It’s week three, and we’re all still clinging on, like a shivering, frostbitten Leonardo Di Caprio desperately grasping hold of Kate Winslet’s plank. It’s kind of nice.

We began with a rare montage of previous X Factor successes ‘dominating the charts’. Cher Lloyd, JLS and Olly Murs. Meanwhile, last year’s winner Matt Cardle is co-writing his debut album with David Sneddon.

Also, every single music video of the ex-contestants shown in this sequence employ the use of LIVE ACTION and ANIMATION and subsequently look like various scenes from Space Jam. Every single one. It’s bizzare. Somewhere out there, Thom Yorke can be heard hastily adjusting the black and white settings on Windows Movie Maker.

This week! The judges said no to a contestant! And then in a shock twist, they said no to someone else. Which obviously, on a normal occasion would seem pretty rare, but seems perfectly adequate when you realise that the X Factor has got to the point of desperation where it is now written exclusively by M Night Shyamalan.

Absolutely nothing happened for five minutes, and we broke out of our respective comas to hear Kelly Rowland say she’s looking for ‘the next Destiny’s Child x 10.’ Pssh. Kelly has CLEARLY not been introduced to a little superstar group called Belle Amie. Sorry, our maths has always been terrible. Meanwhile, Tulisa carefully explained the whole process of forty years of hip-hop stylistics with the popular chinese proverb “Obviously, being from N Dubz I’m hoping to find someone urban on the X Factor.” Gary Barlow was looking forward to the hairs standing up on the back of his neck, even though male pattern baldness is perfectly natural for many healthy 40-something year old men, and Gary should just accept that.

“42 year old David”  took to the stage first. The Darkness were picked as his theme music to represent his personality, which we can only conclude might mean 42 Year Old David is a little on the eccentric side. He possibly says some sort of rhyming couplet along the lines of  “Dance a lot. Time to rock.” He also appears to be wearing Steve Tyler’s skin, both on his face, and as a decorative scarf.  He discusses his musical aspirations with a man who looks the spitting image of Dermot O’Leary, and then writhes around for a while in the skinny jeans that Donny Tourette carefully laid out for him earlier that morning next to his bowl of Rice Krispies Multigrain.

Upon arriving on stage, 42 Year Old David gurgled to Louis Walsh that he is “42 going on 18.” Louis ignores the rushing horrific memories from a Smash Hits party back-room incident from 1998 that this comment brings, and changes the subject by asking him if he’s doing this all for the fame and the girls. 42 Year old David earnestly explains that ultimately he is doing this for the music, and everybody in the auditorium is blown away by how a man could be so down to earth. In keeping with this utmost respect for all things musical – 42 Year Old David launches into his stupid rendition of Life on Mars –  mimes orchestrating a David Bowie guitar solo written forty years previous – and most impressively of all, does it ALL in front of Gary Barlow. It literally is like Tchaikovsky just never gave a toss. Kelly Rowland is just impressed that a man approaching middle aged can still walk, let alone administer vibratory patterns of the vocal folds. Because dreams CAN come true.

Delightfully, Gary Barlow gets his first Cowell upgrade with his very own ‘Having said all that’ of the series, and this terrible man gets through to the next round after taking up twelve minutes of a forty four minute show. 42 Year Old David celebrates with another friend who looks a bit like Dermot O’Leary. Just imagine the heaving, sexual gravitas of one of their lad’s nights out. If you want. You don’t have to do that if you don’t want.

ITV1 use both slow motion and fast motion to portray time passing, (which stirs Rufus Hound to the point of writing on Twitter that “You can say what you like, X Factor is incredibly well made”) as they explain to us carefully through the medium of montage that 16 year olds enter the X Factor. The whole point of the segment appears to be to show that there is a living breathing human being out there who uses the term ‘boss’ as a verb. Katie Melua also makes an appearance, masquerading as a 16 year old boy called Max McKay. Max sings ‘Ordinary People’, which always just sounds like it was written off-tune anyway, so that could be seen as counter-productive. On a singing audition that wasn’t the X Factor of course. As it is – he has incredibly glossy hair. So he gets through.

Luke Lucas (played by Kathy Burke, under-study Micheal McIntyre) is next. You may have heard of him – probably mentioned by idiots if you enjoy social networking. Luke is one of those vaguely overweight kids that dare to have a personality and aspirations. Also, he professes to having an overwhelming sadomasochistic lust on Tulisa Cornonthecobbonjovi. Because X Factor might not have had much luck securing the record deals it’s promised over the years, but as far as genital stimulation goes, everything is A-OK.

Following this lovelorn confession – a horrific pair of scenes are spliced together in a match cut Stanley Kubrick could not muster in a million years, involving Tulisa suggestively tapping her cheek, and Luke Lucas nodding, ravenously. He looks like the cake that that kid ate in Matilda. Luke’s parents cheer manically from backstage over their son’s throbbing erection. The mass carnal guilt we all feel for Luke escalates as he sings some ‘Motown’. Everyone reminds Luke that he is SIXTEEN, and he gets through as a reward for the mean feat of singing a song from an entirely different decade, defying every single law of metaphysics ever established. Despite that 12 year old mental singing the same song slightly better in Britain’s got Talent a few years ago. You know the one. No, the other one. No, not the one from Waterloo Road. The one that sang at Micheal Jackson’s funeral. No, not Usher. The other one.

Hey, that’s a good point, isn’t it? Michael Jackson’s still dead. As such, the next contestant is A MAN ACTUALLY CALLED MICHAEL. Michael auditioned in 2010 and was shit and angry. More importantly though, he once took part in a Michael Jackson live séance with Derek Acorah. What an enthusiastic young moron. This year, Michael is allowed back despite benefiting television in neither a positive or negative way, but with a catch! This year, he’s dressed a bit not-like Michael Jackson. You know, like how a professional musician may do. The camera pans upwards to reveal his new look, which consists mostly of pleather, heroin, and idiocy. From what we can gather, Michael promises that this audition will feature “New vocals, and new ‘out of tune’.” He is concerned that Louis Walsh will not like him based on his behaviour from last year. Louis doesn’t remember him. He sings Geri Halliwell which  must be the greatest transition of musical genres since Plan B discovered trumpets. As it transpires, despite buying a gold belt and a comb, Michael doesn’t get through, and calls the judges ‘Shallow and sentimental.’

Burn.

In another moment of meta genius, ITV1 play ‘Beat it’ over the top of Michael as he gets angry again, and goes home to watch Moonwalker, eat Dairylea, and see if Derek Acorah has emailed him back yet.

On the basis of the fact Michael was an utter scrote, ITV1 show us some more utter scrotes, presumably to fulfil some kind of quota they’re contractually obliged to fill thanks to showcasing all those amazing, wonderful, special human beings on Red and Black sometime previous. A woman who has the audacity to wear a hat has an argument with Tulisa, that confusingly gets edited down to the point where we are simply viewing a woman yelling “YEAH WELL THAT’S YOUR OPINION”  to another woman. Saucer of milk for no-one!

Eventually we reached the final crowning spot which this week was dedicated to Jade Richards. She wore ‘ironic sportswear’ because she is a satirical mastermind. In the most emotional, amazing piece of information we’ve ever heard about a living, human woman, it transpires that Jade is not only from Fife, but that her grandmother actually physically loves her. She doesn’t like Fife that much unfortunately, which devastates everybody. If you missed Jade’s audition, just imagine Joan of Arc. And double it.

She sings/inhales Adele’s Someone Like You. Her version sounds so amazingly similar to the original that the audience spontaneously rupture into a mass of synchronized orgasm followed by floods of regretful tears, just to try and handle it. Understandable. Then – if things weren’t amazing enough, Kelly Rowland comes out with some sort of Martin Luther King-esque monologue about how she had a dream someone would sing that particular Adele song today, and that she has been thinking about that song all weekend. Absolutely fucking cosmic. It’s not as if everyone in the United Kingdom hasn’t been thinking about that song all weekend due to it being the only noise that has successfully been transmitted into our airwaves for the past three months. MAGIC IS REAL, JK ROWLING WASN’T MUCKING ABOUT.

Twenty minutes later, everybody is still in tears. Even Louis musters some sort of liquid constituent for the occasion – to which everybody cheers at, which is admittedly pretty funny. Honestly, you’d think that Dusty Springfield had barged on to the stage singing You Don’t Have to Say You Love Me whilst skinning live hens. Everybody is a mess. Tulisa tells Jade that whilst she was singing “It was like she could hear her whole life story in that song.” which is a bit of a silly thing to say when you definitely couldn’t whatsoever. If we heard correctly, (AND I SUSPECT WE DID) that was just the same lyrics as the regular version. Oh right, she meant emotionally.

Come to think of it, if you listen again to Jade’s rendition of Someone Like You, yes, you may HEAR the words “Never mind I’ll find someone like you”, but what you actually FEEL is, “Never mind, I look like I was trampled at a festival but I have quite a pleasant grandmother.”  It truly is an incredible feeling.

NEXT WEEK: Someone is good at singing. Someone is bad at singing. Let’s call the whole thing off. Also, there will be two whole episodes for you to ignore instead of one. That infamous three second clip of Tulisa crying about something gets shown yet again.

It better be triple malaria or something.

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And here we are again. You all look so incredibly tired.

So before we begin, let’s really think to ourselves – what do we really WANT from episode 2 of The X Factor 2011? Because so far, nobody has really got what they want, have they? Nobody really voluntarily asks for Kelly Rowland, for example. Nobody really wants Gary Barlow to be angry to them before 9pm.

Hopefully this week, things will change for the better. We would like to see integrity. We would like to see a jazz singer sing an ironic version of She Wolf. We would like to see at least three testicles. But most importantly, we would like X Factor to bring us a window of entertainment that preceeds an ENTIRE EVENING with Will Young, preferably singing low-key versions of his amazing selection of pop hits, preferably in a tuxedo. Hey. What can we say? We dare to dream.

Actually, sod that – can we have a talent programme which circles entirely around the cinematic technique of  a montage sequence instead? It’ll be like watching a Shane Meadows film or something. EXCEPT WITH GLAMOUR!

We are greeted by the usual selection of bints all wanting to make their dreams come true as usual. Like the selfish bints that they are. Bints. Just get a job at Costa, and buy a keytar like the rest of us, why don’t you. This goes on for quite a while. Dermot O’Leary is for some reason overlooking these proceedings, equipped with a brand new monologue about how a large quantity of people are standing outside a building waiting to sing an acapella Jason Derulo song. Doesn’t Dermot O’Leary crave a better life sometimes? Jesus, Dermot. Just get a job at Costa and buy a keytar like the rest of us.

The judges are introduced to us once again, just in case we were by any chance excited about that. Kelly Rowland, Gary Barlow, Louis Walsh and Tulisa Consideryourselfoneofus-StavrosFlatley.

After a few lonely months, a couple of brutal divorce battles, some mild alcohol poisoning, and the fading of a strange pigmentation issue on our upper thigh, the first contestant of tonight’s show is eventually introduced. He is called Johnny Robinson, which sounds like one of those names that was made up on the spot to get out of a tricky situation. Don’t worry, JOHNNY. Your secret’s safe with us, JOHNNY.

‘Johnny’. Brilliant.

‘Johnny Robinson’ is one of those rare male hybrids who is a cross between John Inman and that lad from that C4 Boy Who’s Skin Fell Off documentary. Oh, and he has a personality. This could potentially get charismatic, so put on an extra jumper for this bit.

He sings ‘At Last’ (by Katie Waissel) for the judges, and is ultimately amazing. He sounds like Orville the Duck and everybody absolutely adores him for it. One of the Mature 2008 Take That Albums plays in the background as his verdict is revealed. But only an instrumental version, because Gary Barlow is humble. He gets through.

Another montage now. Everyone is kissing everyone else on the lips, like we’re in bloody Basic Instinct or something. Disgusting. This is followed by another audition, just as a rare treat. Oh no wait, it’s just a disguise for an audition which is actually another bit about how some people in the world like to bone each other sometimes. What is happening? Don’t the X Factor producers know that they have a registered sex offender on the judging panel this year? Things start off pretty normally. The auditionee in question sings a Kings of Leon song badly (WHICH HAS NEVER HAPPENED BEFORE IN THE WORLD EVER) and then a man comes on stage and asks him to marry her, in a crazed act of unscripted, love-driven spontaneity. It’s a lovely moment for a show which is usually so intently driven to be all about the music, so we simply have nothing else to add, except congratulations. Congratulations for pretending to love your girlfriend so she would get through her X Factor audition.

Up next is Derry, who is black. But that’s cool, because ITV1 totally get that, and play some 90s Will Smith records over the top of him so that Derry will more likely feel at home. We also learn that Derry voluntarily likes Kelly Rowland. In fact, he voluntarily likes Kelly Rowland to the point where he is actually excited to meet Kelly Rowland, which is a bit of a new one on us. ITV1 obligingly celebrate this fact with getting Kelly Rowland to film herself in a dark room blowing kisses for him, which really puts the whole concept of ‘money’ into perspective.

Derry has brought 800 people with him all wearing DERRY HAS THE X FACTOR T-SHIRTS. They look fantastic. If anybody knows where you can get hold of those things, please contact us because we really would like to know. Topman only do knitted versions of it, and quite frankly we were hoping for something a little more breezy.

Derry goes up for his audition and sleazily sleazes to Kelly Rowland about how great her vagina is, or whatever. Jesus, is this the X Factor or CASABLANCA tonight?? He sings an acapella Usher song. Kelly Rowland effectively tells him to sod off and join JLS. In fact, all of the judges tell Derry to change little aspects of himself. Because celebrating who you are as a person is so very 2010, you know. You wouldn’t catch Official Representative of Modernism in Western Culture Tulisa pulling shit like that now, would you? Nonetheless, Derry gets through, and also gets a cheeky kiss on the cheek from Kelly. The sweat on our collars is LITERALLY LIKE THE NILE.

At this point, we’re approximately in the second trimester of the show, and all that really seems to happen in these moments is Kelly Rowland changing the title of The X Factor to ‘The Cool Factor’, some obligatory Louis Walsh is Harmlessly Gay match cuts, the ‘record scratch’ joke still being like BILL HICKS X 1000, and the Polar Bear off the Birdseye advert developing some sort of horrific advanced level of Schizophrenia.

But now everything is fine, because we’re in LIVERPOOL now! Yes, Liverpool! In Liverpool! Dermot boasts that ‘they’ve never been to Liverpool before’ on the X Factor. Presumably to try and comb over that pretty heavy Ray Quinn situation they got themselves into a few years ago. Gary Barlow proclaims that if they don’t find an X Factor star in Liverpool he will literally and definitely not figuratively eat his own suit, which is such an incredibly crazy thing to say. Still though, if you think about it, Gary Barlow does look exactly like the sort of person who readily eats his suits, so all in all – pretty plausible statement.

But lo and behold, the first auditionee from Liverpool doesn’t sing very well at all, despite the fact that Paul McCartney is from Liverpool and DOES sing well, which is pretty confusing. He has a nice collar, and has quite a pleasing blonde hue to his hair however, so still makes it on to TV. An overweight man tries his luck instead, which obviously can’t work because he’s a bit overweight. AND they’re playing Razorlight over the top of him as if he were in a Louis Theroux documentary about Death Row. Regardless of this, the overweight man WHO DOESN’T DESERVE A NAME (but if he did, we assume it would probably be something along the lines of ‘Craig’) comes on to the stage and tells everyone about how he is from Liverpool. The audience absolutely crap themselves with excitement that someone from Liverpool is auditioning at the X Factor auditions in Liverpool. Even Brian Cox would probably admit he couldn’t fully measure the universal aspects of that one.

Craig tells the judges that he works in a biscuit factory, presumably not knowing that you’re not meant to take  taunts from people in the street literally. Then in a shock twist, it turns out that the slight fat does not obstruct his lungs after all and he sings a lovely Adele song to the delight of the entire of Planet Earth. All of the judges tell him how they didn’t expect him to sing well, because what were the odds that after Susan Boyle, there was actually another talented, unattractive person in the midst of our hemisphere after all? Another disappointment from Brian Cox this evening.

Next up, X Factor remind us that they also let groups audition for their show too. A duo called ‘The Duos’ (POST-MODERNTACULAR!) are just one of these. They sing badly and everyone laughs at them. Gary Lucifer Barlow shoots them a disapproving glare. So a group called ‘BROMA5NCE’ (*Google explodes out of confusion *) try their luck instead, but unfortunately have not picked up any of the Beatles overwhelming musical talents despite being a band from Liverpool, which is yet again devastatingly bad luck. Still, Broma5nce is definitely the name of our next budgie, so it’s not all bad.

Another horrific moment from Louis, as he mistakes a masculine looking woman in a checkered shirt for being an actual man, even though the Guinness World Records clearly state that Louis Walsh was the guy who pitched the whole idea of lesbians in the first place anyway.

Eventually, things begin to stagger (jagger) to a halt, and we begrudgingly listen to the words of our final auditionee of the night, Misha Bryan. Take it away, Misha! Misha is a poor, penniless girl who sobs dramatically to the camera about how she is so skint she has to humiliate herself by travelling on Arriva buses sometimes. ITV1 apparently have a clause where X Factor contestants are not allowed to wipe away their tears, and the poor girl is Sinead O Connorring all over the ruddy shop. Eventually, they let her sing a song called ‘RESPECT’ by an old woman called ‘ARETHA FRANKLIN’ (*Google explodes out of confusion*) and does a rap too. Just like how Cher Lloyd used to rap. Seriously, it’s like the world is shrinking.

Coming up next week!

More people go on stage and sing, but we will most likely never get to see that. AND – to give our internal organs an extra bit of a kick, we we will be teaching you how to play your very own home-version of the Kelly Rowland cocaine-taking game!

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Action Man dicked amniotic super-foetus Justin Bieber may have to go to big man’s court after getting in hot water (presumably not tested with an adult elbow first) after someone claimed that he owes them money for his obviously dreadful track One Less Lonely Girl.

Sadly, it isn’t clear whether Bieber has formed a human brain capable of dealing with the notion of ‘money’ yet. It’s alleged that Bieber ate his first royalty check before sneezing a spaghetti hoop out of his nostril.

Anyway, the wonderfully monickered Vance Tate and Thomas Oliveria (also known as A-Nus A-Rex) are going after him with bits of paper with legal words written on and a promise to give him a Chinese Burn and take away his blankie.

The pair are reportedly claiming that the track which featured on Justin’s debut album was originally created by them for R&B singer Noel Gourdin in 2009.

However, the track appeared on Bieber’s LP and was credited as a collab between Usher, Shin, Hamilton and two others (or, as they’re known elsewhere, The Five Horsemen of the Apocalypse).

Who would have ever thought that the music industry was a puke-laden pit of vapid, dead-eyed, ruthless shills?

A-Rex now want 10% of the songs publishing royalties, which they estimate to be in the region of around $200,000.

Meanwhile, Justin’s representatives are preparing their case with the angle of “Look. You’re making baby cry. How could you?”

MTV is reporting that the pair are also seeking damages for breach of contract, fraud, conversion, and copyright infringement which isn’t even vaguely interesting.

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Beyonce and Nelly Furtado have stepped forward, held their hands up and said “Ah. Didn’t really know we were playing gigs for the family of despotic leader Gaddafi and getting paid with blood money. Soz.”

And as such, the pair have given their pay cheques to charity, thereby, restoring a trace of belief in the world of pop. See? They are not all greedy, self-serving shits are they?

However, there’s still a few popsters who have failed to come forward and talk about the pennies they’ve earned from playing gigs for Colonel Gaddafi. Some are eerily quiet about the whole thing. However, Mariah Carey, who has thus far been silent has finally opened her mouth and… well… being more vague than a politician.

Carey played a gig on New Year’s Eve a few years back for the family of Muammar Gaddafi. She too, presumably didn’t notice the piles of cadavers that her car drove over to get to the gig and clearly missed the look of horror and fear in the eyes of the minions who delivered her rose scented Brandy to gargle on before hitting horribly high notes.

But now someone has told her about how grim the whole situation is and of course, she feels pretty bad about it all.

She says:

“I feel horrible and embarrassed to have participated in this mess.”

“I was naive and unaware of who I was booked to perform for. Going forward, this is a lesson for all artists to learn from”

“We need to be more aware and take more responsibility regardless of who books our shows. Ultimately, we as artists are to be held accountable.”

That’s nice. What about the money you earned from the show? Nelly Furtado and Beyonce have given the money to good causes… you’ll be doing the same, right?

Apparently, she’s going to give the cash from her new single, Save the Day, to a charity that promotes human rights.

Her publicist adds:

“Mariah has and continues to donate her time, money and countless hours of personal service to many organisations both here and abroad”

One overseas organisation being ‘Colonel Gaddafi’.

While this looks frightfully embarrassing for Mariah, at least she’s had the nerve to stick out her large neck while Usher, Timbaland and 50 Cent are still sticking their fingers in their ears and hoping it all goes away.

Maybe, just maybe, they’re planning on doing a gig with Robert Mugabe first before aligning themselves with blood-stained nutters before wanting to talk about it all.

*shrug*

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As we all know, Nelly Furtado announced that she gave away money earned from playing a private party for the family of Libyan fucknut Colonel Gaddafi, making her look like an altruistic saint compared to everyone else.

Everyone started pointing and muttering about Mariah Carey, 50 Cent, Usher and all the rest of the entertainment world who accepted piles of money covered in people’s blood and stinking of crude oil.

Would they give the money to charity? Would they stick their fingers in their ears until all this was swept under a rug made from Libyan cadavers? Well, not in Beyonce’s case. Why? Well she gave the money to charity last year and didn’t feel the need to tell everyone about because she really cool like that.

Of course, you could argue that Jay Z’s wife may have quickly flung the money into a charitable account and claimed to have done it last year… but that’d be really cynical, right?

Quite why artists felt it was okay to play a show for Gaddafi in the first place is beyond us. Everyone knows about Lockerbie don’t they? Gaddafi hasn’t exactly got a good track record when it comes to generally being nice and lovely with the rest of the world.

You’ll all be mega-surprised and shocked when you learn that loads of pop stars have done these shows and that, often, the most morally upstanding of people – supermodels – are frequently in attendance of these lavish bashes.

A music bizz chump says:

“They’ve done it for tons of artists.”

“These parties are jammed with supermodels. Those guys are all over the world.”

And while everyone gets on their high-horse, a rep for Beyonce states quietly that Beyonce – who played a New Year’s Eve gig for the Gaddafi family – sorted her business out ages ago.

Her publicist says:

“All monies paid to Beyoncé for her performance at a private party at Nikki Beach St. Barts on New Year’s Eve 2009, including the commissions paid to her booking agency, were donated to the earthquake relief efforts for Haiti over a year ago”

“Once it became known that the third-party promoter was linked to the Qaddafi family, the decision was made to put that payment to a good cause.”

Queen B’s $1million cheque was donated to the Clinton-Bush Haiti Fund established in the wake of last year’s devastating earthquake. That’s nice isn’t it?

Meanwhile, Libyans wonder why their leader and his kids got to hang out with Beyonce and supermodels when they live in absolute squalor.

In other news: James Blunt plays gig for Young Conservative party bash and gets paid 80p and a potential knighthood.

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Imagine playing a gig at the behest of Colonel ‘Do You Think He Might Have Had A Butcher Perform The Plastic Surgery On His Face?’ Gaddafi. His sons want a nice party with an internationally successful singer performing in the corner like a circus clown.

“Hi Supreme Thingy Gaddafi! Great place you got here! What a swell country! I barely noticed the pile of corpses I tripped over on the way in here! Haha! No, honestly, what a place! It’s a real honour sir…”

However, bafflingly, there’s a whole bunch of pop stars who have done exactly that. Performed gigs for huge sums of money, which presumably, really grease the throat when you have to swallow any moral leanings you might have about mad bastards running countries with a mixture of fear and Soul Glo hair products.

See, in Libya, certain people have a shit-load of money. And so, being inordinately wealthy, they can summon popstars to come and perform for them like monkeys. Popstars probably mutter about the missing riches thanks to those swine who illegally download their tracks in an attempt to justify playing for Gaddafi.

Truth is, it really is astonishingly easy money. If you can sleep at night that is. Or, of course, you’re toweringly dimwitted and completely unaware of the problems in the world.

And so, stepping up to the mound is the most unlikely of people.

Nelly Furtado is giving back the $1million fee she received four years ago after she pranced around at a private gig for the Gaddafi family.

Furtado says:

“In 2007, I received 1million$ from the Qaddafi clan to perform a 45 min. Show for guests at a hotel in Italy.”

“I am going to donate the $.”

Hardly eloquent, but she was using the 140 character limit of twitter. The fact remains though, that Furtado – a singer who may well not be able to afford to give away such a big sum of money (face it, she isn’t an enormo superstar is she?) – is showing a rare bit of decent moral judgement here, leaving other popstars looking nervously at their bank balances and thinking ‘Jeez! Do we have to do that too? I really like the house in the country I just bought and the fleet of motor cycles I just bought aren’t going to pay for themselves!’

Mariah Carey, Beyoncé and Usher are all people who have performed for the Gaddafi family. They’re gonna look pretty heartless if they just sit on their expensively oiled hands, whistling to themselves and generally trying to ignore all those people who are constantly staring and them.

Juventus Football Club and FIAT will no doubt be hoping that no-one starts asking them about the amount of money Gaddafi has invested into them too.

Sorry, what? We’re supposed to do some jokes?

Okay. Do you think Prince Harry will be attending Wills’ stag-do dressed as Gaddafi while blacked-up? He probably will won’t he? That’s because he’s a hilarious shit-fer-brains.

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There’s a propensity for soul singers to get fans on-stage and sing to them. We’re not talking about a thing similar to Bruce Springsteen getting Her From Friends up to dance around like pricks in videos – more like, Alexander O’Neil pinning women down to a bed and grinding all over them while sweatily crooning one off all over them in full view of the bleachers.

And Usher is no different. He gets fans up and pretends that he doesn’t feel in danger (presumably because he has trained simians with rifles in the light rigging) when faces with the great plebbish.

However, he should. Why? Well, while singing silky nothings in the ear of one lucky fan, she decided to kick him in the face. Lovely stuff.

You heard. Usher may want to make you womenfolk go ‘OMG’, when really, he needs to be writing a song called ‘BLAMMO!’

Usher got a lucky fan up on stage at his gig in Madison Square Gardens and began to serenade her on a stupid looking chaise longue. Weirdly, the song he chose to woo her with was called ‘Trading Places’. We can’t imagine that he takes on Dan Ackroyd’s role of Louis Winthorpe III and stares at Jamie Lee Curtis’ baps. Or does he?

Anyway, while cooing and purring at his fan, she shows that she can’t quite get comfortable and shows her displeasure by doing the kind of roundhouse kick Jackie Chan would be most pleased with.

Right in Usher’s face.

You can watch the video here and then, if you’re more stupid than a booksigning queue waiting for Sarah Palin, you can point out that the kick was by accident and that Usher is actually a really nice bloke and all that garbage.

You make us despair sometimes.

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Usher feels that he is under pressure to be the new Michael Jackson. Yeah, like Michael Jackson fans will be willing to accept this gyrating punk as The New Messiah. Unless, of course, he decides to start writing songs about poverty while living in a million dollar mansion.

Usher says he feels there is something missing in the music world following Jackson’s untimely demise, but luckily for you, he is more than happy to fill the void. He’s already started hanging around with young men like Justin Bieber, so that’s a start.

Sorry. Couldn’t resist.

He said:

“You know, we lost Michael Jackson. A lot of pressure is on me and I don’t mind taking it.”

This means, what exactly? Putting on a massive tour? Yes. Exactly that.

“I wanted to make sure that you get that type of experience that leaves you saying, ‘OMG.’ The impression that I would like to leave is that this guy is really stepping it up to a level where people can hopefully compare me to people like Michael Jackson.

“I basically tear myself apart emotionally, energetically, connecting with you and making sure that you enjoy this moment.”

Beg your pardon? Tearing yourself apart emotionally? Tear apart energy itself? Seriously? Will you tear apart atoms in the encore?

Maybe Usher is the human embodiment of the Large Hadron Collider? Or maybe, just maybe, he’s a very average soul singer who likes dancing a lot and miming on The X Factor.

Anyway, if you were set to go watch Michael Jackson during his 50-night residency at London’s O2 Arena, you might want to go and throw cabbages at Usher when he comes over for having audacity to try and align himself with your favouritest singing man ever.

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Usher can dance. Usher can sing. Usher can take a thing as ugly as sex and make it sound even more creepy on record. That’s some achievement. And he can dance. Oh, we’ve mentioned that already.

Of course, Usher is a famous enough person, but he’s never quite made it to superstar level. He’s destined to be a top flight team, always hovering around the business end without troubling the top.

However, he’s absolutely intent on troubling the top now as he’s spoken up about wanting to work with people who are more successful than he is… and he’s got his eye on Britney Spears and Lady GaGa.

Usher performed at the VMAs at the weekend and no-one would ever know if he was brilliant or not because everyone else was too busy looking at Lady GaGa’s meat dress or trying to work out whether Kanye West was being sincere enough about the frail little flower that is Taylor Swift.

Talking to himself, Usher has spoken about wanting to duet with Spears:

“I think it would be great. We’ve actually talked about working together in the past.

“I’ve actually shown some interest in working with Lady GaGa as well. We spoke about it the other night and may potentially make something happen there in the future.”

Failing that, he’s tagging along to someone else who is surpassing him in the fame stakes, despite being 3 months old.

Usher talked about Justin Bieber and his voice breaking, insisting:

“We’re taking the right steps to make sure that he didn’t lose too much. It’s all about what you eat and really just taking care of yourself.”

And your testicles dropping. Don’t forget that. Unless, of course, Usher is implying that Bieber is about to lead a eunuch revival, which quite frankly, is a horrifying thought.

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Without its gleam-toothed, bumpube-haired talisman Simon Cowell, American Idol has found itself in a muddle.

What happens now? Can American Idol survive? Can it bank on Randy Jackson to speak in full sentences from now on? Or Ellen DeGeneres to stop being so tediously nice all the time? Or Kara DioGuardi to finally work out what her point is? Probably not. And that’s why they might all be getting sacked quite soon.

If reports are to be believed, former American Idol producer Nigel Lythgoe might be about to return to the show. And if that happens, it’s expected that his first move will involve firing Randy, Ellen and Kara and bringing in Justin Timberlake, Elton John and Usher as judges. No word on who’ll replace Ryan Seacrest, though. He is being replaced, right? Oh, say that he’s being replaced.

Great news! American Idol is going to be all change this year. Literally every single thing about it will be completely different.

Alright, not every single thing. It’ll still probably be a singing competition. And a handful of singers will progress much further than they deserve to because of some awful family tragedy. And it’ll still be filled with a suffocating level of shamelessly indiscreet product placement. But the judges will definitely all be completely different. Returning American Idol producer Nigel Lythgoe is definitely about to sack the three remaining judges and replace them with more famous ones. Mercury News reports:

Reports said Tuesday that Lythgoe will shake things up if he returns. He is said to favor canning the judge’s panel and bringing in A-list entertainers such as Elton John, Justin Timberlake and Usher as replacements. He’s even reportedly interested in wooing departed judge Paula Abdul back to the fold.

You see? It’s all go. You can’t stop progress like this. On this year’s American Idol Randy Jackson, Kara DioGuardi and Ellen DeGeneres will definitely be out and Elton John, Justin Timberlake and Usher will definitely be in. Definitely.

Except that Justin Timberlake has unequivocally said that he doesn’t want to judge American Idol, and everyone thinks that Elton John will cost too much to hire, and Randy Jackson and Ellen DeGeneres are still under contract with American Idol, and Nigel Lythgoe doesn’t even work for American Idol yet.

But aside from that… oh, who are we kidding, it’ll be exactly the same old crap that it is every year. Sorry for wasting your time.

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In life, Michael Jackson always had a touch of the Willy Wonkas about him – reclusive, eccentric, fond of kids.

But in death? Well, in death the comparison’s gone berserk. Not only was the audience for yesterday’s Michael Jackson memorial service doled out via a lucky ticket-style lottery system, but Michael Jackson himself made sure he was front and centre throughout the show in his great big shiny coffin. How nobody started a mass singalong of I’ve Got A Golden Casket is beyond us.

But what a show the Michael Jackson memorial service was. Try and top that, Gary Glitter.

OK, good, that’s it. Michael Jackson has died, his memorial service is over and his family has held a private service for him. That’s it. It’s all over. Unless you count the inevitable child custody battle, the inevitable legal squabble over his estate, the toxicology results and the potentially upsetting news it’ll bring and the fact that none of this is clearly even partially over, in which case you’ll realise that this is just the tip of a grotesque, oddly-faced, squeaky-voiced iceberg.

Because of this, yesterday’s Michael Jackson memorial service in LA’s Staples Centre wasn’t the full stop that everyone had hoped it’d be, rather a slapdash comma separating Michael Jackson’s death from the morbid news about all his alleged drug addictions, tell-all interviews with his staff and rush-released sensationalist biographies called things like Michael Jackson: He Had A Disturbing Face And You Wouldn’t Exactly Trust Him Around Your Kids, Would You?

But, as send offs go, you have to admit that the memorial service was a doozy. Anyone who was anyone was there – Mariah Carey, Usher, Lionel Richie, Stevie Wonder, that creepy little smug kid from Britain’s Got Talent, Michael Jackson himself, encased inside a coffin so gaudy that it probably gave Donald Trump an erection – and, as Reuters reports, Michael Jackson’s own children:

Jermaine and Marlon lamented the loss of their brother, but it was Michael Jackson’s daughter, Paris, who left the crowd — and the world — with the most moving words of the ceremony. “Ever since I was born,” she began, sobbing and barely mustering the strength to speak, “Daddy has been the best father you could ever imagine. And I just want to say I love him so much.”

It was an undeniably tender moment, and thankfully one not disrupted by Paris’ little brother Prince Michael II adding “Well, maybe not the ABSOLUTE best father. He did dangle me off a balcony that time, remember? That was kind of effed up. Remember? That time he actually dangled me off an effing balcony. What was that all about?”

However, as spectacular and moving as Michael Jackson’s memorial service was, it might not be too long before it’s outdone. We heard that when Tito goes, his memorial service will feature tributes by Bradley Walsh, two members of Kajagoogoo, that homeless bloke who plays the washboard outside the Wolverhampton branch of Carphone Warehouse and a tin of dogfood. Eat that, Michael Jackson.

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Giving a jetski to Chris Brown is like giving a hammer to a shark – it’s totally irrelevant, but it winds people up.

OK, not people. Just Usher. When Usher saw the photos of Chris Brown larking around on a jetski in Miami recently, he decided that Chris wasn’t showing an appropriate level of remorse and gave him a jolly good tongue-lashing. Now, though, Usher has decided to apologise for his outburst.

But more fool Usher – in actual fact Chris Brown was using the jetski to scout for mermaids he could punch in the face. Usher was right first time! The shame!

You know, this Chris Brown/ Rihanna thing was so close to being over. Everyone had done their bit to condemn Chris Brown for allegedly beating up Rihanna – Roseanne, the woman who’s suspiciously good friends with Oprah, the literate half of the internet, Ne-Yo – and the only names missing from the list were Usher, Zammo from Grange Hill and the “I want to do a poo at Paul’s house” kid from the air freshener advert. Once they’d all registered their condemnation, we’d have enough to throw Chris Brown in jail forever and move on with our lives.

And we were so close, too. Earlier this week, you may have seen photos of Chris Brown messing around on a jetski in Miami while apparently rekindling his relationship with Rihanna. While there’s a chance that Chris Brown was actually using the jetski to deliberately tear vast gashes into the hulls of ocean liners with his teeth, it’s more likely that he was just innocently having some fun. And this wouldn’t do for Usher at all, who was filmed saying the following about Chris Brown:

“I’m a little disappointed in this photo. After the other photo? C’mon, Chris. Have a little bit of remorse, man. The man’s on jet skis? Like, just relaxing in Miami?”

Brilliant. One condemnation registered from Usher. That just left Zammo and Poochild and then we could all go home. But – no, wait – Usher has decided to retract his statement, so we’re back at square one again. MTV reports:

“The comments made during a recent recording session amongst friends were taken out of context and blown out of proportion. I apologize on behalf of myself and my friends if anyone was offended. The intentions were not to pass judgment and we meant no harm. I respect and wish the best for all parties involved.”

We genuinely haven’t got a clue why Usher has decided to apologise for his statement about Chris Brown like this. Presumably it’s for one of the following reasons:

1 - Usher has realised that it’s impossible to look remorseful on a jetski, because he tried it once and the nearest he could get was a brief expression of constipated glee.

2 - Usher has realised that his comments could have made any future meetings with Chris Brown awkward, like if Usher accidentally walks into the branch McDonalds that Chris Brown was forced to start working in after everyone stopped buying his albums.

3 - Chris Brown paid Usher a little visit that helped to change his mind, if you know what we’re saying.

We’re saying that Chris Brown beat Usher up. On reflection this probably didn’t happen.

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You know what we’ve realised? God hates good dancers. It’s true – just look at what He did to Chris Brown.

And now He’s started messing about with Usher, too. Alright, not Usher specifically – Usher’s wife Tameka Foster. All Tameka wanted was to go to Brazil for some cheap, possibly unregulated plastic surgery, and it all ended up going so horribly that Usher had to get a neurosurgeon in to fix her.

But the good news is that Tameka Foster is now in a stable condition. Next time, God, pick on a dancer your own size. Like, say, that bellend from Jamiroquai.

Although increasingly popular, plastic surgery still has inherent dangers. After all, Kanye West’s mother died after a cosmetic procedure, plastic surgery seems to be the reason that Shane Richie now permanently looks like a startled drag queen and now it’s got to Usher’s wife Tameka Foster, too.

Right before he was due to perform at the Grammys on Sunday, Usher was urgently called away to Brazil because Tameka Foster – a woman who has already forced Usher to marry her several times and then couldn’t think of anything more imaginative to name Usher’s baby than Usher – had been through a plastic surgery procedure so botched that a neurosurgeon had to be shipped over urgently to deal with the aftermath.

The good news is, though, Tameka Foster’s condition has stabled enough for Usher’s representatives to put out the following statement:

“(Foster is) in stable condition after suffering complications from routine surgery in Brazil. Her husband, Usher, is with her at the hospital. No further details will be released, and the family requests privacy at this difficult time.”

No details? OK, fine. It’s not like we can’t work it out anyway. Routine surgery? Brazil? Neurosurgeons? It’s simple – Tameka Foster was having her vagina shaved and strapped to her spine. That or she was having one of those big carnival peacock plumes implanted into her head. Or a favela boy surgically attached to her brain. Definitely one of those things. Or something else. We’re not experts.

Anyway, it’s good to hear that Tameka Foster is on the mend. It’s just a shame that it had to happen when it did. What with Chris Brown’s arrest, it left a wide open gap for Usher to become the best dancer at the Grammys. But, thanks to Tameka Foster, that didn’t happen. It’s bad news for Usher, but worse news for anyone who saw Thom Yorke walk off with the title on Sunday after flapping about like a deflating toddler for three minutes. Shame.

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Usher is good at two things – dancing like a man being attacked by a swarm of invisible jellyfish and getting women pregnant.

OK, maybe not ‘women’ as such. Usher is good at getting one woman pregnant – his wife, Tameka Foster. Just nine months after the birth of their first child, it’s announced that Tameka’s only gone and got another baby on the go.

That’s impressive work, especially when you account for the fact that most couples don’t even reveal their pregnancy until the second trimester. That means Usher managed to knock his wife up less than six months after she had the first baby. That’s either incredible or a bit gruesome, depending on how hung up you are with the idea of tearing and stitches and whatnot. We are, by the way, which probably accounts for the nausea.

Either that or Usher has somehow got us pregnant simply by us writing about it. We wouldn’t put it past him.

Bloody Usher. He can never do something well once, can he? He always has to go back and do it again and again until everyone gets a bit sick of it.

Musically Usher’s always repeating himself – first by making a song called Confessions and then by making a song called Confessions Pt II - and if you were to count all the times that Usher got married to his wife, you’d end up dizzy and terrified by the fact that someone can actually be that pointless.

And now he’s decided to adapt this trait for another aspect of his life, too – babies. Usher’s wife only had Usher’s baby about ten minutes ago, and yet he’s already decided that the time has come to get another slimy bun in the pulsating, fluid-filled oven as quickly as possible. People reports:

Usher is going to be a father for the second time, PEOPLE has learned. The R&B star and his wife Tameka Foster are expecting their second child together, a source close to the singer confirms. Recently, Foster was spotted wearing a belly-disguising outfit during Usher’s Sept. 4 NFL kick-off concert in New York. The dress was “very deceiving,” the source says. “You couldn’t tell she was pregnant when she was sitting down.”

What’s best about all this isn’t that Usher’s obviously so terrifyingly potent that he probably can’t even masturbate into a tissue without it springing up, doing a little dance and following him around calling him ‘papa’ afterwards – it’s that this news has come just a couple of days after Usher announced his ladies-only tour.

You can imagine that Tameka Foster’s thrilled with that, can’t you? She’s sat at home feeling all bloated and elephanty and unloved and he’s off singing sexy songs to crowds of hormone-spazzed women, every single one of whom will be desperately trying to catch his attention. Forget a third baby, Usher’s going to be lucky if Tameka Foster lets him go anywhere near her with his little chap at all after pulling a stunt like that.

Hello there. Usher notices that you’re a lady. He’s seen those ladysacks through that blouse and he approves of them wholeheartedly – do you mind if he sings?

That probably isn’t the intro tape to Usher’s new ladies-only tour, but it should be. You see, Usher’s so fed up of having his sexual R&B flow disrupted at concerts by the occasional sight of a stubbly chin or an Adam’s apple that he’s banned all men from his upcoming club tour. From now on, only Usher’s rock hard testosterone can penetrate the moist, supple sea of oestrogen that is his audience.

And you know what, we actually think it’s a brilliant idea. That’s why we’ve decided to make this article a ladies-only article. Only women are allowed to read on, because only women will be able to form a true connection with our uniquely sensual musings.

Seriously though, no blokes. We’ll freak out if blokes read this. Urgh.

Men tend to cope with the tedium of being married in different ways. For example, we hear that David Duchovny likes to wank a lot. A lot. And Christie Brinkley‘s ex-husband Peter Cook, he liked to… well, OK, he liked to wank as well. They’re men. They like wanking. They all do. They don’t have different ways of coping, we just made that bit up. They all just wank a lot. Wank wank wankity wank wank.

But not Usher. Wanking’s not for Usher. But that doesn’t mean he’s not a little sick of looking at the same woman every day. True’s he only married Tameka Foster recently, but Usher wants – no, Usher needs – to prove that he’s still sexy to everyone else.

That’s why Usher has done the most mid-life crisisy thing any man can possibly do aside from growing a ponytail and pretending to like Dizzee Rascal – he’s arranged special tour that only ladies are allowed to watch.

That’s right – only ladies will be granted access into Usher’s lascivious inner circle. And definitely only women, OK? None of those sodding pre-ops are sneaking in this time. Usher doesn’t want to invite any pretty girls back to his dressing room only to realise they’re actually got big hairy cocks. People reports:

“This album … was definitely the type of one that was more intimate,” the entertainer says of his most recent recording, Here I Stand. “So what better way to get up close and personal than to make it all women? The ladies like to see that masculine build,” he told the AP. “They question if I still got it.”

You know what else the ladies like, Usher? Cake. You want to smother your masculine build in cake if you really want to please the ladies. Also, we hear that ladies like it when men don’t leave their bloody socks in the middle of the floor for them to pick up. Or ignore them when they’re talking to you about their day. Or pretty much just take them for granted in general. So, you know, don’t do any of that either please Usher. Mmm, sexy.

In fact, Usher’s ladies-only tour is such a good idea that we’re not even going to question the fundamental sexism at the core of it. Because, you know, how would women like it if men started going to nightclubs that were only for gentlemen?

They wouldn’t, which is why it’s a good thing that these so-called ‘gentleman’s clubs’ don’t even exist. So there.