Hello. Do you remember when you watched The X Factor final yesterday? Well, by an astonishing coincidence, so did we. And crikey, wasn’t it just totally and definitely and absolutely unequivocally passable? Yeah. Take that, H8ERS.
*Dermot tongue roll* ALRIIIIGHT. It was in two halves, like the bloody brilliant darling that it is. Is it possible to be too entertained? The answer is of course c) Kaposi’s sarcoma.
Nonetheless, yes they absolutely poured out a grand total of FOUR. HOURS. That’s like an hour and twenty minutes per finalist. How many times can we hear Marcus say, “I used to be a hairdresser, and now I’m a singer a bit.” over and over in varying incorporations? Obviously, once you chop out all the adverts that’s only about twelve minutes or so though, obviously. No bigz. So then. We love adverts. They really really make us want to buy produce via an amusing or creative short film piece. Our favourite advert of course is the one where the little boy can’t wait to give his parents a Christmas present, and how it really really made us want to buy padlocks for our doors. Oh alright, “The X Factor” then. Here’s loads of wank about it, in two sections.
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We have two more weeks of The X Factor left, and then we can go and do something else in our brains. We know. It’s amazing. Amazing how it’s all gone so marrow-achingly slow isn’t it? Amazing how time can absolutely not shift for three months in the slightest sometimes.
Amazing. A bit like how 2001: A Space Odyssey covered thousands of years scoping from the dawn of men to beyond the infinite. Or a bit like how The Curious Case of Benjamin Button lasted infinity-hundred hours long and achieved absolute zippo. A bit like that, a BIT like that…
And hey! Talking of clutching at straws…
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Who doesn’t love the X-Factor? Oh that’s right, people who listen to supposed “real” music. They’re the types who’ll only listen to music made by those who play their own instruments, write songs without the word “love” being mentioned and only release fifty copies of their album on limited edition cassette tapes.
For everyone else, Saturday nights on ITV are awash with yoghurt adverts, technical glitches and the occasional performance. This year, the judging panel line up has changed dramatically with only Irish demi-arse Louis Walsh remaining to continue to mentor the novelty act category.
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Well, what another hotbed of mayhem and violation of societal norms it’s been on the X Factor this week.
Whatever you do, don’t let us go on and on about it, kay?
This week on The X Factor, the sound editors got in an extra crate of Aftershock (Spiced Berry black, obviously. They’re not squares) and decided to insult our intelligence! Yeah, as opposed to the norm of respecting us with sincere background music choices that somehow formulate a narrative on a reality entertainment show. Yeah, truth man!
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Gary Barlow has always shared a certain stuffiness of his namesake, Ken Barlow. He was always something of a curmudgeon in the world of the boy band, and as he gets older, he’s showing no signs of changing.
Grumping into view, Barlow has criticised modern pop videos, saying that they’re just too rude.
You wouldn’t get Take That rolling around half naked with women smearing food all over their bared chests, thrusting their glittering thongs into camera in the Do What You Like video, would you? Never.
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Alright guys. First thing’s first. Here’s a paragraph about maths, and the fun that maths brings.
It’s Week 14 of The X Factor now, and basically that’s quite an astonishing amount of wasted time. But the big BIG question is: Just how much astonishing amount of wasted time? WELL FRIENDS, by the hands of Pythagorean law, we can deduce 14 hour 75 minute long shows, except for all the ones that were 2 and half hours instead, (deservedly so, obv) not to mention the definitely necessary results shows too, which are around an hour a piece. We roughly round that up to around 34948 BILLION hours of the X Factor.
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trav·es·ty
[trav-uh-stee]
noun
1. A literary or artistic burlesque of a serious work
or subject,characterized by grotesque or ludicrous
incongruity of style, treatment, or subject matter.
Remember that.
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You X Factor fans are a fine bunch of conspiracy theorists and when it was preemptively announced that one of the eliminated caterwaulers had been allowed back into the show, the viewing public gathered in the streets with pitchforks and torches, desperately seeking someone to pin the blame on.
When Loaded’s Man of the Year (1998-Present) Dermot announced that someone called Amelia Lily was to take her place among the X Factor elite, a lot of viewers believed that the result had already been accidentally leaked on STV’s website.
Many people who took to twitter to test the abilities of hashtag filters, thought that the early leaking of the result meant it was a fix. Cries went up and heads were expected to roll. People began looking for Simon Cowell effigies to burn in the streets as the public showed its distaste at being betrayed.
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