X-Factor. An analysis.

31 Jan

Now that we’ve had some time to let the dust settle after the throbbing, overpuffed, besparkled money shot that was the X-Factor final, I think it’s time to take a sober look at the programme’s cultural significance.

(I say ‘a sober look’, but we both know that’s a lie, don’t we? I’m drunker than Kerry Katona’s boozy uncle. I’m sure you don’t mind.)

So.

The cultural 148-car-pile-up-with-multiple-deaths-including-women-and-children that is the X-Factor is often dismissed as worthless fluff, odious puke, mindless jizz and, occasionally, as the frenzied, white-knuckled wankings of a cack-soiled fuckpole with big trousers. (I never say that, mind. That last one is my mother after the old bird has had a few too many kalua ‘n’ scotches.)

But with 20 million people tuning in to gorp through unblinking eyes while drooling into their own dead crotches, it would be foolish to try to ignore it. After all it’s not going away. GOD KNOWS it won’t go away. No. That fucker is going NOWHERE.

So, perhaps we should debate its cultural significance. And by ‘debate’, I mean ‘listen to Dave and then agree with him’. Be warned, because this is going to be cultural analysis on a plane you probably won’t have experienced. So hold on to your frontal lobe.

Paije, also known as The Little Lenny Henry / Luther Vandross / Marvin Gaye

What does the popularity of this show say about us? Does it say something specific about us as Britons? Personally, I think not, seeing as half the fucking world has a version of it, and vast droves of hopeless talent-voids rock up for auditions whether it’s in Birmingham, Brisbane or Baltimore.

What does it say about us as human beings, then? The obvious answer is that it says we like watching our fellow men and women make utter fuckpiles of themselves – and that makes us sadists in the league of Mistress Lashington who performs on alternate Thursdays at my preferred supplier of executive relief, Delilaz. But what of the performers? (Or should I say, ‘performers’.) Well, they like to stand in front of people and demonstrate in visceratingly painful clarity that they are singularly incapable of doing the thing that they think they’re very good at. And that makes them masochists of the sort one finds strapped to the kebab spit in Delilaz on alternate Thursdays while Mistress Lashington flicks globules of molten candle wax at their bell-ends. (That fucking hurts, that does. Jesus. A chap walks past the stage headed for the lavs, a latex boot swings from out of nowhere and he wakes up on the rotisserie. What gives?)

So is X-Factor simply a kind of cross-cultural, pan-societal gay porn film? No. It’s a cross-cultural, pan-societal snuff movie – and we all fucking kark it at the end.

Eh? How’s THAT for cultural analysis? Pretty cocking tasty stuff, no? I mean, I don’t really know what my final point is, or what I’m actually trying to get at, but if you’d had as much gin ‘n’ Baileys as I’ve had, your grip on a coherent argument might slip a little too.

One thing’s for sure:

No, I’ve forgotten my point there too.

I am Dave Knockles. And I just analysed your culture.

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2 Responses to “X-Factor. An analysis.”

  1. Stuart Davis January 31, 2011 at 7:21 pm #

    I think you’re absolutely right on the crappy programme front. I read a brilliant send up of these shows a while back – Ben Elton’s Chart Throb. It’s absolutely hilarious.
    You’re new blogging site is looking extremely smart by the way!

  2. Stuart Davis January 31, 2011 at 7:22 pm #

    I think you’re absolutely right on the crappy programme front. I read a brilliant send up of these shows a while back – Ben Elton’s Chart Throb. It’s absolutely hilarious.
    Your new blogging site is looking extremely smart by the way!

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