Britain’s Got Talent, and by God, that’s got to be sifted out somehow. They’ve got to be taken off these streets, these talented people. They’re a damn liability. They can’t keep flinging their tiny urban dancing children around like that without consequence. At some point, a poor defenceless granny is going to be trundling her week’s supply of gin and Rothmans out of the Tesco Metro and an Adidas-clad five-year-old limb will flail wildly out of a headspin and knock her eyeball right through the back of her skull.
So hooray for Britain’s Got Talent. Soon all of this year’s supply of talent will be tucked away nicely in a SyCo dungeon, out of harm’s way, where they can be safely milked for pennies until dead or demented. But it’s all change for 2011, as the AntDec chirrup in the typically bombastic opening, showcasing the success of previous winners “Carphone Warehouse Pavarotti”, “Urban Dance Troupe 1.0”, “Naked Ballet Weird”, “Er…”, and “the Wicked Witch Su-bo”; Britain’s Got Talent but America’s Got Piers Morgan and Simon Cowell’s Got Advanced Syphyllitic Insanity (he hasn’t, obviously, he hasn’t at all – he’s got hideous diarrheoa).
So We’ve Got New Judges joining Amanda “Armpits” Holden behind their big red fun-buttons – Michael McIntyre and David Hasselhoff.
Within the first 2 minutes of the show, it’s clear what the roles will be within this judging panel. Amanda Holden will use both hands to attempt to manipulate emotions out of her immobile, putty-like face, hopefully ending the series looking like Lionel Richie’s bust in the Hello video. Michael McIntyre will manage to shriek in two octaves simultaneously. And The Hoff will seem blissfully unaware of anything happening in front of his face, bar a few blurry shapes and interesting noises, and will occasionally, alarmed, bark out non-sequitar catchphrases like a shell-shocked old duffer reliving their past in a trench in the Somme every time a car backfires within a mile radius.
Britain’s Got Talent, judged by that lot? Michael McIntyre is popular, somehow. Amanda managed to make someone, somewhere think “Hey, that Jamie Theakston’s not a bad actor, actually.” And The Hoff can’t even locate his own mouth with a burger even when helped with 10 square foot of previously pristine bathroom floor and the sweet cradle of gravity. May as well have a show called Britain’s Got Sexual Allure and have it judged by Ian Beale, Grotbags from off of the ’80s and a 400 page thesis on the current NHS reforms.
So to the talent, and as it is the audition stages, it was the usual mix of bores, maniacs, dogs, and extreme editing. And, of course, massive and painful wrangling of the definition of the word “talent” until it encompassed “being able to pop your eyes out at will”, as in the case of the nadir of the night, Antonio from Essex. He didn’t just pop out his eyes like a stress toy, though. He did it while grinding to Mr Boombastic, like a sexy stress toy. He somehow impressed with this freakish behaviour and got through to the next round, meaning he now has to come up with something else to pop out lest his act get stale and repetitive; start working on those Kegel muscles now, dude.
Elsewhere in the buzzed back into obscurity group: a Beatles-murderer, tunes not Ringo, in Liverpool (“LIVERPOOL ROCKS!” Thanks, Hoff); John, who painted himself gold, sang Gold and stormed off indignantly after half a verse and one rejection (“BIT PRECIOUS!” Thanks, random cameraman. Next time, give your lines to Hoff); and Tongue and Cheek, a Stupid I’m With plus-size aerobics duo who made the classic mistake of thinking standing in the wrong order in tshirts with their names on and smacking each other’s arses made them endearing (“I MAY HAVE BEEN BORN YESTERDAY BUT I’VE BEEN UP ALL NIGHT!” Easy, Hoff. You’re not in your light-up leather jacket now.) And Blair the piss-taking London banker, who painted himself to resemble a dolphin and did seemingly nothing at all, including failing to take the opportunity to say “This? Oh, I just blue myself,” unforgivable in the eyes of the Gob.
To the winners! Denelda brought the canine sass with the obligatory bloody dog act, twirling her collies around her like they were scarves falling from an Arabian princess; a horrifying image after seeing Denelda focussing all her post-HRT horn on McIntyre’s wobbly head and her sheepdogs on heat focussing pure dog-lust on AntDec’s unsuspecting shins. Michael Collings was the obligatory bloody uggo-got-game act, an amiable shambling man-mountain from Plymouth who talked of trailer parks with keycards and all-you-can-eat Chinese buffets and other such foreign concepts to the Soho-bound arseholes responsible for patronising him half to death in the show’s edit. Snide remarks from Amanda and Michael chased him and his guitar onto the stage until lo and behold, would you Adam and Eve it, he’s only a musical genius! Well, if you call noodling around a Tracey Chapman song in a pleasant John Legend-y voice while Simon Cowell foghorns “SUUUU-BOOOO” in the background and poops out another million pounds “musical genius.”
Two more notables: the obligatory bloody adorable child act came with David Knight (“I FOUND YOU! MY SON!” Nurse! Bring the Hoff-syringe!), a nine-year-old comedian. McIntyre makes friends and influences people by shouting right into David’s innocent face and making it wobble and sob. But David shook off the slight and performed a nuts and bolts observational set – the entertainment coming mostly from McIntyre laughing away before slowly realising a nine-year-old has written something approximately equal to his best material, and all that means for his self-worth. Odds are on for Michael McIntyre to have a total identity breakdown before the series ends and start claiming he’s a SyCo-designed and produced replicant.
And to round off proceedings, weirdy-beardy bell-ringers Gay and Alan, both played by Kevin Eldon, who brought the house to a swaying climax with their rendition of My Heart Will Go On. Slightly malformed, slightly suggesting a complicated bell-ringing element to their foreplay, slightly sweet – perfect fodder for the baying crowd to hoot approval at. You’re freaks, they holler, but you’re our freaks.
So there you go – hecklerspray‘s tip, forget about everyone but the singing bumpkin, as he’s clearly going to win. Another season of this madness has begun, and who knows what heights Amanda Holden’s hairstyle will reach. It’s already metamorphosed through more life stages than Zoidberg in a fountain of life.
Next week: nothing less than a hair replica of the Burj Al Arab will do.