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