In modern culture’s current race
down the toilet, the latest and greatest shitstain on our senses is BBC’s The
Voice. Pitched as an alternative to The X Factor, from what I can tell it is basically The X Factor
with a few minor changes.
Mercifully, one of these changes
is that there is no Simon Cowell. But don’t get it twisted - this programme is
still the mental equivalent of being circumcised with a wooden spoon dipped in caustic soda, even without that permatanned human fannypack strutting about the place like a modern
day Louis XVI.
The premise is still essentially
the same. An army of proles comes streaming into the studio with delusions of
musical talent, and it is down to the judges to set them straight. The hook
this show prides itself on is that the first round is what’s called a blind
audition.
Unfortunately this doesn’t mean
the contestants are all blinded with a metal spike, but that the judges have to listen to
them warble with their backs turned. The idea is that these wannabe singers are
judged solely on their voice (hence the title of the show) and not their
appearance.
Which is ridiculous really,
because this is a superficial show for superficial people in a superficial
world. The only way this would work is if I went around blinding everyone in
the country that watches this show with a metal spike just so that we’re all on the same page.
Being a pop star invariably has a
lot to do with image, and you can see the horror in the judges’ faces when they
select someone and turn around only to see that the person in question looks
like Rosemary West.
Anyway, after all the contestants
have been whittled down to the 40 least annoying pub singers, jailbait wank fodder and
Butlins employees, we get to what’s known as The Battle Stage.
I was hoping for a
Thunderdome-style fight to the death on live TV with axes, flails and chainsaws but
instead was treated to a bunch of talentless idiots screaming at each other in
front of a braying audience. Honestly it was like the House of Commons but in
karaoke format.
And unlike the lower house of
Parliament, these goons aren’t even subject to an arbitrary public vote. No,
the fate of the known universe is left in the hands of the judges. Now let’s
meet them.
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| Urkel is that you? |
First we have will.i.am. Now this
guy can’t even get to grips with the simple fucking fact his name is William.
He has to jazz it up with full stops in all the wrong places, as if retarded punctuation
somehow makes you cool and edgy.
Presumably he’s impressed by the fact that William
broken down says Will I Am, which most boys named William probably figured out
when they were 4 years old. Just after they figured out they were gay.
He was a member of the Black Eyed
Peas alongside some weird Hiawatha-looking bloke and a woman named Fergie who’s
not the Duchess Of York but nonetheless equally contemptible.
The Black Eyed
Peas were named for a vegetable no-one’s ever heard of, and this would’ve been
William’s fate too except that the group somehow struck pop gold.
I’m reliably informed that he has
co-written many hit records, and one would therefore assume that ASCAP keeps William's rent paid. So why he’s doing this reality TV shit is a real Agatha Christie mystery.
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| Bingo wings dude |
Next up is Jessie J. Presumably
the J stands for Just fuck off already.
She’s some Johnny come lately pop star,
a shouty council estate version of Pink who thinks that bobbing her head around
constitutes having an interesting personality.
Well if that was the case sweetheart, I’d be
having in depth conversations about the world with a Pez dispenser and I haven’t done that
since 1993 and my last LSD binge.
She also appears to be making a
fashion statement each week, and that statement is obviously something along the
lines of ‘What the actual tittyfucking Christ am I wearing?’ I think her stylist is going for
a look of middle aged Nigerian man dressed up as Carmela Soprano for Halloween.
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| some no-name Paddy fuck |
Now this bloke. I don’t even know
what to say. When he first popped
up on the screen, both me and your mum’s pet owl went ‘who?’
From what I gather his name is Danny and he is an Irish
singer-songwriter who had some hits at some point although I'll be fucked if I could name one. So right, he’s a bargain bin Bono then. Well much like Bono
he’s a supremely irritating fucker. That’s all I’ve got.
Seriously, fuck this guy. Whoever he is.
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| It's very unusual, actually. |
Lastly we have Sir Tom Jones. This
is what upsets me the most about The Voice because Sir Tom Jones has actual
talent and charisma. Watching him on this show is like watching a nuclear physicist scrub the urinals at Burger King.
This man is a living legend and at his age has probably had
bouts of constipation that have lasted longer than the careers of everyone else
involved in this BBC-funded carnival of stupidity. He's been making records since forever. This is a guy who got loaded
and shot dice with Sinatra. He has banged at least one of The Supremes.
If Fred Goodwin can be stripped
of his knighthood then the same rules should apply to Sir Tom for his
involvement in this televised whirligig of runny faecal matter.
