Reality TV = The Apocalypse

It’s my belief that there’s a direct correlation between Global Warming and reality TV.

It’s no big secret that I don’t watch reality TV. It’s not realistic. The Only Way Is Essex is a true-life depiction of the portion of Essex where nobody wants to know, which featured at least one person who laughably thought of himself as being a big-time gangster. Or, to give it the Essex spelling, ‘gangsta’. Of course, those are the things you won’t hear about until you know the people who know the people he tried desperately to act big. God bless the rough types!

I couldn’t possibly comment on Made In Chelsea as, like TOWIE, I have never seen an episode, but unlike TOWIE, I have no interest in Chelsea or the scourge it spawns. I can’t even bring myself to watch a match involving their team – though I have no active interest in Essex either. I live in Essex though, so that’s different. I’m still petitioning to make my escape.

X-Factor differs to my mind. Each year I find myself drawn in by the auditions for the first two or three weeks, and the morons who judge them. You can tell they’re morons because one – perhaps two every now and again – can actually admit that the person on the stage belting out their hysterical vulture-type shriek is a massive joke, and that person will be sadly waved off the stage. It’s a touching situation when they seem to have pleasant personalities too, because you want them to get through to the next round. Then you have people like Rylan. Obsessed by his looks, perhaps spending everything he owns just keeping his tan an appropriate shade of Essex and his eyebrows less beetley, the main reason you want him to get through is because his confidence in his self-professed talent, arguably more suited to a drag queen, makes him something to keep your entertained interest for five minutes. Then, of course, he becomes ‘fun’.

Sorry, Tulisa, but the sing-off – the thing on a Sunday which has ‘sing’ in it – does indicate that the show is, in fact, a singing competition, and consecutively voting off the talent is a little bit rubbish on your part. I did watch long enough to notice one of the ‘judges’ pointedly stating that since their opinion has to be based solely on the sing-off, they’re voting off the shit. Tulisa that night had managed to keep said shit in, mentioning their amazing harmonies (that’s what you and I with an ear for music call ‘out-of-tune’), so deadlock arrived.

I’m choosing, by the way, to ignore the producer who commando’d his way across the floor to Louis. Louis, at least, seemed initially to want to save the person who could sing over Rylan, and rightly so.

The country tweets an immediate #FixFactor when, once again, people with no talent have been saved. These people forget that other people – I presume the same people who are first in line to slip their vote into the ballot boxes – voted on purpose to keep the talentless ones in a little longer because each week, they want to see what they attempt to screech the next week. Please see Wagner for more evidence.

I can see for some people the function of this show. You’ve been busking forever, never in the right place at the right time, as is usually necessary, and you want with all your heart to reach more people than those who change trains at Bank. The problem is that we live in a sadistic society which loves the televised failures as much as the successes, and the pre-auditioned auditionees excitedly skip onto the stage with the idea that their friends and families were wrong and they can actually sing. That’s when the real fun begins.

George Gerasimou, as bad a competitor as he is, had been led down this path. And this year we had the special treat of Zoe Alexander, the alleged Pink impersonator. Daughter to a Tom Jones and Shania Twain impersonation team, we expected a rocky edge. What we got… was slightly different.

My personal favourites this year were the fairy, who took my 60s love by storm, and the teeny weeny Lucy Spraggan. Both had talent. Both aren’t in it anymore. But Rylan is, so …. No, I can’t even bring myself to come up with something sarcastic.

The Xtra Factor doesn’t bode too well for me either. It seems like Caroline Flack has been picked to present for her relevant qualification of being a cougar who shagged a contestant, while Ollie has slightly better credentials, and I suppose they speak directly to its target audience, but thankfully I’m not one of those so I’m spared.

There’s no doubt the show’s fixed, but there’s less doubt that the fix is assisted by the type of people who should not be allowed access to a phone.

I’m now hearing that Gary Barlow won’t return for a new series. I don’t like that plan, actually. Yes, I prefer Simon, yes, my hormones are racing at the prospect of that man’s possible return, but I find this all so excruciatingly dull to the point where I want to find out how torture fares in comparison. Is it possible it could hurt more…?  Besides, if only one of the judges can actually see shit when it bellows from the stage, it doesn’t bode well for the future of music and soon we’ll be calling for a new album by Mr Blobby. It’s nothing but a joke. And a bad one at that. Are we really shocked at the ratings dwindling?  No. We aren’t. The show’s got a few die-hard fans, and the rest are morbid.

I shouldn’t consider myself qualified to be a bitch about this show since now every two weeks I watch on a Sunday from approximately 20:57 when I can point and laugh at the judges who are so desperately torn between the good act and the poor act that they have to take it to deadlock, and the voting public who ensured the good act leaves. I’m just obscenely aware, though, of the havoc that could be wreaked by the same people.

It’s really just a matter of time before we have a reality TV show about a Glaswegian drug nest. The question then will be this: do we vote for who goes to rehab, or who goes on the game to score again?

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