The X Factor

Picture the scene.  It’s autumn 2005 and rather than spending a third year at university, I’ve been shipped off to Germany to fulfil the position of human dictionary at a grammar school under the auspices of a year abroad.  All my shiny brand-new friends are carrying on to their finals without me.  But, thanks to low-cost airlines, I’m able to come back.  After about nine hours of travelling, which includes a bus transfer to a Swiss airport, a 45-minute flight, further trains and nonsense, I reach my hallowed college and burst into a friend’s room expecting a hero’s welcome.  But everyone ignores me.  On the screen of the television holding all their attention, a swarthy muscular chap is cavorting in what looks like an LA swimming pool.  “Guys, it’s me!” I try, convinced they must not have twigged to the significance of my presence.  “Sssh,” they all go, “we wanna see Chico.”  I drop my bags despondently and sink into a seat, well aware that only an advert break will allow attention to revert back to me.

This was my first real exposure to watching The X Factor.  It was the Judges’ Houses section of the second series, famous for Chico’s yearning to be taken through to the Live Shows manifesting in an electrocution-risking impromptu swim with microphone in Sharon Osbourne’s back garden.  I was derisorily regarding my pals’ viewing choice, but the pressures of final examinations had led them to seek solace in the most mindless of TV.  We had been out and about too much to bother with the first series, its super broad appeal as a shiny-floor Saturday night schedule-filler to replace Pop Idol, Popstars and Popstars: The Rivals sparking only contempt as we had the time of our lives spending our student loans on non-academic pursuits.  But the cultural steamrolling of this reality TV show soon proved unavoidable.  Leaving the oldies to watch Strictly Come Dancing, by its fourth series, The X Factor had struck gold and become essential viewing.  The revolution began with the addition of the fourth judge, Dannii Minogue, only for her to be joined in her second year by the then Cheryl Cole in a race to the bottom of constantly younger and tauter-skinned female judges while Louis Walsh and Simon Cowell aged in peace, subject to none of the same scrutiny despite looking much much worse.

Either way, we reached peak X Factor, with two of the X Factor-iest X Factor moments that stick in my mind being the following:

1.      Cheryl Cole stepping down from the judges’ table to perform The Promise with her bandmates from Girls Aloud, all clad in massive sparkling dresses and ITV’s Sunday night schedule being definitively the epicentre of British culture at that moment in time.  Sigh.

2.      Katy Perry debuting her single Firework on the Sunday results show, daring to sing live despite missing all of her notes and leading to some hilarious comments from various friends in their Facebook statuses decrying lyrics that went “Boom boom boom, even bigger than the moon moon moon.”  Everything about this sentence is now vintage and dated.

Now, after decades of manufacturing music acts, The X Factor has taken on a big refresh of itself, finally acknowledging that there probably aren’t any decent singers left in the UK and that everyone is watching Love Island instead.  Nevertheless, let’s celebrate the stages in any popstar’s life as they make their way from hideous unknown to hideous C-lister.

Auditions

Descending on various cities, the crew take over large venues and erect awnings and queuing infrastructure as Dermot O’Leary shouts at a moving crane camera that Sheffield/Manchester/Newcastle/Sutton Coldfield has the X Factor while crowds of wannabes and their dragged-along families make a cross shape with their pudgy arms.  Series have toyed around with closed-room auditions and demanding applicants sing in front of baying audiences.  Either way, we’ll get a background story about each hopeful singer.  The fun part is guessing whether they are going to be outstanding or appalling.  I’ve covered my disdain for sob stories in a previous post on the much less popular The Voice UK, but I’ll repeat the fact that so many people just “want it so bad” as if that’s reason enough to deserve a successful recording career.  There are two types of delicious moment we are aiming for here.  One is watching someone deluded get a reality check regarding their superstar aspirations: they can’t actually sing in tune.  The other is the genuine excitement when a great new act is discovered.  Nobody mentions the fact that everyone has been pre-vetted by production before being trotted out in front of the judges, as we’re here for the entertainment factor, relying on Cowell to interrupt singers mid-flow to demand different songs in the rudest way possible – leading to one of the best Bo’ Selecta! apings known to the modern world: “No offence, but I wish your mother was dead.”  But in fact, the most offensive part is always Louis Walsh likening any performer of colour to literally any other black celebrity: “You remind me of a young Moira Stuart.”

Bootcamp

This is my favourite part but it’s always rushed through.  By this stage, you’ve forgotten everyone from the Auditions, let alone the ones you really liked.  Clusters of hopefuls are cut willy nilly, sent packing to a big waiting coach for the long trip back to the regions.  There’s always a silly sausage who gets trolleyed the night before and then stinks up the stage as a result.  Cruelly, acts are made to sing together in an unnecessary test of their ability to collaborate with other artists before they’ve even established themselves.  The culmination is the judge reveal to each of the categories.  In separate conference rooms, the Overs, the Boys, the Girls and the Groups wait anxiously, hoping more than anything that their chances aren’t killed by being assigned Louis Walsh.

Six Chair Challenge

This was injected in recent years to overhaul the tiredness of the format in its later decades.  A final bunch in each category is whittled down to six.  One by one, they sing before an incensed mob, receiving a chair/wonky stool if they’ve done well enough.  Gripped by their own emotion and attention-seeking, the judges give away too many chairs too early, resulting in cruel swapsies where the privilege of sitting is snatched from young hopefuls.  However, the cruellest part is the fact that they only supply one wobbly stool for the groups, leaving the majority of the band hovering awkwardly on foot behind a frontman.

Judges’ Houses

If you end up with a chair, then you get to go on holiday with your judge.  You don’t get to take the chair with you, though.  This is the best product placement opportunity for airlines on UK television, as we’re guaranteed overexcited scenes in airports where the acts in each category find out their destination.  The unlucky bastards under Louis Walsh are guaranteed a trip to drizzly Dublin, so you can always manage a smile at their disappointed faces.  Meanwhile, Cowell and the others hit up glamorous US and European cities, though the contestants with criminal records conveniently drop out when they are denied visas.  Everything that takes place from this point on is pure over-emotional slush, but first each judge reveals their celebrity help-judge.  Usually it’s some famous pal who has nothing more interesting to say than “I’m glad I’m not the one deciding,” which is beyond unhelpful, though at least you can rely on Sinitta to be making suggestions about how to use foliage as a clothing option.  Each act performs, normally in an awkward spot by a swimming pool, probably with the sun in their eyes.  The judges stay up late agonising, before the most drawn-out sequence known to broadcasting.  Each act is told face-to-face if they’re being taken through to Live Shows.  A masterclass on how to respond was given by Rylan in 2012, but we end up oscillating wildly between happiness and devastation.  It’s at this point that all my favourites are normally culled, but Dermot is always there to show he doesn’t really care either way.

Live Shows

And then here we go: the countdown to Christmas.  All the acts sing every Saturday, usually according to some sort of theme.  Big Band Week seems sadly to be long gone, but sometimes it’s Guilty Pleasures and occasionally it’s the back catalogue of whoever they can get to sing on the Sunday, however spurious.  I like to imagine the least appropriate acts for this sort of week: the greatest hits of System of a Down or Marilyn Manson for example.  If you thought Judges’ Houses were drawn out, these shows can sometimes take several years to get through.  Each judge intros their act, typically looking down the wrong camera.  Cue jeopardy-emphasising VT where expressions like “Barry’s gotta nail it this week, or he’s going home” abound, and we forget these people literally get to return to warm homes and gainful employment, rather than the religious persecution and unbridled violence we’re all too willing to send Syrian refugees to.  The acts perform in front of cameramen who can’t keep still for five seconds, so you see many shots of everything and nothing, before the judges give unfounded criticism based on how much they want to be cheered by the studio audience.  Dermot then opens the phone lines and you vote to save your favourite act.  I’ve never missed an election (though nobody I’ve ever voted for as ever got into power) but I wouldn’t be caught dead actually ringing up to vote on this show.  I prefer the sense of disappointment when my favourites are ejected.  Voting stats are released once the series are over and the outright winner has normally already stretched ahead by week one.

Live Shows – The Results

In historical times, people would find out who had got the fewest votes on the same night, like barbarians.  Now, to stretch things out, the results are in a separate Sunday show.  This was to complement perfectly the winning Sunday line-up of The X Factor Results and Downton Abbey, trapping millions of Brits on their sofas for two whole hours.  The show used to open with the never well-rehearsed group number, a highlight for fans of awkwardness.  Guest acts perform, and things get meta when a previous season’s winner comes back, free to deliver their single without the judges being allowed to slag them off this time.  Finally, Dermot reveals the bottom two and then the judges decide who to save.  There are tears and tantrums, but nothing beats Deadlock.  This is when the judges are split and we have to go back to the vote result.  The nation comes to a standstill and everyone has carte blanche to rape and pillage freely until a disappointed minstrel is being shown their best bits.  Through attrition, we are finally left with the, er, finalists.

The Final

Hello Wembley!  These days, the Final has outgrown a TV studio and a whole arena needs hiring out to get through the inordinate pageantry of selecting who’s got the X Factor.  Established acts clamour to promote latest releases in and among the finalists’ own best songs, with a quick comedic break offered by the exploitative but necessary wheeling out of all the worst singers from that year’s series.  No expense is spared, as long as that expense is spent on confetti cannons.  Tradition dictates the finalists duet with the planet’s most successful popstars.  One peak year saw Beyoncé grace our stage, but these days it tends to be the awful Robbie Williams, who is guaranteed to forget his own lyrics.  Our winner is crowned and rather than crossing live to Andi Peters at the CD factory, the winner’s single is available for immediate download.  Our champion tries to perform it before being rushed by the other finalists and Dermot eventually gives up trying to keep control of the activities on stage.  Even winning the show doesn’t guarantee success – more than half of the victors have faded into obscurity.  But, sure as eggs is eggs, another generation of schoolchildren will expect overnight success in pop music, should their careers as YouTubers or pro footballers not work out.]

I jest!  I’ve slagged this show off throughout, but I really do bloody love it.  Working in media buying, I dreamed ITV would one day invite me.  But then my team did a licensing deal for a client directly with the production company.  Next thing I knew, I found myself at Fountain Studios for a results show.  I was meant to be looking after clients, but I was so excited that they were forced to take on a parental role to my hyperactive teenage behaviour.  Taylor Swift performed Shake It Off and I forgot to breathe throughout the whole performance.  Since then, I’ve been lucky enough to be invited back, both to the Live Shows and The Final itself.  The best part of the Live Shows is mingling backstage with the friends and family of the contestants, lording it over them with my free-drink wristband while they’re forced to pay.  The acts then emerge from their performances and I’m always surprised by how tiny some of them are.  Throughout filming, Cowell spends every commercial break outside smoking (assuming the fag packets are stored in his vile bootcut jeans, while the lighter nestles among his toilet brush barnet), while the female judges have their hair and make-up constantly touched up.  The Final is a massive undertaking, with a VIP ball in a nearby hotel before and after.

This blog has made it clear on repeated occasions that a lot of my viewing tastes align with those of teenage girls, so my fandom of The X Factor should come as no surprise.  This year, it’s taking a break while other formats are trialled, and while it may never ascend to its giddy heights, it still remains one of the biggest shows on commercial television, despite its overly commercial, sensationalised and desperate-for-drama tendencies.  Let’s be honest, nobody delays their Saturday evening out any more to catch The X Factor, plus you can always catch up the next day with the benefit of fast forward.  But I’ll never stop being charmed by the great unwashed’s unbridled desire for five minutes of fame.  So, in tribute, let’s make me famous by telling a friend how good this blog is.