Saturday, December 12, 2009

The Sloppy Dog LiveBlog: The X Factor Final

Evening all. Hopefully you've all got your bestest suits and frocks on for this momentus event, which we were going to say had come around incredibly quickly, but the fact it's on half an hour early is sort of crapping all over that. Admit it, how many of you are rocking up at 8pm, expecting the circus to just be kicking off? Well, fear not, as we'll be recapping each and every performance, critique, tacky home-visit VT and inevitable tears. Keep hitting refresh for updates.

And so it begins. The X Factor final is upon us, and in spite of unfathomable magnitude media-wise, it's a rather underwhelming line-up of finalists talent-wise. We're left with one semi-talented Fred Perry-rocking extra from Rude Boy Food with Aaron Craze; one gifted, likeable and relevant artist, who has inexplicably become the underdog; and one horribly camp yet entirely sexless mincefest whose voice would be far better suited to a local production of West Side Story. We'll leave you to determine who's who.

First up, frustratingly, is Stacey. We all know Simon keeps the best til last (or at least, what he considers to be best), which, combined with the show's early start tonight, does not bode well for Stacey. We get to see her trip back to Dagenham, with Dannii on her arm, and it's all rather warm-n-fuzzy-inducing. Her family seem very nice, although it does kinda paint a picture of what Beautiful People must've looked like had Dannii's cameo seen some Doonan contact, and not been at the end of a phone. This girl MUST win. But won't.

The first round of songs sees each finalist performing the song from their first audition - in Stacey's case, What A Wonderful World. If possible, it's even better.

After a thumbs up from all four judges, we're taken live to Dagenham, where Jeff Brazier introduces us to a chef from Papa John's Pizza, who has created 'The Stacey'. Nice plug there, but any fule kno Domino's is at the forefront of this particular field of greasy goodness. Dermot ribs Stacey about fancying Jeff Brazier, which = ewww.

We're back, and it's Olly O'Clock. Meh. Simon reveals he's part-Essex, which, from our calculations, makes him 50% Scottish (as revealed in attempting to justify his slating of the Macdonald Brothers - remember them?!), 25% Essex, 15% eel, and 10% shitehawk. He looks completely out of place in Olly's front room, not aided by his lies (LIES!) that he'll do everything he can to help Olly. Setting it up for Joe to win is hardly helping Olly, now is it?

Superstition by Stevie Wonder is given another airing, and unlike Stacey's improvement on her first audition, this isn't a patch on Olly's knockout performance way back in the earliest rounds. Still, he's not Joe, which is about as big a compliment as can be given right at this moment.

Colchester aren't as much fun as Dagenham. Fact.

We're back from the break, and so we come to Geordie Joe, as championed by Nation's Sweetheart Cheryl Cole. Jesus wept, the other finalists don't have a Kandy Rain member's chance in a convent, do they?

Joe and Cheryl venture back to Newcastle, and it seems there's a correlation between how far North he is, and how gay his voice sounds. Crying Nan starts bawling, and a million pensioners across the land reach for their telephone. Joe McElderry is R Wayne.

Does anyone even remember Joe's first audition, apart from Cheryl giving a 'why-aye' as opposed to a yes? Apparently, it was Dance With My Father, as reimagined by Elaine Paige.

After all four judges verbally fellate him, with added waterworks from Cheryl, we visit Joe's hometown, where Kimberley Walsh is the mic-monkey. We wouldn't be surprised if Nicola Roberts is making up buckets of orange squash out back. Interestingly, two friends of The Sloppy Dog, who frequent museums and attend lectures with Doris Lessing and generally fancy themselves as bastions of high culture, JUST SO HAPPEN to have travelled to South Shields this weekend. And now we know why. Consider yourselves rumbled, Flo and Ian.

And the phonelines are open. Is there any chance at all of transmission dropping out every time Joe's number is displayed?

Oh how 'adorable'. One of the highlights of tomorrow's Susan Boyle special is Piers Morgan making her cry.

Round Two, and we're back to Stacey. FYI, Round One went to Stacey, of course. She's doing Feeling Good for her duet, and she's about to introduce...

...Michael Bublé. Fucksticks. Could they not convince Chris Martin to part with that much credibility, then? Mind you, it's a frankly incredible performance. Oddly, Bublé doesn't understand what Dermot says to him post-performance in perfect broadcaster's English - so how on Earth did he survive the whole day in conversation with Stacey Solomon?! Did he have an in-person subtitler?

Approximately three seconds later, which is ironic given tomorrow's results show will be a good 90% filler, Olly's duet kicks off. He's singing Angels, which sadly means...

...Robbie Williams, WHO FLUFFS HIS OWN SONG. Fucking windowlicker. Serves him right for choosing to upstage Olly. Hell, if Empress Beyoncé can reign it in enough to match Alexandra, you'd think this almighty prick could put the ego to one side for a frickin' millisecond.

Dermot mentions that Robbie had previously duetted with Kylie Minogue and Nicole Kidman, but for some reason, chooses to omit Jonathan Wilkes.

And we come immediately to God Bless Our Li'l Geordie Joe Pet, who's doing Don't Let The Sun Go Down On Me. Ironically, we pointed out several weeks ago that the greatest line of this song was...

...'Ladies and gentlemen, Mr George Michael'. Which the fucking moron doesn't even utter! Go on George, headbutt the insolent little fairy. It's far from overwhelming as a performance, it has to be said. More like a musical interpretation of a Year 11 kid having a meeting with the careers advisor.

If we were any more infantile, we'd make some sort of innuendo about George's comment that Joe rose to the occasion. But we're mature and sensible here at The Sloppy Dog, so we'll just let the moment pass. (HA! JOE GOT A SEMI! HE'S GAY FOR GEORGE MICHAEL!! *snigger*)

Dannii talks up Stacey's third performance, which had better be The Scientist.

Oh for the love of fuck. It's that big gushy thing off of Queen Week, which, while awesome, was nowhere near her best performance. Lookit, the old ladies are already voting Joe - doing her Keane or Coldplay numbers might've at least gotten the actual music-buyers to start dialling. Nonetheless, she's still awesome. Plus she has a wind machine, although it may just be the hot air billowing out of Louis Walsh.

Both Louis and Cheryl say they want Stacey in the final tomorrow, which we already know won't happen, although Robbie sabotaging Olly's performance may have helped Stacey's cause by default. Meanwhile, Stacey's apparent best friend turns up at the Dagenham loonfest in an Umbro T-shirt. What, you couldn't iron a lousy shirt?

Olly's supposed best performance is that beyond-obscure Tina Turner song from Divas Week, where he reinforces that he has a pelvis approximately 213 times in the space of one verse. For everyone that says Olly is a great dancer, let's break this down. He does two things: he points his groin at the camera, and he does that weird leg thing which is effectively a fancy zig-a-zig-ah. *holds up Strictly-style '2' scoreboard*

Dermot seems incredibly fed up tonight. Reckon he'll be back for a fourth series, or will the music fan within steer him permanently to Radio 2?

And lastly, it's Pre-Determined Winner doing Sorry Seems To Be The Hardest Word, sporting hideously tight trousers which have resulted in male cameltoe. Between this and Olly's pelvic thrusting, this is a scarily cock-heavy X Factor. Not to mention a certain bellend sat behind the judging table.

Joe does that annoying-as-hell thing where he cocks his head to the side whilst listening to the judges' comments. Apologies for use of the word 'cocks' once again, given the last paragraph. Incidentally though, we've just learned a male cameltoe is apparently called 'moose knuckle'. And speaking of mooses, Cheryl's snivelling for votes again. Have some fucking dignity, woman. She wasn't even this desperate for a place in the band on Popstars: The Rivals. Mind you, Javine was never going to be much competition, was she?

So, that's all performances out of the way, and it's only just gone 9pm. What exactly are they planning to do with the last half hour?

Oh, THAT's what they're doing to fill time - bloody Robbie's performing again. After that shitshower duet earlier, he's clearly wankered off his chimplike face. Maybe this time he'll take a tumble down the Perspex stairs?

Wow. This potato ad with Marcia Cross is painful. Painful.

There's a hideous Yuletide backdrop for Robbie's performance of his new single, Some Song No-One Cares About. Maybe it's to make up for the absence of Christmas songs in this year's final? Not that they're missed - the number of artists that can pull off a Chrimbo song, you could count on one hand. Hence our Turkey Cull, innit?

And lines are frozen! Yikes.

So, here we go - the result. Well, not the final result, but the histrionics are of the same level. Stacey's looking rather worried, and rightly so. Bless.

The first act through is... Olly. Oh well. Laters, Stace.

And so, inevitably, Joe is through. What a crock of complete and utter shite. Dear British public: you are cunts. Fuck you, love from The Sloppy Dog. xx

Stacey's got an ear-to-ear smile, and is bowing out with real dignity. And while we're left feeling rather depressed that we live in a nation so utterly bereft of musical taste, it's incredibly heartwarming to see how someone can get through this mangle of a show and still come out the other end as humble as when they went in. Dannii and Dagenham should be very proud of Stacey. The people of the North-East, meanwhile, should feel utterly ashamed of themselves. Where were you when Bad Lashes needed you, eh? Eh? Where WERE YOU?!

And there we have it: it's an Olly/Joe final. Which means we're on Team Olly solely for the purposes of keeping Joe from the crown, but in the bigger picture, we're firmly Team Rage Against the Machine. Nonetheless, there's still the matter of a two-hour final to contend with, so we'll see you tomorrow, 7:30pm, to witness the slow death of entertainment. Nighty-night. xx


Adrian said...

Love the idea of Nicola on the orange squash.

Flo and Ian said...

In the interests of accuracy, Flo and Ian wish it to be known that we were in Sunderland at the time of the X Factor final, not South Shields (although we did go to Shields for Sunday lunch). We also suggest that you shouldn't confuse Mackems and Sand Dancers - they don't like it. In fact, Ian has this to say: "Fook off I'm never a fookin Sand Dancer mon".

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