everyone is already sick of. Did it work? That depends on your definition of sexy. Would Stacey have looked sexy if she was in a group of supermodels? No. Would she have looked sexy if she was in a sparsely-attended karaoke night designed exclusively for Dagenham-based single mothers and you were a bit drunk and it was about three o’clock in the morning? Possibly. Mission accomplished, then.

Olly Murs – On last week’s X Factor, Olly Murs performed Come Together. And this week he performed Twist And Shout. Incidentally, if this ‘Olly Murs Sings Hits Made Famous By The Beatles‘ fad is going to be a regular thing, can we put in an early request for Revolution 9 next week please? Thanks. Anyway, Olly declared that he was going to make Twist And Shout sound modern, but then he proceeded to sing it in exactly the same way that everyone on the planet has ever sung it. So can we count his performance as a failure? No, because Olly did a little dance in the middle where he pulled a face that made him look like a semi-deflated vinyl sex doll. And vinyl sex dolls are quite modern, aren’t they? Aren’t they? Anyone?

Lloyd Daniels – For X Factor’s Songs From The Movies episode, Lloyd Daniels decided to sing Stand By Me. You know, from the movie Butt Babes 3 or something. But, to be fair to Lloyd, he did manage to make the song his own. And by ‘his own’, we mean ‘dreary and flat and concussed and terrible’. However, Lloyd knows that his only hope of X Factor survival rests on him being able to act like an adorable stupid-haired puppy, which is why he sang some of his song directly to Cheryl Cole. And that would have been adorable, if only Cheryl Cole hadn’t spoilt it by pulling a face that made it look like she was trying to squeeze lemons with her sphincter. Or maybe that’s just her natural expression. We’ve lost the ability to tell.

Jamie Archer – Now, this is most unlike us, but we’re going to have to award Jamie Archer some points for using X Factor to sing a song from Gummo – the first time a Saturday teatime ITV talent contest has ever referenced a film about a man forcing his Down’s syndrome sister to be a prostitute. However, we’re going to have to knock points off for Jamie’s decision to pick Roy Orbison’s Crying from the soundtrack, when it would have been just as easy to pick Devil Worshipping Son Of A Bitch by Electric Hellfire Club, Hellish Blasphemy by Nifelheim or Mom And Dad’s Pussy by Destroy All Monsters. And we’ll knock off further points because, rather than sing “I’ve been crying,” Jamie chose to shout “Ugh! Bin! CRAAAAAAYN!” at the top of his voice instead. And we’ll knock off further points because Jamie was doubled over for most of his performance like he was suffering from a severe case of gastroenteritis and didn’t know which end he was going to be ill out of first. And we’ll knock off further points because Jamie’s a twat. Only seems fair.

Lucie Jones – On Saturday’s X Factor, Lucie wouldn’t shut up about how her song choice would finally show everyone who she really was. And, since she performed some old shit from a Jonas Brothers film, it turns out that she’s a bland, slightly tedious 10th generation photocopy of Alanis Morissette and nobody likes her. Who knew?

Danyl Johnson – We were promised a new Danyl Johnson on Saturday’s X Factor, and that’s what we got. In case you were wondering, the new Danyl Johnson is exactly the same as the old Danyl Johnson, except he’s got slightly shorter hair. And maybe a little more compassion for humanity as well. After all, Danyl chose to sing Purple Rain which – given the extent that Prince hates YouTube – means that we won’t ever see it online again. Thanks, Danyl! It was a decent Purple Rain, but it probably wasn’t as good as Ruth Lorenzo’s Purple Rain from last year. Maybe that’s what Danyl needs to make people like him – gigantic tits.

John & Edward – Oh thank God. John & Edward are back to their Oops… I Did It Again best. Choosing to sing Ghostbusters on Saturday’s X Factor was a masterstroke – it doesn’t really have a lot of singing in it, it allowed them to wear silly outfits and – best of all – it had plenty of spaces in it for them both to shout things like “JOHN, SAVE ME!” and “SCARY!” while rolling around on their backs like a couple of babies with shitty nappies. A woman dressed as Sigourney Weaver electrocuted them both at one point. It was amazing. So now that’s out of their system, we’d like John & Edward to try a serious song next week. Like The Greatest Love Of All. Yes, that one please.

Joe McElderry – On Saturday’s X Factor Joe performed Circle Of Life, the song from The Lion King that’s about Elton John’s bumhole. And, credit where it’s due, Joe knocked out a note-perfect performance – it’s just a shame that it’s a shit song so all the notes were stupid to begin with. The performance started, didn’t really go anywhere and then tailed off at the end, and the only real constant was Joe’s silly grin. Some people grin because they’re happy. Other people grin because they’re idiots. And Joe used to be fat, so he can’t be very happy, can he?

Follow hecklerspray on Twitter

A new E4 series called Misfits you say? About a group of young delinquents doing community service?

We’ve not been this put off a new TV series since the Bad Girls pilot. In fact, the likelihood of a good series coming from E4 is akin to that of finding a hen’s tooth, or Tess Daly’s soul.

Imagine the disquiet and shock which consumed us when we saw the first episode of this teen-insert genre here and discovered it’s actually quite good. Maybe Tess Daly has a soul after all.*

To get the comparison cliché out of the way, Misfits can be best described as Dead Set meets Heroes meets Shameless. There’s certainly a comic book feel to it à la Heroes, despite writer Howard Overman maintaining ignorance of the illustration laden literature.

In this television programme, a number of actors pretend to possess a different personality to their own, in a number of staged situations and circumstances. Their words are also not their own, they are given to them beforehand by the aforementioned writer, Howard Overman. In the opening episode this group of young, mostly unknown actors pretend to perform manual tasks in order to fulfil the community service aspect of their respective characters’ sentencing. An artificially created storm interrupts them, and through a combination of wind, rain, and CG effects, they are struck by lightning. None of them are harmed – on the contrary, they awake with some super powers. They are bestowed with the ability to hear thoughts, turn back time, become invisible, and to instil in people an intense sexual desire.

This wee acting conglomerate is lead by Robert Sheehan, a young Irishman best known for his role as BJ in the excellent Red Riding series. Robert (or Nathan, as he purports to be in this) provides plentiful comic relief in the Irish craic style popularised by Les Dennis‘ impression of Graham Norton in Extras.

In series such as this or Heroes, realism and grittiness are highly sought-after commodities. Such things are mostly unobtainable in a fantasy scenario such as this, so a substantial amount of credit is due to this relatively inexperienced writer. Howard has also successfully captured the often foul dialogue of teenagers while retaining enough clarity in order for it to be understood by a wider audience.

An impressive social media campaign will be running alongside the series to both accompany and expand on the story arc via Twitter, Facebook and YouTube etc. To make this worthwhile to viewers, those who pay close attention will be rewarded with a character who won’t be revealed on TV till episode six, amongst other things.

All in all, this looks set to be one of those popular ones.

Misfits starts on E4 on Thurs Nov 12 at 10pm

*She doesn’t.

Follow hecklerspray on Twitter

Leaping lizards – cult Eighties sci-fi TV mini-series V is back on our TV screens!

Twenty-six years since I hid behind the sofa at the sight of a big-haired Jane Badler scoffing down a poor, hapless guinea pig, our favourite reptilian alien overlords are back – albeit with a slight makeover.

Gone are the big hairstyles, orange jumpsuits, huge sunglasses and funny voices – the new series, which was piloted last night on US screens, is very much a creation of the post-9/11 age.

For those of you who have no idea what I am talking about (and have probably stopped reading by now anyway), V was a big deal during the decade of big hair and shoulder pads.

The original series, created by Kenneth Johnson, was almost a modern retelling of the Nazis’ rise to power.

‘V’ stands for ‘Visitors’ – or nice, sexy alien people, who come to Earth to share their technological and medical secrets with us – but soon comes to mean ‘Victory’ after we find out the nice aliens are really dastardly lizards covered in human skin, who actually want to eat us and take all our water. The slimy bastards. Imagine David Icke’s wet dreams and you will have some idea what I am talking about.

They even have a symbol which resembles a swastika and a kind of Hitler Youth (which is also used in the modern remake; calling them ‘Peace Ambassadors’), just to ram home the point. This latest update, with a teleplay by Scott Peters, sticks loosely to the framework of the original, but tries to accommodate contemporary concerns. One of which, hilariously, is a Visitors’ pledge to provide ‘universal healthcare’, which looks likely to play right into the darkest US fears over ‘socialised medicine’.

Instead, during this invasion, the aliens, led by the rather lovely Anna (played by geek bait favourite Morena Baccarin), there’s more emphasis on trust and terror, along with the new revelation that this is not the scaly ones’ first visit to earth. In fact, some have been working with us for a while in secret, learning how what makes us tick (I think there are a few in our office).

But some humans, like the ridiculously-efficient FBI agent Erica Evans (Elizabeth Mitchell from Lost) and Father Jack (Joel Gretsch), soon find out the truth and decide to fight back, while others decide to keep quiet to further their own careers. Blah, blah, you get it.

But the question is: Is the future really green?

Well, here’s four reasons I think it will succeed, and four reasons why I think it won’t. Enjoy!

Why it will work

1. Morena Baccarin

Reptiles have never been so sexy. Seriously, check out her scales and you’ll realise why making her the poster girl for the new series is a masterstroke. Now, anyone who has ever watched Firefly or the film Serenity, where she plays a space hooker, were already well aware of Morena’s not insignificant charms. But the best thing about V is that, looking at the supermodels they have already marched out of the mothership, you know she won’t be the last piece of reptilian tail.

2. It’s V, dammit

The show was a massive hit in the eighties, meaning it will already attract a huge number of thirty and forty-somethings desperate to find out how it compares. The new series has also added a number of topics to make it appeal to the younger generation too. They really should have kept the orange jumpsuits though. The Visitors are all really well turned out, which instantly put my back up. Seriously, the mothership looks more like a Shoreditch PR bar than a den of alien overlords.

3. The special effects

What I have seen so far, the effects are pretty good for TV, which will keep audiences interested for a little longer. Mind you, I think the guy who designed the space shuttles did it in the dark. They are the Citroens of the alien, high-tech world.

4. It’s very watchable

The story is simple to understand and fun. I was not the only one in the theatre desperate to find out what happens next.

Reasons it won’t work

1. Erica Evans

Maybe it was because they were trying to cram a lot into the first episode, but I have serious doubts about Mitchell’s acting abilities. Sure, she was not helped by some atrocious lines and a frantic pace, but I have grave reservations over whether she can carry the show. Plus her character is almost as annoying as her character in Lost.

2. No interesting characters

Once again, I am going to blame the frenzied nature of the pilot, but where are the characters? Where is the light relief? Did you like anybody? The script was so bothered about trying to expose the next plotline it forgot about the one thing that connects people to shows in the long-term. Please slow down! The closest we got was that guy from Firefly whose eyes are so close together I think his right eye is actually is left. And vice versa. Seriously, you can’t trust anyone who looks like his face got stuck after the wind changed when he was in a hall of mirrors.

3. It’s V, damnit

The fact it was a huge hit means a lot of people will dismiss it as a pointless remake that only serves to point out that TV executives really do not have any fresh ideas. And they are right.

4. It won’t be given a chance

Money talks – and if V does not get attract large audiences straight away its days will be numbered.

V will be screned in the UK in January. Watch an exclusive clip at Sci-fi.

Follow hecklerspray on Twitter

Last night, Michael Irvin and Mark Dacascos were eliminated from Dancing With The Stars.

We’ll just give you a minute to Google Michael Irvin and Mark Dacascos so you know who they are, and then we’ll continue. Ready? OK, Michael Irvin and Mark Dacascos, who are… no, wait, it’s gone. We’ll just Google their names again. Hang on. Oh, one’s an American footballer and the other’s the Iron Chef guy.

Anyway, the footballer and the Iron Chef guy – whose names we have already forgotten – were kicked off Dancing With The Stars last night. That’s basically the gist, more or less.

OK, hands up – when we announced the participants in this season of Dancing With The Stars, who honestly thought that Kelly Osbourne or Aaron Carter would make the final five? That’s right – none of you. And who could blame you? After all, logic dictates that Kelly Osbourne should have clumsily tripped over and snapped one of her femurs off in the middle of an Argentine Tango by now. And, honestly, the thought of people actually paying to endorse Aaron Carter in any pursuit whatsoever genuinely makes us hate the world a little bit.

But there they are. This year’s batch of Dancing With The Stars contestants has been whittled down to five, and both Kelly Osbourne and Aaron Carter are there. From this, we can only draw one conclusion – that everyone else on this season of Dancing With The Stars has been completely bloody awful. That’s right, Michael Irvin and Mark Dacascos, we’re looking at you.

Michael Irvin and Mark Dacascos became the latest contestants to be eliminated from Dancing With The Stars last night – Dacascos left because he lost a tense dance-off with Carter, and Irvin left because he’s so overwhelmingly atrocious at dancing that even the sight of him in his stupid spangly vest tops made most normal people instantly develop an irrational fear of dance. Anyway, AP reports:

Irwin finished his run on the hit ABC show with his highest score of the season. “Last night was a great night, and to see the audience here standing up, it’s their way of saying they appreciate the hard work,” Irwin said after learning his fate… Dacascos said being on the show was “one of the greatest experiences of my life.”

So with Michael Irvin and Mark Dacascos no longer in action, that just leaves Kelly Osbourne, Aaron Carter, Mya, Donny Osmond and Joanna Krupa in the running to win Dancing With The Stars. Only one can win. Only one will be remembered as the true Dancing With The Stars champion.

Actually, that’s a lot of rubbish. The winner might be remembered as the true Dancing With The Stars champion, but only for about five minutes. After that the show will cobble together another bunch of contestants – who will be very slightly less famous than this lot – for next spring and everyone from this season will be completely forgotten about. Even so, it can’t be Aaron Carter, can it? Can it?

Follow hecklerspray on Twitter

We’re looking at two releases here at Hecklerspray this week; the new Jack Black/Michael Cera Neanderthal comedy Year One and a Blu-ray release of the much maligned lizard dump Godzilla.

Year One – DVD:

Harold Ramis – comedy genius responsible for Groundhog Day and the best film of all time™ Ghostbusters – writes and directs Year One. Current comedy behemoths Jack Black and Michael Cera are cavemen Zed and Oh, both walking through various biblical settings trying to provide about as much subtle rib-tickling as someone stabbing you with a blunt knife. Ramis – once king of underplayed one-liners – simply lets Black and Cera loose with a series of uninspired improv set pieces.

It wouldn’t be so bad if it wasn’t for the sheer pointlessness of the whole picture. Most of the scenarios involve sex in some way – masturbation, lesbian, gay, doggy, etc – which makes much of the religious backdrop completely irrelevant. Black and Cera play on their usual shtick, by now wearing thin. Like much of the cast they are wasted, with only Hank Azaria’s cameo actually raising a smirk.

Religion and its foundations are deeply linked with satire – Monty Python proved that – but this is Ramis trying to appeal to a new Animal House crowd, while assuming that the youth of today are so bored of intelligent comedy that he must resort to the type of toilet humour of his successors like Rogan and Apatow. This isn’t his style and what we are left with is a film that should sit among other uninspired ‘spoofs’ – perhaps Religious Movie is a more fitting title.

The DVD disc fillers are as equally ineffective as the film; unfunny deleted scenes, alternative endings and gag reels really make this a struggle to like. Also quite bafflingly, for any World of Warcraft fans a tribute to the popular online video Leeroy Jenkins is provided. The commentary is unapologetic, Ramis, Black and Cera chuckle about on set shenanigans but, predictably, not much at the film.

hecklerspray Rating: 2/5

Godzilla – Blu-Ray:

Paint us cynical, but here at hecklerspray we have become used the unfailing ineptitude of Hollywood over the years. Take this summer for example: both Terminator and Transformers churned out underwhelming plot-muddling guff in the way of sequels when clearly there is enough previous quality material to create entertaining bolt-bashing blockbusters.

Flip your minds back to 1998. The world was a more innocent place back then. Sure, we’d been burned before by the likes of rubber-nipple Batman and Robin, but we just had the box-office bombardment that was Titanic – the summer season was back!

So the expectations were high and – as we are used to now – they were dumped on in gigantic style by the beast that was Godzilla. No fault of the monster, but when Hollywood makes a giant dino flick, deprived of any resonance and casting Matthew Broderick in the lead, it’s setting itself up for a massive failure.

So the film contains enough frustrating collateral damage to make Michael Bay go hard, and enough plot to fit into a crisp packet – but that is the least of its worries. The action in uninspired, the CG flips between ropey and impressive and then to animatronics that look like a Blue Peter job. Matthew Broderick also turns in a solidly turgid performance as some worm guy who apparently is the only one who knows anything about giant radioactive lizards. Broderick, as usual, can’t work out the difference between whiny and charismatic (name a good film he was a lead in – not including Ferris Bueller and Election).

The Blu-ray proves that no matter of sheen can polish a turd and the extras are as pitiful as the film. SFX commentary, a highlight reel of monster action from rubber-suited Japanese Godzilla films and a preview of the upcoming 2012 – all of which prove to be as lifeless as this multi-million pound production.

Rating: 1.5/5

Follow hecklerspray on Twitter

Separating the sweet, juicy flesh from the stone and skin of this week’s major label releases.

There have been many songs written about Monday, but they all seem to use the working week’s start as a metaphor for sadness, despair, and classroom shooting rampages.

Well, no more: your Mango thinks this is a pretty damn fine day, actually (much better than stupid Thursday. More like ‘Turdday’ if you ask us) and we have done a little song of our own to show you how brilliant it is. Come follow us to the post-jump world, where we’ll show it off…Oh, Monday: you’re the one day,
When we really come alive.
Oh, Monday: such a fun day!
Makes us want to jive.

With your football and your horseplay,
And of course the Mango: fine art!
Stupid Thursday is like Michael Bublé,
To your Django Reihnardt.

Quite brilliant, you’ll agree. If you’d like to contribute to the nascent pop masterwork (we’ve got a band name and everything: Floating The Mango), then do leave your lyrics and/or the instrument you play in the comments box (bear in mind we already have a drummer, an accordonist, and a bloke in our local pub who can fart a middle C that would make you weep).

Alright, we must drag ourselves to consider this week’s trio of releases.

Firstly: If On A Winter’s Night, Sting. The tiny tantrist from 80s pop pioneers The Police has decided to go medieval on our asses, releasing an album of lute-backed songs about winter. If the Twelfth Century had middle-ranking sales executives called Steve, this is what they’d play at their dinner parties, as the guests tucked into a delicious hedgehog soufflé.

It is, incredibly, even more terrible than you’d think, beginning with the song titles. Only one of the following is made up: There Is No Rose Of Such Virtue; The Snow It Melts The Soonest; Lo How A Rose E’er Blooming; Lawks Me Bum’s On Fire (Then Sit Thee ‘Pon The Snow, Sire).

And the music…oh, the music. Every song has a different vocal style, like Sting thought they were so boring he’d better perform each as a different zany character. Check out Soul Cake (sung by a medieval Bob Marley). Or Cold Song (Frank Sinatra singing opera very, very slowly). Or Cherry Tree Carol (sung by a castrato who’s being tickled).

Our favourite: Lullaby For An Anxious Child, which seems to be sung from the point of view of an asthmatic Italian pervert peering through the anxious child’s bedroom window.

This album is represented by the thought:

Forsooth, thine dinner party is surely proceeding in most merry a way, Sir Steve. I congratulate mineself. But shouldst I perchance play now the sounds of Sting? No, not his new one, for it doth give mine ears much anger. Just go with Fields Of Gold, for the ladies do so love it.

I want my friends to think I am sensitive, please take me to Sting.

Secondly, Bad Boys, Bryn Terfel. Grrrrrrr. Bryn is angry. He’s pissed off. He’s up for a fight. Just look at that album cover: Bryn, up close and in yer face, looking ANGRY. Looking PISSED OFF. Looking LIKE A STATUE OF ROSS KEMP MADE OUT OF GRIZZLY BEARS AND CROWBARS. Blimey, this is going to be a thrilling album: probably some kind of hard’n'fast thrash metal? Or house music so deep and intense it’ll make your ears resign, jump off your head and go live in a Trappist monastery?

Can’t wait for this one, let’s see..

WTF? We can only repeat: WTF?

It Ain’t Necessarily So from Porgy And Bess, sung by a tortured bison? Stars from Les Miserables, sung by Africa’s gayest hippopotamus? And a load of operatic toss sung badly by a fat bloke from Wales who looks like Meatloaf’s uglier brother’s ballbag? WTF?

This album is represented by the thought:

Right, let’s stick this one. Look at that cover! I am going to look so fricking awesome walking away from the jukebox here in The Ruptured Spleen pub when they hear what will surely be some pounding speed metal, or some other tough-sounding genre of music.

WTF?

I want my friends to think I am cultured and that, please take me to Bryn.

Thirdly: Slow Attack, Brett Anderson. Hooray! As a sweet antidote to the poison of Sumner and Terfel, please welcome swoopy-voiced androgynous 90s hearthrob, Mr Anderson!

Well, nearly. It’s certainly not a terrible album – just make sure to skip past the first track, Hymm, which is a bit too close to Coldplay for aural comfort – but it does leave us with the feeling that it’s not all it could be. Like sitting down for a meal in a posh restaurant, then being told by the waiter that your dinner will be cooked by some work experience boys from Walsall.

It’s fey, it’s folky, but it’s a sad waste of a fine voice.

Oh, Brett: this could have been wonderful. Consider yourself lucky to have landed in a week such as this, where you are the cleanest piece of sweetcorn in the musical turd.

This album is represented by the thought:

Just my luck. The wife pays for a birthday meal at the Ritz, and it turns out that, in an improbable turn of events, they have asked some completely unsuitable boys from an industrial town to be the cooks tonight. Could it get any wor…oh, tosspants, they’ve just put Slow Attack on.

Screw my friends, there’s no way I’m buying either of those. Brett, please.

Follow hecklerspray on Twitter