Honking Box Preview: The X Factor

So the Judges Houses stage is over, and all the conventions are in place: ropey stock footage covertly promoting airlines; a million utterances of 'this means everything'; waterfalls of snot; and helpers who aren't so much helpful as headline-generating. So what are we left with? Well, while the new judging line-up has given the show a much-needed shake-up, the rather embarrassing crop of finalists has swung the show's credibility right back the other way. There are a few gems, it must be said, but for the most part, you'll be crying out for the return of Wagner...

The Groups, mentored by Tulisa
The poor ol’ groups get a fair bit of stick about being perennially awful, but in fairness to them, they’re very rarely actual groups, mostly resentful soloists thrown together by hapless producers. This year is no exception, with Tulisa presiding over the back-and-forth Sugababes-style personnel nightmare. No doubt she’ll try to apply some sort of ‘urban’ ‘edge’ to each of them, but it’ll take more than a clumsy rap to paper over this shower of uselessness:

The Risk
What’s their deal, then? You know the story: boy meets producer, producer thinks boy is good but not ‘Eoghan Quigg good’ or ‘Lloyd Daniels good’ so chucks him in a group with some other boys deemed semi-rubbish. A last-minute rejig also saw the talented one from The Keys plucked from his bandmates and shoehorned in here. Mmmm, organic.
Pigeonhole: The niche carved out by/for Futureproof, way back in the Godawful series four.
Most likely to sing: Hoobastank’s The Reason hasn’t been massacred on The X Factor yet. Maybe The Risk are the ones to butcher it?
Probable position: 10th. A cut-and-shut job can only last so long before imploding.

Two Shoes
What’s their deal, then? Gobby orange duo, presumably well-spoken and well-educated, but sprayed and bleached and lobotomised into a first-class ticket aboard the deplorable The Only Way Is Essex bandwagon. Not bad singers, but annoying as hell. Fun fact! One of them’s preggers.
Pigeonhole: ‘Zany’ duo with the Marmite factor – like Jedward, except they can sing. And they’re not odious, talent-absent fuckwits.
Most likely to sing: A mash-up of When I Grow Up by the Alleycat Trolls, and Wham’s Club Tropicana.
Probable position: 8th. They’ll be in the sing-off with Kitty, who’d survive a nuclear explosion.

Rhythmix
What’s their deal, then? Girl group compiled from two other girl groups compiled from failed soloists. Even the Human Centipede was put together more gracefully than this lot. Also, one looks like her skull is sideways on its axis, making her face wider than it is long.
Pigeonhole: The dreadful Belle Amie. The even more dreadful Hope. This doesn’t bode well.
Most likely to sing: We R Who We R by Ke$ha. Badly.
Probable position: Girl group. 16th. Inevitable.

Nu Vibe
What’s their deal, then? And yet ANOTHER patchwork group completes Tulisa’s line-up. This one features that scally kid that can’t hold a note, the one that looks like the Cowardly Lion, and some others no-one would miss if they suddenly vanished. *slow clap*
Pigeonhole: These ones are clearly for the teenyboppers, a la One Direction.
Most likely to sing: They’re YOUNG ‘n’ URBAN! Lookit, a whole three members are non-white! Inevitably, something by Taio Cruz. Cue Louis: you’re like a little Jackson 5!
Probable position: 15th. One Direction and JLS have this market covered, thanks.

The Over 25s, mentored by Louis Walsh
Ah, good ol’ Louis. Does he actually know he’s there as the comedy judge, or does he think we actually take him seriously? When he’s not lumbered with the ham-fisted groups, he’s gifted the Overs category, which is less and less about mature, experienced vocalists worthy of a second chance, and more a parade of tone-deaf, mentally ill, watch-through-your-fingers monstrosities. Observe:

Kitty Brucknell
What’s her deal, then? Dramatic, fame-hungry, serial-reality-show-courting, loathsome caricature of humankind. Awful voice to boot, with every note sounding as though it’s being expunged mid-vomit. Looks and talks like a post-apocalyptic hooker from a Joss Whedon pilot. Needs a good slap.
Pigeonhole: Katie Weasel squared.
Most likely to sing: An electro-squelch take on Cabaret.
Probable position: 5th. The very second it’s out of the judges’ hands, this trainwreck is out of there.

Johnny Robinson
What’s his deal, then? Mincey, high-pitched, unemployed article of irrelevance, Johnny takes the baton from Goldie as this year’s REALLY FUNNY contestant. A sort of undernourished John Inman for the digital age, except without any of the charisma, wit or likeability.
Pigeonhole: He’s old, in X Factor terms at least, and he’s shit. Thus: Chico.
Most likely to sing: The most toe-curlingly atrocious Vogue you’ve ever witnessed.
Probable position: 14th. A joke that’ll get very old very quick.

Jonjo Kerr
What’s his deal, then? A family man who’s served in Afghanistan, making him an actual deity as far as The Sun is concerned. Expect them to give away free England flags with Jonjo’s face on them (collect tokens and redeem at your nearest Sports Direct).
Pigeonhole: We’ve not had an ACTUAL HERO reach the live finals before. However, we have had average singers with a backstory – remember Verity Keays, or Kerry McGregor? No?
Most likely to sing: Hero by Enrique Iglesias. Voting line meltdown.
Probable position: 6th, losing out to Kitty, followed by a wave of UK-wide riots in protest.

Sami Brookes
What’s her deal, then? Bellowing barmaid who Louis will struggle to introduce without saying “Big voice, big personality”. A last-minute replacement for Goldie, Sami’s got some impressive pipes on her, though no doubt the Sunday papers will shorten her stint with tales of ‘ZOMG she iz a reel-life LEZBEAN!’
Pigeonhole: The plus-size bellowing Over, a la Brenda, Beverley, Niki, Tesco Mary.
Most likely to sing: Can’t Fight The Moonlight by LeAnn Rimes. About as contemporary as Louis gets.
Probable position: 7th. A wonky week will see her in the bottom two with Kitty. Guess who stays?

The Boys, mentored by Gary Barlow
Last year saw a spike in the normally-dreary Boys category, courtesy of Dannii Minogue at the helm, and Paije, Nicolo and eventual winner Matt leading the charge. This year, however, is business as usual, with four largely bland entries – and yet, oddly, it appeared to be the most sought-after category as far as the judges were concerned. Winning out was Gary Barlow, who’ll no doubt have them sat at pianos, shunning choreography and slowly podging up.

Frankie Cocozza
What’s his deal, then? Cocky, intensely dislikeable, reedy-voiced brat who’s HAD SOME SEX WITH SOME GIRLS. As far as USPs go, it’s a pretty weak one. Mind you, looking at his contemporaries in the boys category, the “with girls” part might actually be exclusive to Frankie. Also: cunt.
Pigeonhole: On the surface, he’s the Olly Murs lad-about-town character. But while Kitty might be the obvious choice for filling Katie Weasel’s rhinestoned platforms, Frankie also ticks the contrived box with ease.
Most likely to sing: The Lazy Song by Bruno Mars. Cos our Frankie’s a REGULAR GUY, innit?!
Probable position: 11th. They’ll want to keep him in longer, but will sacrifice him to keep Kitty.

Craig Colton
What’s his deal, then? Likeable Scouse chubster with a towering vocal. It seems, thus far, the producers have done all they can to make him into some sort of He-Adele, but frankly, one of her is more than enough.
Pigeonhole: Fun, chunky and in possession of a more-than-respectable voice, he’ll be staying in the exclusive Paije Richardson Suite.
Most likely to sing: Someone Like You. Duhh.
Probable position: That voice combined with the Merseyside vote will help him come at least 2nd.

Marcus Collins
What’s his deal, then? High-camp former Eton Road member (post-live shows, we must add), Marcus has turned his back on the lucrative world of performing to precisely no-one to go it alone. Impressive voice, but perhaps a tad too, shall we say, Glee for the X Factor audience. Yes, Glee, that'll do. That’s the way to express what we mean without it being libellous.
Pigeonhole: Camp Crooner, like Rikki Loney, without the devil-brows. Or Rapey Aiden, without the murderous tendencies.
Most likely to sing: Something by Mika. *shudder*
Probable position: 12th. He’ll be chopped in favour of Brucknell too.

James Michael
What’s his deal, then? Permanently-hatted singer and guitarist who’s picked up very little in the way of screentime. Won’t go in his favour, but then, the fact his musical style lends itself more to Tube stations or university halls of residence will be an even bigger hindrance.
Pigeonhole: Serious musician, a la Matt Cardle. He’s probably been to Camden and everything!
Most likely to sing: Cannonball by Damien Rice. Already given an airing this series by that useless Welsh maths teacher that got sent packing, and we all know how much this show likes to recycle.
Probable position: 13th at a push. He’ll also be cut when up against Kitty.

The Girls, mentored by Kelly Rowland
Easily the best judge this year – in terms of professionalism, creativity, and all-round entertainment – it’s therefore justified that Kelly is awarded the best category. It’s unclear which of the girls in particular they’re pimping for the win, but it’s safe to assume they’ll be making up a hefty portion of the Top 5. It must be noted that it’s monumentally disappointing to have not had a big dramatic Return of the Gamu, but hey.

Amelia Lily
What’s her deal, then? Some sort of Christina Aguilera/Margi Clarke hybrid, who’s apparently only 16. Hmmm. That said, her voice is the selling point, gale-force chops that should see her through the live shows with ease.
Pigeonhole: Pretty. Can sing. It’s a big pigeonhole.
Most likely to sing: The Voice Within by Slaguilera, though hopefully she’ll do a better job than the woman herself when slaughtering Beautiful in last year’s final.
Probable position: Top 3, perhaps even winner, assuming Kelly gets it right.

Sophie Habibis
What’s her deal, then? Another one who’s had sod-all in the way of screentime, but what little we’ve seen has been of a high quality. A mighty vocal could give her a fair run, even if most of the viewing audience will think she’s a failed auditionee who snuck in the side entrance.
Pigeonhole: The annual quite good, mildly quirky female; the role Stacey Solomon or Ruth Lorenzo filled better. Most likely to sing: Umbrella. It’s been a while since they wheeled that one out.
Probable position: 9th – she'll poodle along nicely until she faces Kitty in the sing-off.

Janet Devlin
What’s her deal, then? Wispy, timid Northern Irish songbird guaranteed to do well on the back of the local vote. And while she’s a sweet wee thing, she does sound rather like Julie Walters doing the ancient waitress character.
Pigeonhole: Diana Vickers 2.0 (claw TBC).
Most likely to sing: She’ll rinse the entire Ellie Goulding back catalogue, then move on to Nothing Compares 2 U for the moneyshot.
Probable position: Top 3 with Craig and Amelia, but her sheep-like vocal will have gotten pretty tiresome by then.

Misha Bryan
What’s her deal, then? Mancunian purveyor of big vocals and atrocious Mr Whippy weaves. Did a sterling job of Survivor by Destiny’s Child at Boot Camp, and probably has the most artistry out of all the girls. But we know how far a girl with her own brain gets on these shows, eh?
Pigeonhole: She sings! She raps! She’s a bit Graziella out of Miss Frank, before they Miss Franked her! But also, a bit Cher Lloyd. *takes step back*
Most likely to sing: Something by Beyoncé. But she’ll MAKE IT HER OWN.
Probable position: 4th. She deserves 1st, but since when have X Factor viewers embraced the new?

Tune in next week for the first live show with another SO-CALLED! BIG! TWIST! We won’t be liveblogging it, unfortunately – partly due to a prior social engagement, and partly due to the fact it’s two and a half hours long, and St John’s Ambulance would need to be on standby. Those of you who’ll be watching live without the aid of a fast-forward option? Good luck...

Nicola Roberts: Cinderella's Eyes (Polydor)

The ongoing Girls Aloud hiatus hasn’t produced much of worth from its individual parts: a West-End stint; some questionable plastic surgery; some Clubcard points; and enough tabloid speculation to outdo the Beckhams. So as Nicola Roberts releases her debut solo album Cinderella’s Eyes, could it finally provide something of worth from a largely pointless interval?

Media-savvy circles have crowned Roberts the poster girl for postmodern irony, hailing her no-nonsense, plain-talking, working-class kookiness and lack of convention as the greatest thing to happen to popular culture in aeons. But to the iTunes-bothering layman, she’s still very much the quiet ginger one at the back.

That’s why opening track and lead single Beat of My Drum needed to be huge and noisy and make a statement. And it did, even if only about four people actually heard it. But it’s not the best indication of Cinderella’s Eyes as a whole. Emotive and understated and tenderly electronic, but simultaneously fresh and forward-thinking, it’s a novel window into an artist we actually knew very little about.

Girls Aloud’s catalogue was, for the most part, swamped by coquettish allegories, Xenomania’s give-away-the-farm production and Nadine Coyle’s tiresome wailing, so it’s a relief to discover something very different here. Glorious melodies, quirky concepts and a substantial dose of candour are the key ingredients of Cinderella’s Eyes, and they come together rather nicely.

Roberts is not afraid to play with intonation, as evidenced on Lucky Day’s lavish ad-libs or the haunting purity of Sticks + Stones, although it doesn’t always work – the shrill chorus of the title track aims for Kate Bush, but makes for genuinely uncomfortable listening. Meanwhile, the metaphor-free Scouse rap of Take a Bite is equal parts cringe-inducing and commendable.

With the likes of Dragonette, Metronomy and Diplo behind the mixing desk, the beats are naturally inventive, although occasionally veer too close to hipsterdom – for instance, the dolphin squeaks that initiate Fish Out of Water. But for such a stellar, buzz-creating line-up of production personnel, there’s little reliance on the acclaim attached to the backing tracks – Roberts is finally the star of the show, and it suits her well.

Girls Aloud were given the best possible start via the decade-defining Sound of the Underground. It was bold, it was distinctive, and it was of a particularly high quality. In the same vein, Cinderella’s Eyes sets Nicola Roberts up as a formidable solo artist, with a considerable talent and some exceptional ideas. Alas, without the publicity machine on her side, it’s unlikely to win fans outside of the knowing industry figures and frothing forums, but for those who’ll experience Cinderella’s Eyes, it’s got the potential to be a humble classic.

Single Reviews 25/09/11

For about a tenth of a second, we considered addressing the split of REM in this weekly blurb o’ nothing prior to the Single Reviews. But we’ll leave that to the inevitable commemorative issue of Q, though how you’d tell a special REM issue apart from any other issue of Q is anyone’s guess. But we digress. Read on for a selection of British rock, some interchangeable girlband Autons, and a Seb Coe-approved musical endorsement of what’s essentially a fancy gas lighter.

You Me At Six herald their new album Sinners Never Sleep with the marching riffs and snarling vocals of Loverboy. It’s an interesting angle, and an effective one at that, letting the plodding, mesmerising hook do most of the work before the huge rock ideals are unveiled with force when the chorus comes along. And with even the most mainstream of rock acts finding it a struggle to promote in this fickle world of Rihanna, Rihanna and more Rihanna, it’s a nice quirk that’ll get them noticed without even coming close to diluting themselves.

We’ve already addressed the peculiar moniker of Noel Gallagher’s High-Flying Birds on these pages. And with a pretentious name comes an equally pretentious single title in the form of AKA...What A Life! It’s a level of extraneous punctuation not seen since Britney Spears’ early work, but thankfully the song more than excuses such anti-Truss behaviour. An inventive, poised and charismatic number, and surprisingly contemporary for a man usually shackled to 1996, it’s precisely the step forwards from Oasis he needs, and an easily-awarded Single of the Week.

With the Olympics less than a year away, the cash-ins and spin-offs are already well underway, once such example the Official Olympic Torch Song from Dionne Bromfield and Tinchy Stryder. A song for the TORCH. At this rate, should we expect an Aquatics Centre Anthem? A dubstep track from Wenlock and Mandeville? Still, at least Spinnin’ For 2012 has its merits – a bouncy, poppy offering much more suited to Bromfield than the considerably more mature soul she’s been peddling up until now.

And finally, we were planning on really laying into Freedom, the BIG! COMEBACK! single from the dregs of the Sugababes. But clearly, they’ve realised themselves what an unimaginative, uninspiring, unequivocal pile of horse-shit Freedom is, cancelling its release and giving it away for free instead. For a song that’s supposed to be a noisy, heartening call-to-arms, it’s more likely to induce diarrhoea than any kind of empowerment. Look girls, the Sugababes brand has been sullied enough, and we know it’s beyond repair. But that doesn’t mean we don’t want you to quit. Take the hint.

Honking Box Review: X Factor USA

Regular readers will know that we’ve had a thing or two to say about The X Factor in the past – rants, round-ups, liveblogs, and posts so venomous and/or libellous we’ve deleted them in fear of Syco’s legal muscle kicking the front door in.

So we couldn’t let the big-money launch of the American version go without a dose of scrutiny, now could we? Admittedly, it didn’t come easy to do so – watching The X Factor recently has felt like such an effort, and that hasn’t provided a huge dose of enthusiasm as the long-touted Fox revision finally hit screens this week.

And while the new British judging line-up has given the show a kick up the arse, the transparency of show has become laughable. The clumsiest re-edits to steer the narrative how the producers want, the rejigging of acts and categories for no apparent reason, and the visible despair of Dermot O’Leary as he longs for the days of waxing indie with Bobby Gillespie on Re:Covered.

So it’s with some surprise that the American version doesn’t fall prey to the same tired standards – or if it does, it at least covers them up a whole lot better than the UK version. Furthermore, it was a relief to see the audition trail handled city by city, in comparison to the “We’re in BIRMINGHAM! No, LONDON! Hang on, LIVERPOOL! No, it was BIRMINGHAM all along!” that saturates each British episode.

One highlight – in terms of talent at least – came in the form of Chris, a former drug addict whose audition was genuinely impressive. But, rather disgustingly, Simon Cowell offered Chris a place at Boot Camp on the promise that he agrees to stay clean. Never mind that he’s already been to rehab, is doing exceptionally well and has a family to think about – he’ll lay off the crack because he wants to be turned into a watered-down Bruno Mars and sent home by Week 2.

The focus as far as ITV2 viewers were concerned was mainly on Cheryl Cole, and her unceremonious axing from the show. Surprisingly, she came across incredibly well – she may not be missed on the UK version, but perhaps the time out of the spotlight (in relative terms, at least) has been of benefit. She was warm, funny, friendly, understandable and confident – not the timid lamb Cowell told us she had become – and evoked the likeable, excited Cheryl of Series 5 rather than the jaded, entitled brat of Series 7.

Her ruthless, opportunistic successor Nicole Scherzinger, apart from being the devil’s own concubine, was actually pretty good value deputising for Cheryl and Dannii on the UK version last year. However, she’s not shown a whole lot in the way of promise Stateside – bland, flat and every inch the dead-eyed slutbag we got to know as Führer of the Alleycat Trolls.

Elsewhere, LA Reid and Paula Abdul were adequate in their roles, the former yet to reveal his in-show quirk, while the latter has evidently had hers placated by prescription medicine. And the auditionees ticked all the necessary boxes – cutesy kiddies, delusional bellowing, it’s-my-last-chance 40-something belters, sassy divas, over-rehearsed boybands, and of course, mentally unstable pensioners pushed onto the stage with the sole purpose of ridicule.

It was all passable stuff, generally entertaining and with a decent display of talent, certainly far greater than the train wreck we’ve seen over here these past few weeks. The problem seems to be an arrogant assumption that America will take to the whole X Factor machine the way the UK did. What Simon Cowell seems to have mysteriously forgotten is that The X Factor had fairly humble beginnings on these shores – discreet audition rooms instead of packed arenas; industry-based judges as opposed to shiny celebrities; comparatively modest viewing figures; little in the way of press coverage; relatively low-key live shows, with a sensibly-sized stage and a mere 9 finalists; Kate Thornton. Kate. Thornton.

It’s taken several years for the show to morph into the towering entertainment behemoth we know it as today. But the US version is starting right at the top, foolishly thinking that American viewers will be as susceptible to the media-wide propaganda that fills the tabloids here in Blighty. And while E! or the National Enquirer or The Ricki Lake Show would suggest otherwise, the Yanks don’t buy into that mindset quite as easily. If The X Factor wants to succeed, it’s going to have to absolutely nail every second of its content, because it cannot rely on the hype. And if that doesn’t work, particularly after the gargantuan publicity it’s created for itself, then it’s got a very, very long way to fall, very, very publicly.

Single Reviews 18/09/11

Hey, you! In the mood to see a slightly-bloodshot critical eye cast over some pop music of varying standards? Then behold the Single Reviews! On the proverbial jukebox today, the best/worst member of a certain girlband; a UK rapper who’s equal parts hilarious/piteous; the most overhyped/hypeworthy band on the planet; and... well, one more artist who doesn’t really capture any kind of extremes. But hey.

There was once a time when older-skewing, slightly-introverted, slightly-safe, yet rather talented musicians were politely referred to as “albums artists”. The term, however, is now more realistically “Artists Whose Catalogues Lend Themselves to X Factor Boot Camp Butcherings” – doesn’t quite roll off the tongue, but summarises James Morrison nicely, particularly new release I Won’t Let You Go. Immediate, intense and hugely sellable, it’s every inch a James Morrison song. What else can be said?

Maintaining her flawless record of achieving a Single of the Week with every track she releases, Nicola Roberts scoops it once again. Granted, it’s only her second single, but let's not take such a towering achievement away from her, eh? Lucky Day is infectious, unpretentious, captivating and gorgeously melancholic, her swooning vocals nicely matching Dragonette’s elegantly effervescent production. It’s a shame the polarising Beat of My Drum scared off so many people, as Lucky Day cements Roberts as a talent of an almost surprisingly high calibre.

For someone who’s spent most of their career crowing about their roots, it hasn’t taken Dappy long to shake off his Camden credentials and adopt a done-to-death Stateside sound. Content-wise, the aim of No Regrets is clearly to dole out a hefty dose of maturity, and it does achieve that, but let’s be honest – the only appeal Dappy holds to most of the public is the probability of him putting his foot in it during another Never Mind The Buzzcocks appearance.

And we wrap proceedings up with a new offering from Coldplay, ahead of next month’s Mylo Xyloto album. Paradise sees astral organs make way for a Ryan Tedder-style handclap-beat, before the fundamental Coldplayness overwhelms proceedings. Admittedly, there’s a more twiddled, synthy sound present, but the falsetto ad-libs and swelling chorus make it yet another potential set-closer for the inevitable sell-out stadium tour.

Ed Sheeran: + (Atlantic)

Much has been made of Norfolk singer-songwriter-sort-of-rapper Ed Sheeran’s rise to the top, which saw him sofa-surfing as he gigged his way into the public consciousness the old-fashioned way. No X Factor audition, no Usher/Bieber-style celebrity endorsements, no online gimmicks a la Sandi fucking Thom. But anyone who’s caught the Ed Sheeran live experience won’t be surprised that he’s made it, outlet of genius that he is.

So, with a wealth of live experience a musician twice his age probably couldn’t match, and a string of quietly successful EPs, the build up to debut album + has been just short of immense. The airplay behemoth of The A-Team needs no introduction, though whether it was the most accurate introduction to Sheeran himself is questionable. The gentle, lilting twang does crop up throughout +, but accompanied by hip-hop beats, cheeky lyrics and stuttered, 100-mile-a-minute vocals.

On paper, it’s daring stuff. A chubby-cheeked, ginger-haired, white kid armed with an acoustic guitar forging his own extraordinary adaptation of rap probably shouldn’t work. So it’s pretty impressive that he not only pulls it off, but that it doesn’t feel in the least bit unnatural. Sheeran owns every single note with a firm, commendable confidence, and from the outset it’s difficult to imagine anyone else even attempting something similar.

Tonally, the whole spectrum is covered, from the trippy, morose Kiss Me to the contented sway of Grade 8, essentially operating as both an amalgamation of and a follow-on from his EPs. It’s therefore hard not to compare + to his more low-key releases – You Need Me, I Don’t Need You may have functioned better in its initial acoustic guise, but actually brings some punch within the sphere of the album. And at the very least, the tracklist makes for an effective way to cap the journey to full long-player.

Lyrically, + might come across as occasionally gawky and literal, but it actually benefits from this. It feels disarmingly honest, and makes for a refreshing picture of late-teen life, particularly when the general depiction is some sort of Skinsesque, high-gloss fantasy, relevant to precisely no-one.

While he’s been adopted as some sort of voice of the BlackBerry Messenger generation, + proves that Sheeran is in possession of a talent whose reach goes far beyond that. And although perhaps there’s a slight worthiness in the aforementioned “I did it the traditional route!” schtick that comes attached with every mention of his name, it’s hard to imagine Ed Sheeran couldn’t have succeeded, whichever route he took.

Single Reviews 04/09/11

Ah, September. The slippery slope to Christmas begins. Although more recently, The X Factor has sort of functioned as a run-up to Christmas, hasn’t it? Kind of like an 18-week advent calendar, except with Adele songs and clumsy editing in place of chocolate. To ward off thoughts of general Yuletide awfulness, we’re focusing on this week, with a naff Back-to-School selection of Single Reviews...

We begin things with Leona Lewis, and we promise to do our very best to review the song rather than make snarky references to her somewhat torporous personality. MUST RESIST. Collide is the result of a collaboration (translation: theft and ensuing payoff) with DJ Avicii, whose candyfloss trance beats match Lewis’ vocals rather nicely. Particular mention must go to the song’s mesmerizing bridge, which sadly makes way for a big gushy holler of a chorus, but overall it’s passable enough.

While worldwide press, radio and TV burble romantically about their every riff, we’ve always held a more take-or-leave-‘em approach to Foo Fighters. For instance: Breakout, Low, Learn To Fly = ace. Best of You, Times Like These, The Pretender = shut up and go away. However, in Arlandria, they’ve crafted something that falls safely into the former category. A dark, alluring whisper tempts you in, while the colossal, brilliantly belligerent chorus goes for the full KO. A well-played and well-deserved Single of the Week.

The Saturdays are a crafty bunch. We’d always thought they were decent enough, but in hindsight, the only reason we’ve ever given them the time of day was off the back of one great single (Up). It’s taken us eleven singles into their career for us to finally stop and realise that The Saturdays are actually really rather shit. All Fired Up proves the point – while not as inane and laughable as Notorious, it’s meaningless, personality-deficient Clubland filler that’s just about one step up from the Splendabots.

And finally, the neon guitar-pop of Think About It marks a welcome comeback from Melanie C, her first new material this side of the Spice Girls reunion. Clearly it’s kickstarted her inner popstar, thumping rhythms punctuated with engaging bursts of strummage. Vocally, it’s pure Melanie C – namely, if you love her, it’s perfection; if you don’t, it’s a million nails on a million chalkboards. And for those in the pro camp, it sets up her fifth album as a particularly intriguing prospect.

Friends: Farewell and/or Good Riddance?

Wouldn’t it be intriguing to see some statistics on how many times each episode of Friends has aired on Channel 4? Well, don’t get too excited – after some frantic Googling, Asking and Wikipedia-ing, it appears such numbers are not in the public domain. But it’s safe to say they go well into triple figures, taking into account airings on Channel 4, E4 and their respective plus ones, since as far back as 1994. Hell, we wouldn't be surprised if it was knocking on quadruple figures.

Alas, those numbers – whatever they may be – will remain at their current total. Back in February, Channel 4 announced they weren’t renewing the rights to Friends repeats, and that moment has now arrived. As of last week, Channel 4 screened its last Friends, while the E4 showings come to an end this Sunday.

While its initial screening was warm, emotional and conclusive, the final episode doesn’t carry much clout these days. The fade-out on the peephole in Monica’s empty apartment doesn’t invoke anything resembling sorrow, because you know that after the break, a bouffant bride will thunder into Central Perk a decade earlier, and kickstart the whole timeloop once again.

But that’s not the case this time around. Once the Warner Bros end board vanishes on Sunday, that’s it. The Bing family really have moved to that house in Westchester; both Ross and Rachel, and Phoebe and Mike really have dissolved into their own private worlds of domesticity; and Joey... well, legend has it he moved to LA to pursue his acting career, but the rumoured footage of this has been seen by just a hallowed few.

As foreseeable and as familiar as Friends is when you’ve seen each episode two dozen times, it made for the perfect hangover/I’m-bored/I-have-writer’s-block/dinner-is-taking-too-long/it’s-too-cold-to-leave-the-house TV. Knowing that, at almost any point during the day, you can flick around and find that welcoming informality, it was kind of comforting. And somehow, it was still entertaining. The Barbados episodes, or Jennifer Aniston trying not to laugh when Ross is playing the bagpipes, or the all-too-rare appearances of Frank and Alice never fail to raise a cackle. And there will never come a time when the adventures centered around Phoebe’s 3D painting Gladys are anything other than uproariously funny.

But, when you look at it objectively, it’s good that Channel 4 are dropping Friends. Brilliant, in fact. While the convenience of having Friends on tap will be missed, the series has fallen prey to some of the worst editing in the history of British broadcasting. Entire jokes mercilessly ripped away, punchlines hacked from the dialogue, and mid-sentence words replaced with an eight-frame burst of audience laughter made Friends not so much convenient viewing as downright fucking infuriating viewing.

Sure, there were compliance issues that had to be dealt with. But ending a scene on the plaintive line “Didn’t you ever read Lord of the Rings in high school?” followed by a bellow of laughter from the studio audience is just plain lazy. The cut line featured the word ‘sex’. WHO WILL SAVE US FROM SUCH FILTH??!?! Thank God for Channel 4 and their Christian reversioning team, ready to tackle the sinful digi with round-ended safety scissors and a roll of sticky tape, and an approximate timecode of the offending term.

But aside from waving goodbye to the butchering of many a classic line, the pros of the show’s departure keep coming thick and fast. Hopefully the screentime and budget allocated to the Channel 4 Friend-Spend will be spent on original, entertaining (and with any luck, British) programming; and of course, we’ll be spared the dreadful spate of sponsorship bumpers that have bookended Friends during its UK run.

All that said, while the show may be waving goodbye to Channel 4, it’s certainly not disappearing altogether. Those needing their Friends fix will already be aware that there’s DVD boxsets going for all of two quid each; episodes are regularly available on Virgin Media On Demand; and Comedy Central will begin airing the whole lot all over again this Autumn. With any luck, they’ll be leaving the material the way it was intended, and not blindly taking a blunt scalpel to the scripts. As for Channel 4, thank you for the chuckles. Now let’s see how you fill that gap. (N.B. Buying the rights to air re-runs of Joey is cheating.)

Single Reviews 28/08/11

Welcome to the Single Reviews, where this week we’ve got the proverbial streamers and party poppers out in celebration of Mutya Buena’s partial triumph over the ghastly Splendabots. Granted, she’s not yet in the position to ban them from releasing their bilge under the good name of the Sugababes, but surely world domination isn’t far off. Other things we’d quite like Mutya to take control of: Louis Walsh’s job on The X Factor; music commissioning at the BBC; the Coalition; the so-called disaffected youth; and the British weather.

First under scrutiny is Barbadian band – yes, a proper band wot have instruments, NME! – Cover Drive, who unveil themselves to the good folk of Britain with debut single Lick Ya Down. Where Rihanna’s occasional foray back to her roots generally amounts to flashing her cameltoe in some battyriders whilst miming to some heinous cod-reggae, Lick Ya Down has a feeling of authenticity, whilst successfully looping in an inviting pop melody and a forceful rock energy to the mix. As new bands go, they’re an interesting prospect.

Single of the Week goes to a man who, not content with making one of the best songs of 2010, is looking to match the feat this year with Cry Baby. Granted, it’s been knocking around the ol’ Creative Zen for a good while now, but Cee-Lo Green bears a unique aptitude for an immediate, captivating and uplifting anthem, with Cry Baby no exception. Brass-heavy with a Sixties twist, and delightfully heartless in tone, if this isn’t butchered for Big Band Week on this year’s X Factor, it’ll be a crying shame. Or a blessed relief.

Ed Sheeran’s initial promise as potentially the most exciting artist this decade has waned slightly with his reworking of You Need Me I Don’t Need You, turned from an acoustic, attitude-packed, rapalong strumfest into a frenetic, cocky anti-climax, garnished with broken rhythms and peculiar beatboxing. But the wit, the charm and the capability exclusive to Sheeran are still very much present, and even if he has morphed into some sort of Official Bebo Mascot, this is still testament to an almighty talent.

And finally, a woman whose singles pattern thus far has been shaky – namely a ratio of two good to one dreadful – balances things out with another stinker. It’s fair that Jessie J felt the need to address the things she addresses on Who’s Laughing Now, but it’s executed with an intoxicating jumble of clumsily literal lyrics, iffy rapping, irritating runs and, scarily, what appears to be an overt Blazin’ Squad influence.

The Sloppy Dog Liveblog: Celebrity Big Brother 2011

Well, who'd have thunk we'd be liveblogging the start of a brand new series of Celebrity Big Brother? Yes, after its 'final' series on Channel 4 last summer, here it is, back one channel up the spectrum with a shiny new house, a shiny-faced new host, and a big ol' tabloid monster behind the scenes weaving his publicity-generating sorcery. Hit refresh for updates as we find out who's going in...

21:01

So what differences will Channel 5 present us with? We'd hazard a guess at fuckloads of ad breaks, but aside from that, it's all there as we know it - Marcus Bentley, baying crowd, bells and whistles. And of course, a lack of Davina McCall, but that's no bad thing. Except for the fact that in her place is Brian Dowling. DAVINA, COME BACK!! WE MISS YOU, YOU BIASED OLD HARRIDAN!!!

21:05

And here's Brian himself, looking marginally less like Eamonn Holmes than when he entered the Ultimate Big Brother House last year. His voice is shaky. Understandable. Mind you, he did two years of live television when presenting SMTV, so maybe he's actually better-equipped than you might think. That said, he also topped up his live telly experience with The Vault, so the less said, the better.

21:08

And we have our first housemate! Kerry Katona, looking rather like Sarah Harding mid-facelift, is entering to the strains of Swagger Jagger. Are they trying to whip the crowd into a wheezing pit of venom?! Well, even more so, anyway.

21:10

They're giving half the presenting duties over to the disembodied voice of Marcus Bentley. Wise choice. Meanwhile, Kerry is mooching around the house on her own with her shoes off, pondering whether to open a bottle of champagne. Not such a wise choice.

21:12

And next in is Tara Reid, who in her VT looks like Christina Aguilera pre-Dirrty. Is that a theme tonight? Making dog-rough celebrities look like popstars before they went hideous? There's also a flash of her American Pie co-star Thomas Ian Nicholas, whose name always induced a few chuckles. Any more first names you could chuck in there, mate?

21:14

Hmmm. She seems a tad less coherent as Brian tries to squeeze a few words out of her. Let's hope she's a bit more interesting once she's in the house. With any luck, Kerry won't have guzzled all the champagne just yet. Unlikely, but.

21:15

"I'm Kerreh!"

"Kerreh?"

"Ker-RY."

Bonnuh lives on! Everyfin and everyfin!

21:16

Poor Brian. He's staring at the autocue like it's a Weeping Angel.

21:21

And we have our third housemate. It's a guy from My Big Fat Gypsy Wedding. Genuinely NO IDEA.

21:23

Apparently he's called Paddy Docherty. He is entirely unintelligible. God help the subtitling team with this one. And if the late rumours of Nadine Coyle entering the show are in any way true, they'll have to quadruple their manpower. Mind you, they coped alright with Jackie Stallone...

21:24

Anyone who thought the move to Channel 5 would mean a house resembling a God-awful hipster commune in Shoreditch with milk-crates for furniture is nom-nom-nomming a hefty portion of humble pie right about now. Even the stairs are awesome. THE STAIRS.

21:27

Next in is Amy Childs, who was grown in a Petri dish using a trace of fanny batter from one of Jordan's discarded catsuits. She is the utter pinnacle of irrelevance.

21:29

Amy and Kerry seem to know each other. Tara points out that Amy talks very highly. Paddy is saying something but just sounds as though he's gargling with gravel.

21:34

Wonder what's happening on Torchwood? Poor Dr Juarez. :o(

21:36

Darryn Lyons, self-styled Mr Paparazzi, is the next 'celebrity' in. It's all well and good sneering at the low-level talent they've rounded up for this series, but seriously, the Channel 4 series had some housemates far less deserving of a celebrity status. Faria Alam, anyone?

21:37

Back to Darryn, and he's getting a rather chilly reception. He's entering the house to Dirty Picture, which is rather apt - not just because it relates to his industry, but because he looks like something Ke$ha would skin and wear as a cape for her Good Morning America performance.

21:40

Tara recognises Darryn Lyons from somewhere. Presumably from some sort of coverage of the Royal Wedding, though it actually came out as "I... er... saw you... on Princess William! It was about you!"

21:42

Next up, some wife of a politician or something who claims she hasn't told her husband she's going in. Riiiight. Either she's a liar, or her stuff is being furiously loaded into bin-liners as we speak.

21:44

Oooh, Someone's Wife Sally has just had a pop at The Daily Mail. She's our favourite so far. If only we knew who she was.

21:48

Oh good Lord. I've finally witnessed that Haribo ad everyone's going on about. END IT! KILL IT WITH FIRE!!

21:51

Are you freakin' kidding me? Yer one out of Waterloo Road?

21:53

Apparently his name is Lucien Laviscount, which makes him sound like an end-level boss in Castlevania. The crowd is making big oestrogen whoops at him, thus cementing him as the most likely winner thus far.

21:55

The blank expressions from all the housemates on meeting Lucien is priceless. Except Tara, whose expression is no less confused than when she stepped foot on the walkway 45 minutes ago.

21:57

And next in the house, all the way from Baywatch, is Pamela....... BACH! Oh. Somewhere in Endemol Towers, a celebrity booker is being given one hell of a bollocking about attention to detail.

22:00

Pamela is completely OFF HER TITS. If her kids were previously most embarrassed by that video of a drunken David Hasselhoff face-down in a vodka-fuelled stupor, they're about to discover a whole new level of parental humiliation.

22:07

WHO?!?!?!

22:08

No, seriously. Is there a single person in this world, apart from his own mother, that knows who this Bobby character is? He's entering the house to Moves Like Jagger, which is ironic as he's not much more than an inanimate waxwork. He asks Brian, "Who wouldn't like a house full of beautiful women?" - sadly, Brian passed up the chance to reply with "Me. I'm a massive gayer."

22:12

And the final housemate(s) is/are Jedward. So THIS is the crescendo? We sit through this line-up of plebs, expecting the Pamela Anderson/Charlie Sheen/Nadine Coyle pay-off, and the headline act is JEDWARD?

22:13

In fairness, they come across rather entertaining in their VT.

22:14

Scrap that. This shit gets real old real quick.

22:16

So, that's that. A truly sorry line-up, and a complete failure as far as guest booking is concerned. However, the proof of the pudding is in the clever editing and night after night scrutiny, so there's every chance this might turn out to be the most entertaining series of Celebrity Big Brother yet. Let's face it, this lot have nothing to lose, so their inhibitions are already non-existent. But in terms of quality and production values, it looks slick, exciting and noisy for all the right reasons. And if nothing else, it bodes rather well for the regular Big Brother series.

22:17

But wait! Apparently there's a twist of some sort. Our money is on Makosi strutting in and declaring herself Empress of Elstree.

22:23

And here's the twist: Big Brother summons a housemate. Kerry Chipshop volunteers to go to the Diary Room, and is met with a corridor of mirrors. She only looks marginally baffled, which is understandable as it's probably what she sees when she's been snorting the Shake 'n' Vac anyway. She's been told she has to throw a diva strop as part of her secret task, to which her response is "fuck a duck" repeatedly. Well, it'd give the Daily Star something to fill its pages with.

22:27

Brian teases yet another twist for tomorrow night, there's a video recap of the housemates as the credits, and that is that. Big Brother, Channel 5 stylee. Thanks for joining us. A pleasant surprise in some respects; a crushing disappointment in others. But fear not - The X Factor starts in two days' time...