Unless you've manged to avoid switching on a TV or reading a headline for the last few weeks, you'll know that The X Factor is well and truly back with a bang, continuing with its tradition of building and shattering the dreams of thousands of warbling pop wannabes whilst making a pretty penny for a certain shiny toothed TV entrepreneur.  The producers say the show is changing, that they’ve played with the format by introducing those live auditions at the start (which must be counted as a roaring success when you look at the amount of hits they got on Youtube) and putting out not one but two shows a weekend which, despite it making the whole process absurdly drawn out to the lay viewer, is a pretty sensible move as more X-Factor TV means higher audiences (17 million last Sunday), which of course means more precious pennies in ITV's piggybank.

So it’s business as before, nothings changed.  It still dominates the tabloids, still gets everyone in the whole damn country sucked in and into such a lather by Chrismas that they feel they have to go out and buy whichever syrupy cover Cowell decides to bestow on this years winner.   This would normally be my cue to hrrrmph proudly, shrug my shoulders and spout something about how its destroying the music industry, and that anyone who watches it is a complete philistine with no fucking respect for proper music.

Except this year its different.  I’m involved.

I know the names of the people in it, know who their mentors are and could probably give you a relatively well informed rundown on the favourites.  It’s confusing. I’ve always been such an ardent besmircher of The X Factor name in recent years: What’s happened this time round?

Well, first of all, I happen to vaguely know one the contestants this year.  Jamie Afro, him with the afro (odd that), was someone I saw around at University.  He was a playing in various bands at the time and would come play at the Band Nights and, though in truth it was my friends who were better friends with him than I, we still had many boozy weekday nights around and about SW15, the like of which only students, musicians and the unemployed can enjoy.

So I saw a TV ad with him on it, and despite missing his audition episode, checked out his version of ‘Sex On Fire’ on youtube (which, at the current moment, has had an mind-boggling 4,966,782 hits).   After that I wanted to see what happened to him, so I watched some of the ‘bootcamp’ episode where the poor dears were wittled down some more. After he passed through that next stage, I wanted to see if he got through to the live shows (ahhhhhhhhhhhhh!!!)  and, before I know it, I’m an X Factor convert and able to answer all my mums questions about those two little Irish twats who are ensuring Cowell goes to bed with pound signs twinkling behind his eyes.

But to lay they all this at the feet of Jamie and take the easy way out- that I’m only watching it because he’s in it-  would cast me, a bit like Mel Gibson’s dad, very much in the role of the denier.  Because, despite the fact its really a marketing behemoth with the sole intention of producing bloody awful music that makes shitloads of cash, its genius TV.   The stories! The put-downs! The Live Shows! Cheryl!  Oh god, sweet forgiving Cheryl!  Yes it’s contrived, yes a lot of the contestants are nigh on impossible to observe without shouting ‘die cunt!’ at the TV.  But that’s all part of the entertainment process and, though I can't quite sit through a whole 2 hour episode yet, , I have developed a grudging respect for the whole shebang.   Everything that stems from it- the viriolic headlines, the pullouts, the website, the constant chatter chatter chatter in canteen queues across the land- is a result of it being a media operation of the highest order, and to deny that is folly.

Of course, that may be the very reason you hate it (which is understandable), but in this day and age, to achieve this level of national interest is quite a feat, and a testament to the powers of Simon Cowell and his knowledge of what it is the English public want- drama, tears, life changing experiences and last chance saloons, preferably all experienced by a bevy of attractive youngsters who are more than happy to play it for the gallery.

The music, at least until the winner is announced and I go back to hating it, is purely secondary.

Posted In Comment, Nov 11 2009. Words - David