X Factor (Week 7) - Joe McElderry Goes Supernova

With one's renewed interest in the X Factor competition, one was quite looking forward to this week’s musical mêlée. Fanny and Willy O’Dour had a night off from the Badger’s Snatch and one asked them if they would like to join Chu Me and I at Crusty Hall. They agreed.

One asked Chu Me to arrange for the Ballroom to be opened and prepared for our guests and he and chef prepared a mouth-watering selection.

Indeed, one’s mouth was drooling with anticipation at what was to come; tonight was George Michael night. When one was a young Damelette one always dreamt of sharing a cottage with the incredibly talented and handsome George … but sadly a Los Angeles police officer beat one to it and let’s be honest, a Dame of distinction is no match to a well equipped man with a handcuffs and an extending truncheon.

Anyhoo … As one’s guests and I gathered around the buffet table for some pre-competition nibbles, the delicious Dermott O’Leary took to the stage to get things underway. The doors at the rear of the stage opened and our four judges entered. Simon chose to keep his hairy cleavage and medallion covered and wore a tie; Louise gleamed as he faced the audience with a spotted dick lodged under his chin.

Danniiii wore a patchwork ensemble and Cheryl selected, what looked like, a crepe (although one is quite sure the word only has four letters … and there has never been an ‘e’ in it either) pink dress, a pair of shoes that Eliza Doolittle would have plied her trade in before meeting Professor ‘iggins and a headband resembling dear Mickey Mouse’s ears.

As we munched on our buckwheat blinis with smoked salmon and crème fraiche the contest began and first to sing to us this evening was Lloyd no-relation-to-Paul Daniels. His new hairstyle was beautifully crafted and it only helped accentuate his boyish good looks and, quite frankly, he looked lovely as he performed ‘Faith’.

One did get a shock at one point when the camera panned to Simon Cowell and he had his hand over his mouth as if he was going to vomit. Then, of course, one realised that the stage was highly polished and he had clearly caught his reflection and suffered an adverse reaction.

The delightful Stacey Solomon was to follow with her interpretation of ‘Make You Love Me’. Flanked by swaying musicians, plucking their instruments she produced a wonderful performance. She certainly had a blend of a young Babs Streisand and Celine Dion about her.

We were all enjoying the evening and one had briefly wondered why one had turned one’s back on the show … then one remembered … the Brothers Grime!

As Chu Me turned to bang his head against the wall in disbelief, Willy shouted,” Look at the pair of them! They look as camp as tits in those outfits!”

“Willy! Language!” Fanny shouted.

Looking at them in their little, tight, white suits with frigate sized sneakers, one could quite understand where Willy was coming from and told Fanny not to concern herself.

This week the twins were singing a Wham medley … badly … and in true Jedward style, the backing vocals were at such a level that they could have been singing like Dame Edna Everage and it would have sounded acceptable. One would have received more pleasure having one's fingernails ripped out without anaesthetic than one did from their performance.

After a rather fraught week, our next potential pop poppet, Danyl Johnson stood centre stage (he who has a penchant for the man-biscuit as well as the lady-trifle). No backing singers, no theatricals and no nonsense, just him and his voice. Though his earpiece forced him off tune at the start of the song, he pulled it out of his aural canal and pitch was resumed, providing a lovely few minutes in our lives.

The penultimate act of the night was Oily Mares. This week he was excited that the performance was to be “more sexy, more modern and more current”. Certainly as he stood on stage in his black jeans and black shirt there was a resemblance to a shrivelled small baking ingredient but sadly there was no more fruitiness he could muster for his version of ‘Fast Love’. At times he was as flat as a witch’s tit and - all in all - a mediocre performance was unleashed.

One had enjoyed the acts so far but there was something missing … but what was it? Then as one’s heart began pounding more rapidly beneath one’s bosom and Fanny announced, “Crusty, your cheeks are very flushed! Are you not feeling well?” It was then that one realised the last act of the night must be our South Shields stud-muffin Joe McElderry.

He took to the stage for ‘Don’t Let The Sun Go Down On Me’. Fanny and I looked at each other and screamed. Chu Me and Willy tutted and walked back to the buffet table. Juicy Joe’s interpretation of the song was incredible and he had the entire audience spellbound. As he let rip on his finale, one was over come and one’s legs buckled causing Crusty to drop towards the floor. Luckily, Fanny was there to catch me as all four judges were getting to their feet for an ovation.

As one’s dear friend cooled me with her flapping fan, all I could say in weak, whispered tones was, “oh Fanny, wasn’t he a-b-s-o-l-u-t-e-l-y awe-inspiring?”

The results show and our treat was the adorable Susan Boyle and the foof-flashing, hooter-hoisting Harpy, Mariah Scarey. The latter sang her latest over-worked offering of a Foreigner song with a million golden sperm flying around on the screen behind her … what Chu Me? … Butterflies? … Then it’s a long time since you’ve seen a butterfly, dear; one knows sperm when one sees it and trust your mistress, she was surrounded in it.”

After her high pitched whining it was down to the result and our bottom two were The Brothers Grime (hooorah!!) and Oily Mares (¡Joder! y ¡Qué sorpresa!).

Thankfully, this week there was no spineless nonsense from the judges and one must say Danniii Minge (sorry, my keyboard’s sticking) is ascending to new heights in Crusty’s estimation … she’s certainly proving to be a young woman with a lot of spunk.

Anyhoo ... The Twins were out!!!!! (Get your hat and coat’s, dears, the exit’s at the back of the stage. Don't talk to anyone and leave your dressing room key at the stage door).

Foof Alert! Mariah Releases New Single

Yesterday afternoon, one had seen to all of one’s important mail and agony questions in one’s Study. Chu Me took the embroidered silk satchel, containing the replies to be posted, and opted for GUSSET 3 to carry him on his quest to the village Post Office.

At a loose end for a short time, one decided to take a turn around the grounds of Crusty Hall with my loving pussy, Crotchet. There was a hint of rain over the village but Señor Sol was determined to try and force his warming rays through the clouds above. Yet one didn’t feel in any sort of predicament as one thought the moisture in the air could do nothing but add youthfulness to one’s complexion.

After several minutes, Crotchet grew bored and padded stealthily through one’s hedge and into the forest beyond. Crusty was now alone.

In the distance, one saw Gardener’s greenhouse and one decided to make one’s way towards it. After a short pause in the centre of the Enchanted Garden, to refill one’s tumbler at the magnificent nude statue of Mark makes-my-mouth-water Warr (one quick press of the belly button and a filtered flow of gin cascades from his shrouded man biscuit), one continued one’s sashay to Gardener’s flora factory. Today, he was educating his apprentices.

“Don’t let one interrupt you, dear!” I said, as I entered the glazed erection.

Tilting his hat with his hand, to acknowledge one’s instruction, he and his trainee workforce continued in their work.

As one glided around the enormous expanse of Gardener’s secret place, one began to reflect on the outrage one felt at Week 3 of X Factor’s result; there could surely be nothing worse than the voices of the Brothers Grime, John and Edward (review of week 3 to follow), but evidently Crusty was wrong!

At that very moment, while I was pulling off Basil and Gardener was poking his fingers in peat, a familiar ditty transmitted from Radio 2’s airwaves – Gardener’s favourite – and we all stopped and looked at each other in horror.

Mariah Scarey had decided to release a cover version of a classic song for her next offering; ‘I Want To Know What Love Is’ by Foreigner (One thinks a more fitting question would be, I Want To Know What The Hell This Is !). Poppets will surely remember the spine-tingling gorgeousness of the original and I dare say many of one’s readers – those who have swam in the fondue of love – have spent many an intimate moment undulating to its marvellousness.

One suspects the same will not be experienced with Mariah’s offering.

As one listened to her vocal arrangement one was confused. The first half of her interpretation brought nightmarish visions to one’s mind. She attempts to inject an intonation of passion into the piece however, in truth, it sounded more like a half-hearted orgasm, or as if she was sitting in a luxurious lavatory with a touch of constipation and the echoing strains were ricocheting off the exquisite Spanish tiles surrounding her cubicle. As the piece builds to its climax and the final grab-one-by-the-throat series of high pitched squealings pierce the aural canal, it only made one think that the aforementioned constipation had been conquered and an over-enthusiastic bowel release had been accomplished.

All-in-all, there seems a truly gargantuan lack of effort throughout.

As one thought the latest album cover has three Mariah’s splashed across it (as if one weren’t enough), with the expected attack of bosoms (in triplicate) being smothered under and frantically trying to escape from a sheer white dress; this combined with a rising hem line which verges on a dangerous threat of foof exposure.

Crusty has not witnessed the video for her interpretation, but one suspects it will follow in the same vain.

Uncle Dick Makes Crusty Think.

Crusty had a comment left on one's last posting from that monument of magnificent manliness, Uncle Dick Madeley. He had expressed subdued Grrrrrr-iness at the whole X-Factor experience we are all to be subjected to over - what will seem like - the next year and a half. Though its format may have changed slightly with a live audience, we will no doubt still have to endure an appalling selection of hits from the judges - from a huge back catalogue of infinitely better ones available -for the final selection of contestants to sing each week. Also, to further endure the grand final when some international turns will appear and be fawned over and have smoke blown up their downstairs areas.

In particular, one recalls when Mariah Scarey graced the set to meet the remaining contestants and give them advice on their performances for that weeks show. How odd to have an artist who, at the start of her career, had the voice of an angel and after far too much Divary-pokery now sounds more like a deflating vintage Hoover bag. Her general attire leaves a lot to be desired too; everytime one sees one of her music videos it usually includes shots of her in skirts which are outrageously short and could quite easily run the risk of foof exposure.

Still, Uncle Dick got one thinking and it was then, after a delicous sip of chilled Pere Ventura Brut Nature Tresor, that one had the wonderful idea of a televisual ointment that could remedy the pain of a lengthy X-Factor run ... 'The Y Factor'.

This thought sprung into one's mind when I saw one auditionee sing her little heart out to the Dreamgirls classic 'And I Am Telling You (I'm Not Goin')' and I saw Cheryl y'nailed-it Cole looking at her thinking, 'God! That's what it's like to be able to sing?' (incidentally, funny how everyone associates Jennifer Hudson with that song when it was sung far better in the original stage performance by the fabulous Jennifer Holliday)

The Y Factor would be a program on which Crusty and a panel of judges (perhaps Crusty could become the next - and infinitely more elegant -Simon Cowell) would sit with a live audience and have existing pop singers etc. sing to them without the aid of hidden auto tuning equipment and technological wizardry supporting them. The nation, audience and judges could then ask themselves 'why?'; why did this person ever get a recording contract?; why did anyone ever open the recording studio door and let this one in?. Imagine it poppet, "Thank you for attending, Cheryl dear! You certainly have the Y factor!...NEXT!"

Anyhoo ... one has emailed the suggestion to the relevant television channels and I shall notify one's family of poppets should a reply be forthcoming.