Talent Show Sob Stories

Last night my friend Joocey and I were discussing the appalling lack of talent on so-called talent shows like the X Factor. We decided that the only thing to do was blog about it, so we put our heads together and wrote the following post. Surprisingly enough it was quite easy, despite my being in France and her being in Taiwan! The advantages of the Internet!

TV Sob Stories

Occasionally, I - like most other normal people - enjoy watching reality TV. Of course, there are a lot of people who say that they hate it, but they’re blatantly lying. Let’s face it, who doesn’t love a good old dose of car crash TV? And those that say they don’t are just moralistic uber-pc do-gooders who just won’t admit that they relish watching others squirming in embarrassment for their pleasure. Go on, admit it...you love it, too.

Alternately, there is the other brand of moralisers out there who refuse point blank to watch the horrors of reality TV because they prefer to take the cultural high ground. They clearly share the snob gene with Brian Sewell: “Oh, I couldn’t possibly watch such profanity. It does yah dah yah dah yah such a disservice.” Get real – this is modern life, you old codgers – the only reason you refuse to watch such claptrap is because it scares you to think you might actually like it. I mean, God forbid that the chaps down at your super-exclusive-members-only-50-year-waiting-list golf club should find out you actually quite like Davina’s interviews with those hideous media-whores on Big Brother. And happen to think she’s a bit of a hottie, too. God forbid, indeed.
So, over the last few weeks the new series of The X Factor has been invading the household via the living room TV. It starts with the audition stage – cue a plethora of freaks and sob stories to fill the TV screen. How many genuinely talented people are there out there? Because it appears that the producers haven’t noticed those ones – at least 50% of the screen time is filled with delusional warblers and people who’ve recently lost a loved one. Correct me if I’m wrong, but isn’t this meant to be a talent show? With the emphasis actually being on talent? Suspiciously, it would appear that by attending a funeral, one can suddenly develop the lung capacity of Maria Callas. Or not, as the case more often appears to be. And it’s clearly evident that merely being able to dress and act like Vicky Pollard would not indicate you will be following her famous footsteps and featuring in a major TV show. (Sorry, what? She’s just a character? NO WAY?! Oh, but they are real? The ones on the X Factor? Seriously?)

However, it has to be said that I generally can’t be bothered with the live shows, but I do love watching the auditions. I think it’s probably because it’s genuinely like watching a modern freak show! Let’s face it, before political correctness actually crept in and ruined all that was good and sordid about this country, the Victorians indulged their desire for freakiness in some seriously disturbing public entertainment. And to think that we have followed in their grand footsteps by creating... well, the terminally bland Big Brother, the utterly pointless Fame Academy (which has, up til now, produced, uhm... no-one famous), and the cheesy sparkle-athon known as Strictly Come Dancing. And of course, the crème de la crème of nastiness - that over-indulgent Simon Cowell masterpiece called X Factor. OR is it Pop Rivals – the Superstars...or, Pop Idol? I mean, what’s next, Popsickle? The ultimate reality show, where badly performing popsters are eliminated weekly, by being swiftly decapitated by a scythe-wielding agent of Death (or Ant and Dec under a big black cloak? Whichever is cheaper to hire. I’d cautiously bet that Death might be the inexpensive option. Those over-exposed Geordie pixies seem to have taken control of national television, and maybe even the world...).

OK – admittedly, I do wonder which (clearly tone-deaf and/or sociopathic) moron initially told these people that they can sing, for crying out loud? Truly, some can, but the vast majority can’t. And someone out there was responsible for setting the seeds of thought into their mind... although I suspect under rather dubious circumstances. I can only imagine the drunken night out that culminated in an impromptu singing session down the high street:

Fred: “Awwwwwwwww, wooooo, ahhhuhhhhhh, Arrroooooo....I looooooooove yooohoooooo.”
Jimmy: “Huuuh. Yerrr noo a bad shingaaa ur ye there Freddy-boy, eh eh? You should get yourshelf on that thur tel-vish-un show. The wan wish th’ fit preshenters... watsh ‘er namesh? Dannnneeeee... or Sherulyl? Ah, the wan wish big titsh.”
Fred: “Ah... gran’ plansh that... Aahhhh looove yooooohooo...Yesh, grand plansh.....Ah cud sharm them wish me magneshic pershonalitaaay.”
Jimmy: “Ahh’ll cam wish ye fur moral support, shall ah?”
Fred; “We cud doo a djoo-yet, eh, mate?”
Jimmy: “Fook-aye, ahm no a bad warblur mashelf. Lesh go fir it.”


BUT, what really really REALLY annoys me is the way that a lot of these people have sob stories. And they all seem to follow the same dramatic vein:
Fred/ a.k.a Sob Story Sucker: “Oh Simon, please say ‘Yes’. My wife’s brother’s dog died 23 ago and I’m doing it for him”.
Simon Cowell: “What? You’re doing this for a DOG?”
Fred/Sob Story Sucker: “No, no... for my wife’s brother. He was so heartbroken over the death of Mr. Froufrou, that he said he’d never get over the trauma unless I one day won a national talent contest. He knew I could do it, see. He always had faith in me. Sadly, he died not long after that. Threw himself under a steamroller mending the potholes outside our house. Flattened like a pancake. Nothing we could do about it, except scrape him up with a wooden spatula. Poor chap – he’d always been so concerned about his looks, but when we scraped him up we never did find his toupee. Had to be buried without the bleedin’ toupee. Can you imagine how odd he looked in that coffin? 5ft wide and 6ft tall? All two-dimensional and BALD? It traumatised the wife, I tell you. She hasn’t spoken in 23 years... she’s waiting for the sign that he’s resting in peace in heaven. I reckon that’ll happen when I win this here competition, mind. Though it’s taken me 23 years to pluck up the courage to come and try out for these auditions – I never felt I had it in me (and to be fair, I was enjoying the peace and quiet from the missus). But lately, I’ve been practicing, and I think I’ve got dead good. I practice with my mate Jimmy, an’ he says I’m dead good, too.”
Simon Cowell: “Well, I suggest you practice for another 23 years, and you may just about be good enough to enter a talent competition at Butlins. For the under-fives, perhaps. In the meantime, I think your wife’s brother had a lucky escape. He hasn’t had to hear you sing for the last two decades.”
Fred/Sob Story Sucker: “Is that a ‘Yes’, then?”
Simon Cowell: “No.”

Honestly, there was one bloke this year who said he was doing it so that his real family could see him on TV, be proud of him, and hopefully get in touch. According to the newspapers, it turns out he was brought up by his grandmother, not a foster family as he had claimed, and he had known his dad all along. It was a totally fictional sob story, and completely unnecessary, as he was quite good anyway.

Of course, for every series of super-naff sob stories that disguise the lack of even a modicum of talent, there’s always one or two that bring tears to my eyes. This year it was the bloke who came on and told the judges that his wife had given birth to a daughter the year before, and died days afterwards due to complications, leaving him the single dad of a baby girl. She had always told him he was a good singer, and that he should try for the X Factor, and so here he was – doing it for her. It had some of the judges in tears, and I had to wipe my eyes! See, I’m not the entirely heartless sort...

Fortunately, he was amazing too, and so hopefully he’ll go far. But it does frustrate me that most of the stories though are clearly to garner the sympathy vote from the judges, and most of them shouldn’t even be there in the first place. There are some truly talented musicians out there who, for the lack of insanity and/or trauma in their lives, have never got further than the sitting-in-a-big-hall-being-scouted-by-producers stage. Cos I bet you a squillion dollars (don’t even know how much that is – about half a pence, perhaps) that the judges don’t even get to see a fraction of the people who are actually waiting to audition... they’re pre-selected before the real judges even get to breathe in the same postcode, never-mind the same room. Which begs the question – how much of the judges’ time is spent watching terrible renditions of Whitney and Britney by people who have clearly fallen off the talent tree and hit every crappy branch down, only to land in a great big pile of manure? And how genuinely frustrating must it be to encounter a never-ending succession of mediocre, fame-hungry, delusional nut-jobs and vomit-inducing, saccharine-sweet sob stories? And still be polite? Simon Cowell seems positively gentlemanly in this light. Hmmm, I’m beginning to like him more now, to be fair...
OH, but before I finish - another program which has caught my attention recently is ‘This Morning’ – ITV’s flagship daytime show. I normally really enjoy this program – it’s generally not just fluff for bored housewives, but has some really interesting people on, and some thought provoking interviews with politicians and the like. However, they have recently done a ‘Womens’ Challenge’ (What? Like going into a department store sale and not buy anything?). Ah, no, nothing as blatantly sexist as that, no – It’s more like the idea that some women will be cycling across Cuba, and other will be running the London Marathon. Sporty, goody-goody stuff that makes me feel decidedly unfit. So, anyway, there was a process of elimination by fitness experts (I think) as to who would get through to the final few. And again, I think a lot of them got through on sob stories, along the vein of: “I’m doing this for so-and-so who died last year”. Which makes me wonder if the person who died particularly wanted them to do that, or whether they feel so utterly devoid of genuinely personal reasons that they feel they have to ‘owe someone’... I mean, do it for yourself, for God’s sake! They’re already dead – they won’t actually care two hoots – they’ll be living it up in heaven, having a grand old time dancing away to the house band, drinking margheritas, and flirting with all the saints and archangels (At least, that’s how I envision heaven, dunno about you...). Anyway, they sure as hell won’t be thinking about Cuba, London or charity fun runs. Sorry.
The only one that was admirable was the young woman who had had a baby last year, and said she was doing this for herself to prove that she could, and to get some “me time”. “Good for her” I thought.
But as for all these people who think that no matter how much or how little talent they have, that a sob story – the more long winded and heartbreaking the better – will help them get through to the next round, why? Why bother taking up all that precious time? When someone truly deserving could have had an opportunity? Particularly on the X Factor – don’t they know that the likes of Simon Cowell will simply refuse to put them through if they are crap? And of course, there are the delusional horrors, who simply can’t believe that the judges could dare to say ‘No’. They genuinely are shocked! I can only imagine that a combination of ego, tone-deafness, and an insatiable appetite for fame are the reasons.

Or perhaps it was it just a wind up, instigated by some duplicitous overly-encouraging friends, to see if they’d really apply for the X Factor and make complete arses of themselves on national TV? Well yes, probably. Because people are inherently evil, and we all secretly love to see others make tits of themselves publicly. Which is why we love reality TV in the first place, innit?

Written by KatduGers &nd Joocey.

To visit the X Factor and This Morning websites, click on the logos.