X Factor 2011: Who Will Win?

Dear Reader,

Something miraculous has happened. I am quite giddy to declare at this premature stage my accomplishment, but I feel I must do for fear of letting it slip unnoticed. It is a large feat, and one I did not expect to occur so soon, but bear with me, dear reader, for it is of tremendous import.

This year, I managed – successfully – from August until now – to avoid any and all coverage of this year's X Factor.

Take but a moment to let the magnitude of this claim to sink into your senses. Repeat it back if you must. It is unheard of, I know, and I do wonder if I am the last person in the UK to remain untainted. Tonight, the populace will transform into screen-gawping monsters fighting over phones and barking catty comments about the stylised pillars of illusion that presently hold up and hold back Britain – but I will be free from such obsessive vice.

Sort of. I mean, my claims are true, at least, from a televisual perspective. Unfortunately, I read the papers. I also surf the web and frequent DigitalSpy forums, where red headline banners dramatically unfurl to declare the latest losers in this year's fame game. So, from my wanderings, I know some things.

For example, if I should ever be in the presence of Kitty Brucknell, I have learnt that it would be best to flee for my own safety. I have also been made aware of the discovery of the unicorn within redheaded Irish pixie-girl Janet Devlin, whose snowflake-fragile voice is akin to a choir of angels raised on Janis Joplin and hipsterism. And apparently you can get kicked off the show for drinking too much Coca Cola, especially during those weeks when there is a decline in viewers.

Like I said, I know some things.

Thus, on the day of the X Factor final (for I have read that it is), I thought it would be an interesting experiment to offer my completely objective, ultimately unbiased thoughts about the finalists.

Marcus Collins is a lovely lad from Liverpool. He's also really nice. In TV Land, this equates with really boring, so he'll end up with the cuddly grandmother vote. He doesn't shine with sex appeal, either – a sparrow has more muscle, and he constantly manages to be photographed in the most ghastly tops – so this will help restrict the all-important young female vote.

The only thing that's really saving him is his mentor, Gary Barlow, the most powerful judge on the panel.

As much as I'd love to believe that Louis is secretly kingmaker of the universe, sadly, for sheer gravitas alone, Barlow's power is unquestionable: he is the current king of British pop. I mean, he assisted with Britannia High, and everyone forgot about that already – how much more kingly can you get? It's up to him, then, to manipulate the vote in his favour. What will it take? Short of an impromptu striptease, the situation is so critical that it comes down to one option: the sob story.

There must be something major, something they've been saving all this time. It's the only way Barlow can be confident of snatching perhaps a win, but more likely second place. And if there's not something major, then by God, you know the editors will do their hardest to make it so.

Every male winner of the X Factor has been run-of-the-mill bland. From what I've read, Marcus would fit in nicely – but so soon after Matt? Matt, whose latest single features acoustic guitar-strumming and an inspirationally unique music video starring a happy pretty girl with sunlight in her hair frolicking on a beach.

No. It's time for a female winner. But will that be a girl group or a soloist?


It seems that the only problem with Little Mix is that a girl group has never won before; tradition, then, is keeping them from their rightful throne. How convenient. There is nothing more personal than making history, or more satisfying than overthrowing authority, so I am positive the phones will be alight tomorrow out of a selfish whim to break that darned tradition in half.

This is the angle they will no doubt take: it's never happened before, but tonight... you could make it happen! That'll teach them, not letting them win – why, I'll vote 29 times just to make them win!

...Oh.

This is how winners are born: out of voter frustration and a sense of faux rebellion.

Other than their name change halfway through the series, I know nothing about them. Their names, which I must have read at some point, are forgettable, as are what they look like. In that sense, from the view of an outsider, they are ideal for the music industry: they are so tabula rasa that they can be shaped into anything for public aural pop consumption.

Of course, that also means they're so bland they can win.

It's nearly ten years since Girls Aloud so we probably need another girlband, anyway. It was always a bit too icky with the Saturdays, knowing that the female half of the sickly sweet S Club Juniors grew up to gyrate in fetish heels.



Amelia Lily has pink hair. She left in the first week, despite having her hair forcibly dyed pink, but returned when Frankie Cocozza was dismissed. That week, she sang her re-introductory song in pink hair and black leather, and at the song's climax, the gold shower of stars normally reserved for the winner shot down from the ceiling and everyone's heart stopped.

She is seventeen – longevity. She looks far, far older – non-creepy sex appeal. But she looks fantastic. Whoever told her to dye her hair pink is a style genius, because that will be her signature look from here on out. Poor girl's natural hair will be destroyed, but it's a sacrifice she'll have made for a proper career in pop.

I haven't seen one performance by her. But from what the papers are saying – and frankly just by looking at her – I am pretty convinced she is The One. Not necessarily the one to win the series, but she's the one whose name will be remembered in years to come – if she wants it enough.

Winning the series is trickier, though. So far she's been bottom two twice out of the three weeks she's been here. Is she actually a bit rubbish? I don't know, but it doesn't matter. She could have the singing voice of a Strepsil-needing gremlin and it still wouldn't matter. Through a series of abnormal circumstances ("FIX!"), she's lucked her way into the final three ("FIX!"), and all that matters, if she is to win, is tonight's performance.

Unfortunately for her, she didn't have the luxury of stretching out a bit and lazing her way through some weeks. Being the new student, she has had to go at it every single week – doing her best not to fall behind, all the while combating all the other extraneous problems that come from immersing herself in the X Factor bubble (insta-fame!).

But while everyone likes a journey, no one likes a fix.

Ultimately, it depends how brave the producers are feeling (which shouldn't be very, unless they want Ofcom on their backs again). There will be complaints if Amelia wins: how can someone swan in more than halfway through the series, be in the bottom two twice, and win the show? It's not right!!!! So to save themselves the headache, it's probably best if they let her bow out without fuss in third place, maybe second.


So yes. By knowing some things, I can guess others. It's actually surprising how much I know about a show I don't watch, how I can form completely unsubstantiated opinions out of second-hand gossip. Just like previous form, however, I will happily not-watch tonight in anticipation...

Misfits: Series 3, Episode 1

E4
31.10.11

Pumpkins are not the only thing orange this Hallowe'en

The third series of Misfits crashed onto E4 last weekend. Or, it should have done – unless a Facebook fan or ardent E4 viewer, it might have come as some surprise. Well, it did for me, and hopefully for someone else. I mean, I knew it was expected sometime this autumn – but it's still June, right? Anyway, talk about minimal advertising. E4, maker of stupidly indulgent Skins adverts, how could you dismiss Misfits? (They did, didn't they? There wasn't some massive ad campaign that completely flew over my head? I live in fear of being so thoroughly de-looped that I am out of any and all loops.)

The welcome strains of The Echoes signaled the return of E4's best drama this decade, but I felt rather out of it. No curly-haired pillar of deliciously inappropriate snark in the guise of Robert Sheehan? How could my tear-filled eyes cope? It's like there were two versions of me: one screaming with grief over Sheehan's departure, the wounds I'd believed healed bursting open in shock. And the other me, the rational one who had faith in Howard Overman's writing, calmly advising that all would be okay. And then both versions kissed and made up in a strange alternate universe where this is all okay.

What I love about Misfits is the sheer rudeness of it all. It is a necessary programme, to challenge the beige mediocrity of middle-class BBC-friendly drama. It's frank and brutal and realistic, in a world where anal sex is lewdly championed and Fisherman's Friend is a recommended pleasuring device for oral sex (and it works, too – ahem). As undoubtedly the rudest member of the orange-clad gang, it is natural that Nathan's personality would be extended onto the aptly named Rudy.

But Rudy, as we soon learn, is more than a Nathan substitute. He is forced to confront something Nathan rarely had the opportunity to: his hidden depths. These depths stare him right in his face and stab him in the shoulder with a pair of scissors. So while Rudy acts like a swaggering cock-of-the-walk (and just "cock", really), his own double is a conflicted and insecure man haunted by a lovelorn past.

While frustrating for Rudy, it's his power which is arguably the most coveted in this series. There have been complaints from many Internet quarters (well, four, then) regarding the unimpressive nature of the gang's new powers. I disagree. So often in power-based dramas – and including the first two series of Misfits – we hear of a group of people coincidentally gifted and cursed with the one-hit KO wishlist of magical powers. Giving the gang dud powers is actually a clever move, as clever as it was to refresh their powers in the first place. This series we have gender-switching, rocket science and the ability to see through a different perspective; I want to see how this inventory of underdog powers will be combined to ultimately save the day. The creativity required here is far more interesting than having the big guns of telepathy and immortality wheeled out again.

I am guessing a rocket will be involved at a crucial plot point. But I have the intellect of a fucking rocket scientist, so that was easy for me to guess. Here – let me build you a rocket!

Also, I love that Kelly's new power is basically the manifestation of this Mitchell & Webb sketch.

Two continuity quibbles, however. When Curtis transform into a girl to divert the police, he is still wearing his bright green tracksuit – police officers are surely not that short-sighted! And when Rudy boots Crazy Bernard's Watch Girl in the face, how on earth does she die? It cannot be possible to fall backwards and bleed from the sudden impact of a flat surface. Y u make no physical sense, Misfits?!

On the more complimentary side, though: gender-switching and auto-erotic potential on mainstream TV? Sometimes I think fandom wished this show into being. Stay fabulous, Misfits. I'll even paint my nails orange for you.

Young Nuns

BBC One

25.10.11

Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned. I failed to complete the second-hand embarrassment of Up For Hire due to being, rather ironically, hired. (Is that ironic? Perhaps only to Alanis Morissette.) But unemployment beckons once again, and so I will proceed with Richard Bacon's nuggetty employment wisdomosity – but not today! For today, this day of all days, I will discuss with you, dear reader, Young Nuns.

I think I have decided on the direction of this blog, little reader. It will natter about programmes not nattered elsewhere; I will review the unloved and unseen; the necessary, schedule-propping underdogs of TV. The go-to review-zones can squeeze the life from shiny generic splodges in heavily promoted 9pm slots, but I will embrace all manner of dying quirk suffering from a dearth of viewers. Basically, BBC4 should be happy. And if a programme is preceded by a hashtag, it can kindly switch itself off. I don't do hashtags.

But back to Young Nuns, who must be ageing after all this talk. Graduate Clara and student Catherine have always dreamt of becoming nuns – and with siblings named Benedict and Frances, it's not too hard to see why. But despite a strong Catholic upbringing, the girls' families and friends still seem amazed that this is the path they have chosen to traverse. The documentary follows the girls as they gear up to leave their everyday lives behind.

This was a surprising and unexpected programme – surprising because it was not a BBC3 gawp-fest, and unexpected because Christianity was at the forefront. With probably only Songs of Praise shouldering the BBC's entire religious remit nowadays, this documentary was a brave and really rather clever move.

A matter-of-fact tone and a clear focus on the (relateable, likeable) girls went a long way to portraying nuns as an appealing bunch. Whether bouncing a shuttlecock between them as they played badminton in habits or casually chatting about Facebook, nuns really started to seem quite with it. But the more magical and wonderful the nuns were portrayed, the more fraught the idea of becoming one felt for the girls; in time, the notion of devoting oneself entirely to God became too daunting and neither continued nunning. (...Nunning?)

As a documentary, it quietly observed the ways of our predominantly secular culture through a non-judgemental camera. Some things just are, like the tiny schoolgirl aghast at the idea of a life without make-up ("But make-up is the item of the girl!" she cried, as a thousand feminists wept. "You need it to feel better about yourself!"). Such bittersweet naivety resulted in a wry smile, and life as a nun started to sound strangely ideal.

I would love to know if Clara ever returned to the order, and whether Catherine was allowed to formally enter. Their enthusiasm for what must be the most alternative of contemporary lifestyles was really quite inspirational, and the two of them made this documentary as fascinating as it was.

Unfortunately I do not know any nuns, but after watching this documentary I really would like to. And heck, I might even change my religion and become one – well, at least for Hallowe'en.

Up For Hire: Episode Two

BBC Three18.10.11

A contemplative jobseeker is fired from his chair by Bacon
Tonight's episode starts with a barrage of X Factor-imported catcalls and cheers. YES! It's the guy who created Innocent Smoothies! Woop-woop! Bizarrely, he is placed beside Andi Osho and Katie Hopkins. It seems to be the guest set-up for this series: a comedian, an entrepreneur, and a former reality TV star. All three overlap so much that it is difficult to say which is which.
Richard Bacon overstates the importance of Up For Hire by claiming the Internet "exploded" after last night's episode. At most, there were a few hundred tweets – comparable with any other programme, apart from maybe the overwhelmingly popular Zumba Party Fitness on QVC. Nevertheless, he says it direct to camera, so chillingly overlord that it is necessary to believe him. "Is your degree worthless?" he demands. Yes, sir, it is. And that is the theme of tonight's episode: not is your degree worthless, but your degree is worthless.
Young people from the audience are interviewed in the BBC television studios, the majority of whom claim their media-related degrees have got them nowhere; media degrees are mocked in front of abashed graduates; and Mickey Mouse's name is cried with as much hysteria as someone confronted by one of the skittering non-cartoon beasties. Never does anyone champion the actual purpose of university: to learn. Nor does anyone suggest that perhaps a degree in video production might actually be quite useful when pursuing a career in, well, video production. Obviously the only real way to get a job with a degree would be if society started churning out production-lines of doctors. But then who would produce videos of it?
Presenting knowledge itself, in whatever form it may take – red-brick or Russell – as an unimportant asset in this garish BBC3-pink bubble is more than slightly dispiriting.
Unexpectedly, the only moderately sane voice is Katie Hopkins: cutting through her knee-jerk assumptions about red-brick universities (specifically the deplorable "blow yourself up" line), she launches into a proper scathing attack on the government and how it is them who have messed up so horribly, horribly wrong. Not the young people, as this show keeps insinuating, but the government. How refreshing! She was quickly silenced – which was sad, because her impassioned speech took her halfway across the studio floor and Bacon seemed confused as to how she'd got there. A bit like her tenure on The Apprentice, to be fair.
So far, Up For Hire is a well-intentioned but vapid series. I may be biased, however, because their tie-in BBC Lab employability test rather pessimistically scored my self-efficacy as present-fatalistic. But then, I knew they'd say that, so what is the point?

Up For Hire: Episode One

BBC Three
17.10.11


Will someone give poor Alice a hug?

With more urgent questions than a personal claims advert, BBC3's twitter feed cries: "Have you ever been told off by a boss at work? Do you feel you've been unfairly criticised? Or should bosses be tough? Discuss #upforhire". It only just misses out on, "Call Claims Direct today for your free no-obligation quote!" The message of this tweet is strangely allegorical, if you like to shoehorn things into allegories and write blog entries about them.

Imagine, if you will, your boss: a robotic man with a tendency to snap at the slightest provocation in order to look halfway professional. An example of poor micro-management, his every movement is controlled via an earpiece telling him precisely what to do, where and when. Defying the voices is so terrifying a prospect that he quakes in his tiny boots and nervously charges through all scheduled topics, shrieking at juniors on his way to the blissful finishing line and cheque. To please the voices in his ear, he will counter an audience member's contribution at inxplicable moments, verbally collaring them to bark "Why?" in their faces in an attempt to make them sweat and produce the golden egg of "good TV". It's Richard Bacon, of course. He is, for allegorical purposes, the boss of BBC3's Up For Hire.

When he's not snacking on beer and pizza with celebrities who all share the same agent, Bacon seems determined to promote himself as a knightly advocate of young people's justice. His presenting stints on this and Question Tiemz (Young Voter's Question Time, for we are not worthy of the grown-up version on the big channel) are evidence that he might help his noble crusade if only he could stop Paxmaning them.

But that doesn't stop him, and this programme, from attacking the very people they're trying to help. Four young jobseekers with no tangible desire to work in a theme park are, for a reason some TV exec considered good, whisked off to work in a theme park:

Graduate: I studied journalism. I want to be a journalist.
Manager: Be a clown.
Graduate: I don't want to work for Paul Dacre.
Manager: Why are you eating ice cream?
Graduate: I've been working 16 hours straight with a 3-minute break every 10 hours. I'm hungry!
Manager: I don't care. Dance for the children.
Graduate: *sad dance*
Everyone in the studio: LOL AT YOUR EXPECTATIONS IN LIFE.

The wannabe journalist insists she has contributed to her fair share of unpaid work experience and menial labour, but, as this show is unnecessarily live, her argument isn't a carefully nuanced slap-down of the complex issues underlying the current graduate jobs sector. Instead, she is greeted with a Monty Python-like one-upmanship of tragic former jobs by a random selection of well-known faces:

Businesswoman: I am a businesswoman. When I was your age, I was 20.
Comedian with stupid hair: I am the comedian du jour. When I was your age, I was a Rich Tea Biscuit, and I never once complained about getting dunked in boiling hot water and digested.
Former X Factor contestant: I am the face of discounted Iceland produce. When I was your age, I used to sing quite well.

The graduate is thereby humiliated on TV for being something of an idealist and rejecting this notion that one should shovel pony excrement after shelling out ~£15k for a degree. The message, for all that there is, seems to be "put up and shut up". Yes, graduates: you were missold a dream of big jobs after extra years of further study, but that's okay because Richard Bacon once flipped burgers in the 90s and is now a big-name TV star.

There is something quite crucial missing from the contributors' insights into their former pre-celebrity lives, and that is the significance of era. The jobs market when Michelle Mone left school is not the same beast that it is nowadays – even in terms of method, with the rise of online applications and recruitment services – so to compare her it-never-did-me-any-harm experiences with a current jobseeker is without point.

However, the main issue with the programme is that no one is actually paying attention to the jobseekers. Whether it's Bacon cutting (slicing?) over everyone, or celebrities glorifying their own hardship, or the editor squashing everything into a squidge of a narrative and scapegoating the young people themselves, no one in a position of authority takes the time to listen to what is being told time and time again. Even the wall behind the co-presenter, outlining jobseekers' complaints, is only once glanced over. Many of them direct blame at external forces (where are the jobs?), causing the co-presenter to paraphrase the problem several times as "It's not our fault." This is never expanded upon, mostly because it's true... but also because it's more fun to attack the jobseekers instead and make an example of them, the lazy so-and-sos.

So far, unpaid internships have been championed rather than questioned; the government appears not to exist, nor does the entriely revlevant Labour policy of giving everyone in Britain a degree; and their montage of helpful advice managed to be more patronising than an actual careers service, where "dnt use txt spk" was considered a valid example of improving your chances of getting a job. If people have managed to successfully type their CVs nt lk dis yet still fail to secure employment, then something might just be amiss, and, y'know, that could be worth talking about?

Here's a summary for you: you've gotta have experience to get experience, and round and round we go on this stupid merry-go-round of want and need. That's not even mentioning the unspoken practise of nepotism and how it's easier for someone from a superior socio-economic background to bag a better job. But then, TV wouldn't want to talk about that...

I hope Up For Hire becomes more in-depth about this and does not try, as it has thus far, to disguise the fact that the job market is in the shit by instructing us all to lower our own expectations. But hey, this is BBC3, and Russell Kane probably has a new tour to promote or something.

So, with regards to BBC3's tweet, unfair criticism? Yes. Jobseekers just received it in spades. As this is only episode one, many downtrodden viewers who tuned in expecting the semblance of hope will wisely refuse to watch more. The condescending advice and propagandist pitchforks against those expecting a little more out of their degree will have alienated a majority of non-masochistic young people. I, however, am a fully fledged masochist. And I'm up for hire.