pass the hanky
I’ve mixed feelings about The X Factor. I know I shouldn’t watch it, let alone enjoy it, but I do. Yep, I realise it’s low-brow, lowest common-denominator, car-crash TV that manipulates me wildly into believing it’s not all a huge set-up but I just can’t help myself. Come 7.30pm on any given Saturday I’m there salivating like a Pavlovian experiment, tuned in and ready to tuck in with, it would seem, most of the country.
There’s no doubt the programme is cunningly crafted to create tension, drama and suspense and it can become thrillingly addictive. But I have one nagging doubt and it won’t go away. I worry that we are creating a generation that expects fame and fortune, success and celebrity from the belting out of decidedly average covers of Elton John and Queen songs and one that will sob uncontrollably at the merest drop of a Michael Jackson hat. Every week we witness contestants weeping because they have not been allowed to stay in the competition, contestants weeping because they have been allowed to stay in the competition, contestants weeping because it’s hard being in the competition and contestants weeping because it’ll be far harder out of the competition. The quintessential X Factor moment is heralded in by the words “Well, I have made my decision and the person I’m going to be sending home is…” Queue the tension heightening pause and then await the floodgates.
No matter how many times I see the formulaic outcome I am always mortified by the contestants’ desperate yearning for the fleeting glimpse of fame offered, by the platitudes served up and by their apparent inability to deal with losing. Yeah, yeah , yeah I realise that the opportunity of following in SueBo’s size fours meant everything to you but wouldn’t it be so refreshing if someone said something along the lines of “I had a good time, thoroughly enjoyed room-service but can’t wait to get back to my old job in the call centre. I don’t reckon I’m really cut out for all this palaver.” That person would have the respect of the nation, if not that of Simon or Cheryl.
I try to tread lightly on others’ dreams as ambition and optimism are qualities I usually place great store by, but I’d like to think both should be tinged by a touch of realism. So, whilst another 1980s power ballad is strangled to within an inch of its life please don’t expect the subsequent fame and fortune as a right, an automatic entitlement, there needs to be that little ‘je ne sais quoi’ and a modicum of accompanying talent. If not, it’s going to end in tears!
