I’ve been keeping an eye on the X Factor this year. I’ve followed it for years and enjoyed the ups and downs of the competition.
This year has been a media circus – of course. Every time I have passed a front-page I’ve been in awe of the dirt digging that met the competition from day one.
Kitty Brucknell – from the second she appeared on screen – set the tabloids a-frenzy like carion to a vulture.
I’ve struggled with Kitty. Her insatiable hunger for fame and adoration has been palpable from the onset. Every non-twist in the X-Factor producers’ arsenal has sent her gibbering and blubbering to the ground like an exposure hungry camera-whore. That girl is going to eek out every second of her fifteen minutes of fame and one glance at her tells the story. Brucknell’s every blink is a desperate stab at a screen-bite.
Her fame-hunger isn’t the most annoying thing about the girl. The most annoying thing about her is that when I look her I get an overwhelming sense that she has a smelly fanny.
Alleged smelly-fanny aside, it’s not hard to argue that in the wider mix of this year’s competition she’s certainly engaging. Frankie Cocozza is the aural equivalent of a snail-race and Garly Barlow’s decision to include him in the competition made him look like a poor-man’s Louis Walsh.
The tabloid witterings about his ‘bed-hopping’ shenanigins make him even more like a cardboard cutout. The real shock is that he can even manage to achieve an erection after the genital trauma of his tighter-than-a-gnat’s-arse trousers. What the fuck do they do, paint them on?