X Factor

When you type Cher into predictive text your phone gives you the word AIDS. I type in the name of an anorexic, slightly talented, faux gangster, badly dressed, teenage X factor finalist and I get an acronym for a virulent, deadly, immune system destroying virus. Is this just a spooky coincidence or does it run deeper?
After all, both Cher and AIDS are known for fucking over Africans. Things like this give me pause to ponder, as does X factor as a phenomenon.
Over the last couple of weeks I’ve said a lot of nasty things about Cher, uncalled for and cruel things. However, if I’m honest Cher and I have a lot in common. Every Sunday she’s as shocked as me that she’s still in the competition.
I don’t know what it is about her that I hate the most. It could be the stupid clothes, the ludicrous eyebrows or just the fact that she only has a mediocre voice yet wants to be a grimy gangsta rapper when actually she still lives at home with her mum and dad and isn’t even badass enough to finish her dinner. It could one or all of these things but what really winds me up is her ‘attitude’.
Cheryl sees attitude, I see a surly teenager who would probably throw you the same pout if you told her to tidy her room. What really irks is this girl personifies the X factor ‘dream’, the dream of fame and riches and adulation that would be all the more attainable if she could sing better.
All of this year’s finalists are afflicted with the same starry eyed malaise. When they were kids, and they all pretty much said this word for word on Saturday, they wanted to be the centre of attention and subsequently found, when they sang, they were the centre of attention.
Few of them have made the leap, that there is a world of difference between a five year old being applauded by friends and family for singing along badly to a CD and a professional performer earning a living off the patronage of total strangers. Yes, they may indeed have a dream, yet whether or not this dream can be realised in the cold, cut throat world of the music industry is another matter completely.
Diana Vickers is finding this out now as she’s being taken to court by the Red Hot Chilli Peppers having plagiarised one of their best known songs.
Storm Lee is the latest to have his dream ripped out from under him. Here we have a thirty eight year old man with no talent of which to speak of, who has devoted his whole life to music and gotten nowhere. He changed his name to Storm, that didn’t work. He dyed his hair bright red for the show but for some unfathomable reason this didn’t save him. Despite all these effort he was ultimately undermined by his lack of talent. But surely as a man in his late thirties, having sung all his life, surely he must have heard a recording of his own voice. Surely a friend, a mate, would have taken him aside and told him that wasn’t really that good. No doubt this has probably happened in Storms ‘career’ and no doubt he ignored it because it clashed with the dream.
Diva Fever were equally delusional. They put their exit down to a poor choice of song. Not to their inability to sing it. Jimi Hendrix took the Star Spangled Banner and, at six o’clock on a Woodstock morning, he wrangled it into America’s musical and cultural history. With the crowbar of talent and inspiration, in front of a few thousand fucked up and sleep deprived hippies he took a dry, patriotic, ‘square’ piece of music and spun it on its head. So much so the event is still remembered and talked about today. FORTY ONE YEARS LATER.
By comparison we have already forgotten FYD. Our discretion said no.
X factor is generally a girl thing. Women are gentler and considerably more compassionate than men so therefore a little more inclined to indulge someone’s poor career choice for fear of upsetting them. But time and time again I can see that X factor is warping their minds. The Girlf, who is normally quite down to earth and straight forward, sat me down today and explained to me it was irrelevant that One Direction couldn’t harmonise because little girls like little boys and were voting for them in droves. My response was men like tits so if grown men were ringing and voting for the girls purely on the size of their breasts would that be equally valid. I got told to shut up.
My point was that a lot of support for the acts is based on their fuckabilty. Aiden seems to be the shows heartthrob even though when he sings he looks like a psycho horse with Jedward's hair. For some reason when someone appears on telly people find them more attractive than they actually are. Aiden looks like a horse, Katie looks like a man, and Matt looks like a painter and decorator, which is fine because he is a painter and decorator. Cher looks a startled Punch and Judy puppet.
One Direction look like they shouldn’t be out so late yet I’ve heard women comment on how cute they are. They are children and grown women are counting the days until they look like less of a freak when the say they fancy them.

The depressing and inevitable fact is one of these young, talent free fucks, will win it. Rebecca’s good but it’ll depend on how much of a fan base she can build up. Black singers don’t normally do too well. John’s alright but Paije is a one trick pony.
The real star, the real talent is Mary whose voice is outstanding, but Mary is fifty and fat. I would love it but I’d be surprised if she got into the finally three.
What would be great, just for my amusement, would be Wagner going all the way. He can’t sing to save his life but he’s clearly insane. He’s a fifty six year old, former lion tamer, who swears at the crew in Portuguese when they try and tell him anything.

What isn’t there to love?

Bolognaise and jelly

There isn’t any milk. There never is unless I buy it so I’m reduced to supping black Nescafe. Nescafe is bad enough as it is, black it is liquidated sludge. However, it’s still coffee.
Despite this I am chilling snugly in the robe the Girlf bought me last week. Apparently it makes me look like a roman emperor. It should be an imperial purple but alas it is only a navy blue. You can’t have it all.
The recycling is sorted for tomorrow’s collection. I now recycle everything. I’m not sure they want everything I put out but that’s at their look-out. I’m new to this and the more I can keep out of the actual dustbin the better. We’ve already missed two collections and it’s mounting up. Pretty much everything that can go into the recycling does, it saves a lot of bin space.
I intend to have the laziest of days today. The plan, after a quick sojourn into town, was to have the Girlf cook for me. I was looking forward to basking in her derision while I ate because this is Tuesday and I always cook on Tuesday. Some how she’s managed to wiggle out of it. Passing the shop and paying a visit on my mum, she’s managed to acquire some bolognaise. That’s now three times this week my mum has fed us. Everyone in the house tells me, repeatedly, that mum is a far superior cook to me. Mum knows this and rings us almost daily to offer food. The Girlf rarely refuses.
Her super fast metabolism requires fuelling regularly so where as I can last out until late afternoon before I start eating the Girlf has to be replenished at short intervals. This she puts down to her super massive, calorie hungry, brain. To this end she’s been cooking cupcakes all weekend. Work is hard at the moment and she needs them to keep her cognitive powers firing on all cylinders. I suspect Einstein ran on icing sugar as well.
I can wait it out until this evening. The sludgy coffee will tie me over; I have deliveries to make in town. Mother expects another consignment of cake and Bone has been promised some for his birthday. It’s his thirty ninth so I feel this will be a quiet one. I’m pretty sure he’s ignoring it as much as he can.
I’d wanted to take him out for jelly wrestling tonight but he’s declined. I don’t think it’s his scene, but to be fair I’m quite certain it isn’t anyone’s scene. I can’t remember once thinking what Weston really needs is a good jelly wrestling night. Rumour has it that tonight they’re experimenting with spaghetti but this would probably be a mistake. You don’t want to mess with a classic formula. I’m told the last one was won by a butch, rugby playing, lesbian. It’s not known whether-or-not she’ll be defending her title.

Theatre

I haven’t set foot in a theatre for eight years. It’s been a decade since I’ve entered the Blakehay. It’s different, everything looks freshly painted, walls are missing and there are smart new toilets that look like the cellophane has just been removed.
The auditorium hasn’t changed. It is still a modern amphitheatre. A sweep of curved seating steeply arcing up from the small, rubber laid, stage. I’m amazed how natural this feels. How natural it is for me to enter this space. Once, this was my life. All encompassing, all consuming, yet it’s been a very long time since I’ve been in such places and honestly speaking, I never thought I’d ever return.
I am introduced warmly, Babs exaggerates my accomplishments and I smile bashfully. The lights are appropriately dim for tonight’s rehearsal. Actors, amateur and professional, like to hide in the shadows before the work is complete. To much light will destroy the magic. The illuminated stage is a safe cocoon in which to create, but here I am, an interloper. They eye me up suspiciously.
Non-professional theatre is a strange beast. It is the best and the worst of the art. The amateur is free from all the constraints of the professional. They soldier through confidently when nerves would destroy those being paid for their work. The bar is safely low therefore they can soar high above it. Mistakes are tolerated allowing then to explore unchartered territory.
Tonight the talent on show is generally good. They can act which normally is a good start. I remind myself that I am a guest. I am not here to judge or even get involved. I am merely here to observe, to get a feel for the lay of the land should I get a chance to join the group.
I curie a little favour by helping to move some props. I have been invited into this secret little group so the least I can do is flex some muscles and show some willing, at the very least this gives me a chance to say hello to a few of the cast.
They go on stage in two weeks, I can sense the nervous tension, scripts are still held tightly for security. They are behind schedule. They are cutting it fine. I would want them off the book by now. I would want them throwing the words at each other with abandon, finding the rhythm, not delivering their performances into their laps.
Despite this there are flashes of quality. They have ability but are hampered by their lack of discipline. Every time they look at their words they lose a bit of energy. The scene drags and meaning is lost from poor sight reading.
At its core all acting is is conversation. Crack that and you are eighty percent there. If the audience believes you are talking to each other all that is left is garnish and flourish. When the lines are learnt and the conversation flows everything else, character, pace, the rhythm, all these things fall into place.
But this is amateur theatre and on stage they are trying to run before they can walk. The directors are too concerned with blocking. Worrying where the actors have to stand, premature indeed when they still have scripts in their hands. I, myself, am sat on mine. I bite my lip. At this stage they should be still playing with the words, tasting them in their mouths rather than thinking when to get up, when to sit down, when to stir their tea or take a sip. With book in hand they should be experimenting not adding finishing touches.
I am very aware that I am not directing. I am not involved. I am only a guest but eventually I crack and have to speak. I am not rude, I don’t push my point but I inquire if this or that might work, perhaps if they tried it a different way. I, personally, would like more intimacy and maybe a little less movement. Possibly. Maybe? Don’t you think?
My thoughts are taken graciously and even enthusiastically so I cut myself short, not wanting to tread on toes or hurt feelings. I make a joke and get a laugh; hopefully I haven’t offended anyone too much.
The director, the control freak in me wants to get up and snatch the script. He wants to start the scene again and play it totally differently. He wants to sit the actors down and get them to read, to speak, to actually speak the words to each other. He wants to take them back to the very start and find meaning.
The actor inside wants to take on the male part. Inject it with lava. He wants to erupt with volcanic passion and give the scene the energy, the lust it requires. But this is not my scene, this is not my rehearsal, this is not my night so I let my frustration dissipate.
It has been many, many years. Too many years. The embers of that life glow somewhere deep inside me. The energy, the passion, the flutter of excitement in my belly is still there. I thank them for their hospitality and skulk into the night.