Overcoming Your Existential Crisis with Reality TV: X Factor season 13 – review

“X-Factor died today. Or maybe yesterday; I can’t be sure.” – Albert Camus

 

I haven’t watched The X Factor in 9 years. I haven’t missed much apparently. The week I decided to bear is Motown week. I’m happy X Factor is staying retro in its 50s aesthetic by making sure that Motown is sung and judged by a vast majority of white people. Dear. God.

Upon my return to this Saturday night death sentence, the one thing I didn’t count on was how NOTHING has changed since the series begun. ten. years. ago. ABSOLUTELY NOTHING. Dermot O’Leary is back, now looking as perfectly crushed as Kate Thornton did in 2005. Sharon Osborne is back (unaged). Louis Walsh is back?! Audiences have time travelled to 2007, stuck in a Donnie Darko-esque wormhole that collapses in on itself for the whole two hours and then… I reflect on my life. I reflect on my existence. This X Factor retro is not kitsch. I have decided, that like all abstract concepts, X Factor does not actually exist.

We begin our evening with a vaguely attractive blonde man and somehow reach the strange example of network supported racism that is Honey G.  ‘Heard it through the grapevine’ and other classics are butchered. ‘Ain’t No Mountain High Enough’ is sung. I can only think about all the mountains that are too high for this naive young lad who really believes he is on the cusp of fame. Louis liked it – he didn’t love – and a chorus of boos erupt. I fail to believe that anyone truly cares that much. (Frankly, people should give Louis a cheer just for being allowed back on the show).

Note: Louis is the heart, lungs and oesophagus of X Factor. Sharon Osborne is the wilting cabbage and Simon proves a perfect ad for Movember.

To get me through this talentless lot, a room full of caring friends curated a drinking game based on stereotypes so old that we don’t even find them funny anymore. This jovial plan failed as the  ‘game’ became an alcohol-fueled coping mechanism and their laughter turned to worried guilt. After Honey G, I became a Bukowski type drunk, driving away her sorrows to hide the out of tune pain. I cursed Tn2 for not assigning me Strictly Come Dancing to review.

I am not a snob. My standards are low. Dance Moms, Duck Dynasty and Geordie Shore solidify my existence. I watched all 30 episodes of Stage School and hated every moment as much as I loved it. The fact of the matter with X-Factor is the pathos is rife. It’s Sophoclean at best. Our modern day Oedipus, Dermot O’Leary is dead behind the eyes. This search for the UK Christmas Number 1 drowns in its own damned irrelevance.

I implore you to please support my cause. Forget Students Against Fees. Forget the Students Union Campaign to Repeal. ITV/TV3, please just put X Factor out of its goddamn misery.

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