Silence is Olden

I've been spending just over a month now getting back in the habit of getting back into old habits. I'm paying tax again, which is never to be enjoyed, though it at least means I can feel justified in complaining about things of which I care little but am contributing to in some minuscule way.

I'm tootling along at a blistering 60mph on my little motorbike most mornings, while the cold North Wales winds do their utmost to prize my fingers from their joints. I long for the day I can get a bigger bike. One that can have heated grips. Probably should pass my test first though. And get more money.

Minor amusement this week saw the end of the latest series of X-Factor, with the prospect of this year's winner (a boy with a name of some description) potentially being denied the top spot of the nations hit parade by virtue of a significant number of people who, tired of the formulaic approach to the annual inevitability, have set about purchasing an alternate track. Nothing says anarchic quite like orchestrated co-ordination.

Much has been made of the fact both artists are on the Sony label, so whichever way it goes the label are having extra stuffing balls with this year's turkey. I've likened it to deciding to stick it to the man by not buying Coke any more and buying Sprite instead. It's also the concept in itself and the choice of track. All the people urging others to buy Rage Against The Machine, and this little voice in the back of my head is screaming "Fuck you I won't do what you tell me!"
Having said that, it remains a fantastic track and has lost nothing with age, so ultimately I bleat like a sheep and do my bit. If for no other reason that a part of me longs for the Xmas albums of tomorrow, where 'Killing In The Name' nestles between Bowie/Bing's rendition of 'Little Drummer Boy' and McCartney's 'Simply Having A Wonderful Christmas Time'. What a beautiful world that would be.

Factor Fiction

I don't like X-Factor. I think it's a pimply wart on the shittiest arse TV has to offer. Only marginally better than the anal rape that is Big Brother.

My reasons for loathing this travesty is the pretence that it has ever been a singing or talent competition. This has been highlighted recently by what I'm told is called, Jedward. Jedward. The cunning blend of the names John and Edward. Except it isn't at all really is it? They've simply put a J on Edward. Jodward could have worked and would have been more credible as a blending of the two names than Jedward. Jedward. What lazy simpleton farted that out?

Anyway, I love Jedward. I obviously don't love them enough to pick up a phone and vote for them, or any other contestant for that matter. I'm not a complete cabbage. I love that tone deaf foetuses get to writhe around a stage every week, and as a nation we collectively applaud. Some in the belief that their continued presence is in some way anarchic. Others because they genuinely enjoy their performance. I don't know which group I pity more.

From its Pop Idol beginnings the show was about giving society's deluded the opportunity to be told how awful they really are and how Mummy and Daddy had filled their heads with impossible dreams. It also meant monkeys could watch their telly and laugh, immersed in their superiority as they pointed a mocking finger at the pathetic fools who dared to try and realise their ambition rather than staying at home shrouded in ignorance.

Once voting is opened up to the public any semblance of true competition is lost. Sure, some of viewers are drug addled miscreants, filled with self pity and a staunch belief that the world owes them a living, but that alone doesn't make them A&R people or qualified to judge artistic and commercial potential.

With tribal voting we see people supporting someone they feel they should by virtue of geography, irrespective of whether they believe in their ability. Armies of pubescent girls will blow their weekly mobile top up by endlessly punching in the pretty boy's number, while their boyfriends simply want to punch in the pretty boy. Middle aged women dampen their couches salivating over the mid twenties gay one.

Of course it's all kicked off this week because Simon Cowell didn't eliminate Jedward. What amazes me is that people are surprised. To see morons on the street happily telling GMTV and it's ilk that Cowell is a coward and that it's supposed to be a singing competition is almost as annoying as the show itself. Wake up people, it was never a singing competition. It's Saturday night karaoke entertainment for the masses. The stay at home and vegetate in front of mediocrity at its most banal masses.