2005-12-18 - 8:11 p.m.

X Factor finally collapsed yesterday, soaked in its own urine and reaking of phoney triumph. Some guy with a shaved head called Shayne won the talent contest. Woop-de-doo. After mentally ill and/or deluded members of the greatbriddishpubic performed for our delectation, only to be rewarded with scripted put-downs by the millionaire judges, the blandest of the bland were whittled down to a simpering few. These braying ninnies were stripped of all originality they may have possessed and had their strings yanked out to warble some moldy ballad. Slurping at the moist gusset of fame, they begged us to vote for their dirge, cos it's, like, really important and stuff that we get a new face to sell Anusol. Blonde robot Kate Thornton congratulated the winner thusly, "You're not selling shoes anymore, now you're selling records!" What, not making art? Not scratching that creative urge? You could have at least sugar-coated this greenback revelation, Katey-wate.

Don't get me wrong, pop music has its place. It's what the kiddy-winks listen to. X Factor, though, is akin to showing yout the lips and assholes that get crammed into your luxury sausage. I'm fucked if I know whether its good to parade the music industry naked and vulnerable before our lustful eyes, but it's happening and we love it. The insults, the humiliation, the staggering blandarama of mumbling ciphers. These willing marionettes fed on a diet of unreality television sing for their meat in a manner unbecoming of anyone who has any sort of factor. Would Sinatra have mewled like this? Would the Monkees? Take That? Fuck, at least they had tunes. I'm probably not the first to point out that the X Factor involves molding the marks so that any X factor they may once have had is pounded out of them. Tom Waits wouldn't get past the first audition. Willing fools we are, who accept this shitty music and ironic praise. The guy from the KLF wrote a book all about how to have a number one. That's all that matters. Get on the telly, that proves you exist. You want shit, you got it. The public gets what the public wants, as that prick Paul Weller once muttered from beneath his ridiculous haircut.

I'm not above this. I watched it. I saw that repulsive creation Sharon Osbourne, temporarily free from her family of drug addicts, hawking this monstrous injection of beige into the nation's ass. I heard them say, "This is the shite that we've created and you're going to hear it" and I said "Meh. Whatever". Pop music shouldn't be reduced to this production line of pissy dribble. Where's the novelty? Where's the fun? Where's the attempt at rebellion? Where's the fucking X Factor? Why do they take away their surnames? Is that enough rhetoric? Actually, I know why they de-name them. To shave them bald, to dehuminise them. One convenient label that can easily be discarded. Shayne who? Exactly.

Frank Zappa just said "Pass me the dogfood" on my stereo. I can't think of a better way to finish.

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