Shake, prattle and fail - The Apprentice Week Four

I’m not sure I’m ready for this. I’ve been away for a few weeks, and so missed the first episodes of this series of The Apprentice. So, in order to prep for tonight’s installment, I endured a triple bill last night in order to get up to speed. After all, the last thing I wanted to do was to start empathizing with someone that the rest of the country had already decided was an intolerable fucktard. Turns out, I needn’t have worried.

Episode 4 opens with the promise of farmyard fun, which had me experiencing a traumatic flashback to Rebecca Loos wanking a pig. Thankfully, there were no such shenanigans tonight –  the closest we came was the sight of Frank Sidebottom in a blue shower-cap, confidently attempting to milk a dairy cow.

Nine years in and you could almost predict every line of the show. Lord Sugar continues to render the show’s title obsolete, telling the prospective candidates: “It’s not about a job, it’s about me plowing £250,000 into a business.” Why not just call the show The Investor, and be done with it?

Anyway, old crinkle-chops has got his measure of them, barking “You’re all a bloody waste of space.” Of course they are, how else are we to assume that they made it through the casting process? They’re certainly not picked for their likeability, commercial acumen, or realistic eyebrows.  “Oh my God, do you guys know what you’re doing?” yells one Apprentice, giving voice to eight million viewers at home. The final clip in the opening montage is another Apprentii claiming “I’ve been stitched up,” but it’s not clear whether she’s referring to her team-mates or those wags in the editing suite.

There’s just time for a quick recap of last week’s flat-pack farce, where the word ‘innovation’ was universally misinterpreted as a synonym for ‘uncomfortable chair’ and the girls continued on a losing streak that would make Eddie the Eagle feel all superior.

It’s 5.20am, and two of the girls are clattering down the spiral staircase to answer the dildophone. I’m sure there’s a joke in there somewhere about how many candidates it takes to operate a sex aid, but there’s no time for that – we’ve got to race to Surrey Docks in East London. As is customary, there’s lots of footage of the boys scratching their armpits and running around half-dressed, while the girls roll their eyes back and attempt to paint those Penfold-style brows onto the empty space a couple of inches above their heads.

At the City Farm on the Isle of Dogs, Lord Sugar is telling our hopeless hopefuls that there’s this great new trend, where people grow food on farms, then take it to market to sell. This is most alarming, given that he’s old enough to remember the agrarian revolution. While he pontificates about the plot of Jack and the Beanstalk, a herd of goats begins to gather threateningly in the background. According to legend, they’ll eat anything – even polyester suits and hair-gel – so this could get interesting. Sadly, before the ruminants can attack, Lord Sugar mixes up the teams, admitting, “Ladies, I’ve been disappointed.” For once in his life, the shoe appears to be on the other foot.

In what was formerly the girls’ team, Luisa announces that she has a cake shop, so her ability to deal with suppliers makes her the ideal project manager for this task. Still, that doesn’t seem to stop hard-faced pharma sales rep Rebecca from throwing her beehive into the ring. She proudly announces that she has no experience in sourcing produce, retail or dealing with suppliers, but hey, how hard can it be? At this point, Luisa’s eyes open so widely that I can hear a faint tearing sound.

The other team has grudgingly accepted Alpha Neil as their PM, and they’re listening to Jordan, the hipster Harry Potter, tell them that “There was a van at my school that sold Ostrich meat.” I’m guessing it was a school with a polo team. Neil explains that “we need to have a specialist thing,” to which Frank Sidebottom responds by suggesting “cheese on toast.” This is all going swimmingly.

It’s still too early in the series to tell most of the suits apart, so once Evolve and Endeavour get split into sub-teams to source produce, it all makes about as much sense as watching the Oceans 11 films out of order. The next fifteen minutes become a disorienting montage of scenes of people riding flat-beds through orchards, panic buying cabbage, and speculating whether satsumas might be indigenous to the South East.

Thankfully, Nick’s on hand to emphasise ALL the wrong WORDS as he evaluates THE candidates, making it impossible to tell whether he approves of, or disagrees with, their margin strategy. It doesn’t help matters that he still looks as if he’s trying to squeeze face-first through a drainpipe, so his facial expressions give nothing away either.

One of the sub-teams is roaming around Shropshire sourcing milk for their shakes, while their counterparts are buying up stock primarily to dress their shop. “Engage brain” bleats Luisa, clearly unfamiliar with the old adage “Physician, heal thyself.” This prompts Francesca (a dance and entertainment entrepreneur, whatever one of those is) to roll her eyes like Marty Feldman on acid. The pressure’s clearly on, as the passive-aggressive behaviour has now being cranked up to eleven. There’s a flurry of unfinished conversations, as team-members attempt to discuss strategy with the PMs, only for the phone to suddenly go dead on them – honestly, there’s more hang-ups here than an OCD sufferer in a dirty Youth Hostel.

Happy Shopper Ryan Gosling should be happy – he got his own way about the shakes, but he’s taking his de facto deputy leadership of the team as an opportunity to tell everybody how wrong they are. About everything. “I don’t think so, I disagree” he growls, as he tries to figure out how on Earth you’re supposed to make a milkshake using Cox’s Orange Pippins.

The big day is upon us, and the two teams proudly reveal their curiously named emporia. Luisa’s team has opted for Buffalocal – a neologism that seems to be trying to do too many things at once – whereas Neil’s gang have settled on Fruity Cow. Karren looks secretly pleased with that one. The candidates are all bustling about, trying to make their final preparations, with Cosmetics Entrepreneur Uzma sagely advising her colleagues to “Make it look like there’s lots there, when there’s really not.” Echoing the advice of her guidance counselor on how to fill out a CV. The shops have only just opened and already laugh-a-minute Nick is promising pain in the boardroom, but he knows how long it’s been since Alan last splashed out on reupholstering the chairs.

Karren declares that the milkshakes are coming thick and fast, showing a fundamental lack of understanding about the concept, and I’m momentarily distracted by the sight of someone walking down Brick Lane in a giant burger-shaped hat.

Doctor Leah, who looks like a sex doll with a slow puncture, is promising piping hot soup, even though Miles has been wandering around East London holding the same pots for a couple of hours. Not to worry, it’s just leek and potato. If it gets too cold, they can just call it a Vichyssoise.

Time is fast running out, and the milkshakes aren’t shifting, so Neil and Kurt take the decision to make smoothies, courtesy of some cartons of Just Juice picked up in the local CostCutter. The pressure’s also getting to Alex, who’s wandering the streets in a red apron screaming “Quails’ eggs” at passersby. In one alarming close-up, his unfortunate face makes me think of a haunted clock. After one final rush, which sees the teams flogging as much as they can at cost price, it’s all over for another week.

Back to Lord Sugar’s luxuriously appointed Portakabin, where we’re afforded a rare glimpse of what used to be Frances. The receptionist looks up in surprise as thirteen Byrited muppets stroll in with their carry-on luggage, as if she thought she was an extra on Doctor Who, but had wandered onto the wrong set by mistake.

In the boardroom, Lord Sugar is trying out another one of his patented joke-fails – this time responding to the choice of buffalo meat by saying  “You was in East London, not the Wild West.”  Nick’s still flinching, but probably at the mangled grammar rather than the shit humour. He’s had forty years to get used to both. Placed under the spotlight, Luisa confirms that when the sales dried up “Our strategy totally changed,” which is a bit like the captain of Titanic declaring that he attempted a different methodology once the ship spontaneously changed direction. Neil doesn’t fare much better, with his milkshake-based strategy prompting another rip-tickler from Lord Sugar - “Apple and Blackberry, sounds like a mobile phone shop.” My aching sides.  

After three weeks of defeat, Evolve has finally won a task, prompting Jordan to celebrate in his customary aggressive fashion. Over on the other team, Kurt is regretting sticking the knife into his team leader before the results were revealed, since he’s all but guaranteed that he’ll be brought back into the boardroom.

As the victorious Evolve get lessons in deboning a grouse, team Endeavour are drowning their sorrows in the tepid milk foam over at the Café of Broken Dreams. The music even takes an appropriate turn for the melancholy as Neil asks them for their ‘forts.’ Unsurprisingly, it’s Uzma and Kurt who accompany him back into the boardroom, but he’s seen this show before and knows how to play Lord Sugar. Spend just enough time going mano-a-mano with Kurt, before revealing Uzma as the true sacrificial offering. More pointless bickering, and Lord Sugar’s clearly had enough. I know exactly how he feels. There’s a bit more customary fake out, as Alan wields his chubby finger like Clarence Bodicker’s shotgun in RoboCop – all that’s missing is the “ne-ne-ne-ne-ne” sound. As a defeated Uzma clambers into the cab, still wearing her ridiculous high heels, I’m left to marvel that she can feel anything from the knees down. 

Blurry Eurovision

The problem with throwing a Eurovision party, as we did for the first time in a decade, is that you usually end up missing all the songs. Admittedly, that’s not always a bad thing, since many countries seem to see the contest as an opportunity to circumvent the Geneva Conventions. But once the drinks are flowing and your party crowd is in full swing, they can drown out even the most powerful surround sound – rendering the show little more than a fashion show as envisioned by Timothy Leary. As a consequence, this recap of last night’s action will show scant disregard for musicality, and focus entirely on the trousers.

Coming to us live from Malmö, the show opened with a Europe-wide travelogue, as a CGI caterpillar visited all the competing countries, stopping occasionally to pose on a salad and put me right off my food. By the time he reached his destination in southern Sweden, he’d transformed into a butterfly as Benny and Bjorn’s new Eurovision anthem kicked in. This is the closest we’re going to get to an ABBA reunion, so we shouldn’t quibble that it sounded like a reject from the Isles of Wonder CD. While the Choir was busy emoting, a spectacular bridge lowered into the stadium, allowing the parade of performers to take to the stage. For one terrifying moment, I saw a flash of bleached blonde hair and panicked that Emile Sandé had found a way of squeezing herself into the show. Elsewhere, there were several beautiful women in very tight frocks, who really needn’t have bothered.

Our host for the evening was Petra Mede, who introduced herself with a bunch of superfluous syllables – the prerogative of anyone who can order an egg-white omelette in five languages. She even gave a special shout-out to the gays in the audience, all 98 per cent of them.  This year, 39 countries competed, but only 26 took part in the final. But even with 13 cut from the line-up, the broadcast still managed to make most wars seem brisk by comparison. And through it all, we had Graham Norton attempting to fill Terry Wogan’s tasselled loafers with his own incredulous commentary.  Graham helpfully pointed out the each country has its own jury, and the UK’s includes Tony Hatch and Tony Blackburn, proving once again that ‘contemporary’ continues to be our watchword.

It’s thirty six years since France last won the Eurovision; a trend that Amandine Bourgeois seemed in no hurry to break. As the opening performer in the contest, her heavily percussive performance established an unofficial theme for the evening. If nothing else, we may have finally uncovered the cloning capabilities of Florence’s machine. As for Amandine herself, picture Diana Vickers waiting in a nightclub cloakroom for the attendant to find her umbrella.

Lithuania’s Something was more of a nothing, performed by Andrius Pojavis who seemed to be styling himself after Charlie Sheen’s cameo in Ferris Bueller’s Day Off. Moldova didn’t fare much better, with a La Roux lookie-likey who over-emoted in an enormous frock. However, the standout moment in Aliona Moon’s performance came when it was revealed that she’d got a scissor lift tucked into her gusset. As she calmly ascended towards the ceiling of the stadium, her undercarriage began to glow pink, giving her the unfortunate appearance of being fingered by E.T.

Finland offered up a peppy, poppy paean to marriage, as Krista Siegfrids jumped around the stage in a wedding dress and ridiculous shoes. The twist, of course, came at the end when she kissed one of the female backing singers, revealing the song to be an infectious endorsement marriage equality. This didn’t go down too well in Turkey and Azerbaijan, who both threatened to edit that part of the broadcast.

Spain presented us with ESDM, who looked like Carly Rae Jepsen doing Karen Carpenter on Stars In Their Eyes. At one point, she was joined on stage by Vernon Kaye, who thrashed his guitar and triggered the indoor pyro. Despite all this excitement, I’d forgotten the song before it had even finished playing. At this point, SVT thoughtfully put up a sign that read “Warning – the next performance contains strobe effects and flashing lights.” However, by the midway point of the show, I’m prepared to bet that half the show’s viewers were praying for some kind of seizure.  

Remember Anthony Hopkins’ creepy ventriloquist’s dummy in Magic? I do, because he’s now a Belgian singer called Roberto Bellarosa. Love Kills is one of those generic pop songs that starts as a ballad and builds into a dance anthem, but it’s hard to concentrate when the singer looks like he’s terrified of his own microphone. Points were also deducted for the derivative dubstep breakdown.

Estonia was represented by Birgit Öigemeel, who sang a pretty song and looked nice enough, but it felt as though the 12,000-strong audience had all begun to look at their watches. Even the camera crew were playing Candy Crush.  Belarus didn’t fare much better, with Kylie doing a Holly Valance song in Madonna’s disco ball. Still, credit goes to Alyona Lanskaya for taking the time to Ronseal her legs beforehand.

The prize for happiest performer of the night went to Malta’s Gianluca Bezzina, who was grinning so hard he’d make a kids’ TV presenter look like an EastEnders extra. His song was about an IT-worker called Jeremy, and sounded like something Bruno Mars could barely muster the energy to sing. Russia gave us Katie Holmes belting a power ballad, and Germany showed its fun side with cheesy dance act Cascada, who’ve been accused of plagiarising last year’s winner Euphoria. After that upbeat interlude, things got momentarily sinister, as the video postcard from Armenia looked like an outtake from Taken 2. The theme for Dorians was clearly ‘moustache’, as the lead singer looked alarmingly like Ron Jeremy on the WeightWatchers.

Halfway through the show, the music performances were put on hold long enough for Swedish singer Sarah Dawn Finer to reprise her ‘comedy’ character Lynda Woodruff from the Melodifestivalen. Much of the humour was derived from mispronouncing things, but it was still more sophisticated than anything Matt Lucas and David Walliams have ever done. Even Petra got in on the act, telling the Malmö crowd that they just hadn’t met the right girl yet. Had last year’s Azerbaijani host tried the same shtick last year, the comment might have been taken very differently.

Back to the music, and The Netherlands struck a surprisingly sombre tone with Anouk’s Birds, which sounded like something you’d hear as the curtains close in a crematorium. At the opposite end of the scale was Romania’s Cezar, who seemed to be fusing Rylan with Maleficent from Sleeping Beauty. He sang a weird blend of pop and opera in a woman’s voice, prompting several of our guests to ask for smaller measures in the next round. By the time Mel B crawled out from under the billowing blood-red silks, we were in full-on nightmare territory.

Finally, it was time for Bonnie Tyler, and a flurry of ‘Holding Out For A Zero’ jokes to be recycled on Twitter. Despite a creaky start, Bonnie gave a pretty good performance, even though she’s starting to look as if she’s been stitched together from the bits that have been cut off the Nolans. It didn’t help matters that her contract had clearly stipulated the generous application of Vaseline to every camera lens – enough to trigger a petroleum shortage across Northern Europe.

Robin Stjernberg gave a good showing for the host country, with his catchy and rhythmic You, although the costumes looked a little too Mos Eisley for my tastes. Hungary, on the other hand, was going for a hipster motif, performing with all the verve of a listless somnambulist checking the fridge for a half-eaten yoghurt. Denmark gave us Emelie De Foret, who sat on the floor to sing her folky ballad, and offered the cameraman a tantalising glimpse up her fjord. Iceland was represented by Thor, who performed like a rocker at a corporate gig, and Azerbaijan’s Farid Mammadov appeared to be wearing a soft grey suit made of mouse ears. The song was spectacularly generic, but momentarily enlivened by some gay business with a man stuck in a Perspex box.

Greece provided us with the show’s most authentic folk moment, as Koza Mostra gave us Madness on the bouzouki. This was so authentically Greek, I could have been sitting in a Skiathos Taverna – all that was missing was a tin jug of retsina and a dog with a tumour like a spacehopper. Ukraine attempted a beauty-and-the-beast theme, as Shrek brought on Eva Longoria for a mid-tempo dance number, and Italy was represented by Marco Mengali – a Dolce & Gabanna shop mannequin in Ray Liotta’s eyeliner. Norway’s Margaret Berger tried to feed us her love, but left most of the audience hanging a ‘Nil By Mouth’ sign off the end of their bed. The song was part Bond theme, and part contemporary Scandopop – either way, Robyn was sitting at home, laughing her tits off.

Georgia managed to rope Swedish songwriting legend Thomas G:Son into writing their song, Waterfall, but I doubt he broke a sweat with this sub West End duet. Finally, it was up to Ireland’s Olly Murs impersonator Ryan Dolan to close the show. Those who weren’t thrown by his drag queen eyebrows and pleather outfit, could watch the background projections, which had the effect of flicking through the designs book in a tattoo parlour.

With the songs out of the way, it was time for Loreen to reprise her winning performance from last year. In fact, she performed a medley of hits, which served only to remind us of how similar all her songs are. Jean Paul Gaultier got a shout-out for designing the trophy, then Petra led a rousing performance of a mildly amusing song about Swedish culture. Not all the jokes worked, but credit to anyone who can come up with that many words to rhyme with smorgasbord.

I’m not going to recap all the voting, since it was as predictable as always. However, snaps go to Albania for rocking the ice-wash denim, and Spain for making ‘congratulations’ sound like ‘coloured relations’. Half the presenters made some lame attempt at referencing ‘Thank You For The Music’ and Montenegro showcased the worst green screen effect since Blakes 7. Throughout it all, Petra remained dignified and stately in an enormous white frock that gave her the appearance of the Matterhorn in a black beehive.

Denmark took an early lead, with Azerbaijan its only real competition. But in the end, the Danes had it in the bag with four countries still left to vote. Who’s up for a trip to Copenhagen next May?

Tom croons, Jessie's tunes and depressed spoons - Week 4 of The Voice

Today, two things made me momentarily contemplate the existence of a supreme being. The sun came out, which meant I got to drive home from work with the roof down. And the BBC has shaved half an hour off its broadcast of The Voice, which means I might actually make it through tonight’s edition without stabbing a soup spoon into my eye-socket. No promises. They’re still trying to push the show’s dedicated smartphone app, on the promise that you can play along with the show. Not that such technology is really necessary, since the same contact high can be accomplished by pulling an angry sex face and masturbating furiously whilst spinning on an office chair.

Kicking off tonight’s show is Alice Fredenham, who’s threatening to cause a rift in the space time continuum by appearing on The Voice just seven days after bringing down the house on Britain’s Got Talent. Not that we’re supposed to know that, since her BGT appearance was all about how shy and insecure she is. Tonight’s a very different matter, as she’s all confidence and curiously prominent breasts. She’s thought a lot about her style since, “I love Rita Hayworth and those old Hollywood glamour type people.” Presumably because speaking at good were they all.

Ordinarily, this backstage interview would be followed by Alice’s actual performance, but the BBC is trying desperately to add some variety to the repetitive format. So we cut back to the holding area to meet part-time model Sarah Cassidy, who just has time to remind us of the fact that she’s a part-time model, before we go back to see Alice’s performance. That was an edifying editorial decision.

Alice is doing her best to give a sexy performance, as she breezes through The Lady is A Tramp, but the Hilda Ogden headscarf isn’t helping. None of the judges turn around, which means poor Alice has to stand there with her life in tatters as Jessie burbles incoherently about singers who just sing because they’re singing. Danny has little to add, except repeatedly commenting on how hot she is. As a despondent Alice trudges off stage, Danny growls “Smokin’!” at her, reminding us all of the dangers of invoking twenty year-old catchphrases, and how easy it is to get an honorary mention on @everydaysexism.

Now it’s back to part-time model Sarah, who’s singing voice sounds exactly like what I imagine Katie Price hears in her head, whenever she picks up a microphone. It’s high and pitchy, and all the mellifluous bits have about as much control as a drunk driver trying to commandeer a tractor. Still nursing a painful boner over the girl that got away, Danny’s busy asking Jessie what Sarah looks like, once again undermining the whole concept of a blind audition. As Jessie tells him that she’s gorgeous, he waits until the very last note to hit the button and rotates with his feet up on the front panel. His legs remain there throughout the post-performance chatter, to disguise the telltale dribble down his thigh. Tom’s also complimentary, telling her  “You did some wonderful, wonderful things with your voice.” It’s called singing Tom, I’ll send you a pamphlet. Once again, Jessie is trying to position herself as a contemporary Jeanne d’Arc, making a big deal about how difficult it is for females on the show. Even Danny seems incredulous at this, and he has a point. It’s not as if the women are hooked up to a giant dairy machine and forced to express milk as they tackle Celine Dion. Since he didn’t turn around, Will is trying to send signals to Sarah, encouraging her to choose Tom. When the lip reading doesn’t work, he starts spelling Tom’s name by waving his arms over his head, but there’s a danger a 747 could end up taxiing through the studio.

Emily’s up next, and she’s a little concerned that the coaches won’t be able to see her. She does understand that’s the point of the show, right? Anyway, she sounds a lot like Diana Vickers, in that most of the notes seem to be hitting a sleeping policeman on their way out of her throat. When the tempo speeds up, it loses some of its charm, and sounds more like a regular singer trying to hold a tune whilst perched on a washer on spin cycle. Will’s the only one who turns around, which doesn’t bode too well, since folksy acoustic strumming isn’t really his wheelhouse. Danny helpfully observes that Will turned round because he hears things that Danny doesn’t. In this case, it’s probably laughter and spontaneous applause.

Nick Tate is a Tourette’s sufferer, but since this is going out before 9 o’clock, we’re not going to see him call anyone a cunt or spit in their face. Double shame. His family are very encouraging, especially his dad who looks alarmingly like Michael Winner. Nick’s doing an acoustic version of Footloose, with a dash of improvised beat-boxing. It’s pretty good, so of course no-one turns around. One of his family members has the saddest face I’ve ever seen, like a clinically depressed teaspoon. Jessie asks Nick to sing something else, and they all start punching their buttons, which suggests it might be time for the producers to intervene and remind them of how the show works. Still, that’s one less Christmas card that Kenny Loggins will be getting this year. 

The next compilation segment is all about contestants performing songs made famous by the judges. Or songs by The Script. Case in point - Tom Gregory is doing one of Danny’s masterpieces, but even the lanky Irish rocker seems to be struggling to follow the lyrics. Jessie says song choice is really important, which is a passive-aggressive way of saying  “…and that was fucking awful.” Laura Prescott does Jessie J, but her voice is so far off the mark, she may as well have performed it in the car park. Jessie says “I’m gonna forget that was my song.” If only it was that easy. Finally, there’s LB Robinson, who’s doing a chilled-out take on Tom’s She’s A Lady. Tom’s twinkling like a kindly granddad who’s just been presented with a birthday card festooned with glitter and macaroni, and turns around with seconds to spare. LB is a support worker with the homeless, which prompts Danny to give him a standing ovation. Meanwhile, Tom feels proud that someone would be willing to come on and do one of his songs in front of him. Technically they’re behind him, but let’s not quibble.

A change of pace now, as we’re introduced to two middle-aged biker chicks; Barbara and Carla. One of them comments that there’s a perception that “Women our age ought to be mothers,” but most OB/GYNs would advise against it once they’re in their fifties. They come out on stage in matching bedazzled green jackets, and look like half of The Corrs in about twenty years’ time. Of course, having seen the VT we’re expecting something rocky, not a note perfect rendition of The Flower Duet. All four judges turn around, and Jessie yells “They’re so cute” because every fifty year old wants to be patronized by a woman half their age. Their voices are fantastic and the harmonies are great, but I’m distracted by the weeping man in a Stetson in the green room. Shouldn’t he be presenting an expose of cowboy builders on Channel 5? Will says he wants them to educate the youth on the importance of classical music and proper singing, because Rock That Body can only do so much. The judges all admit that they don’t have a fucking clue what to do with them – the best Will can offer is matching jackets. At least he’s honest, and it’s enough to win their fealty.

David Kidd is a Tom Jones vocal impersonator. There’s a lovely shot of him performing in a club with a pair of knickers hanging off his sleeve, but it’s not clear whether they were thrown by a fan, or if he’s just giving them an airing because the clothes horse was full. Everything about his stage presence suggests David Brent not being able to take a hint, but that doesn’t stop the camera from slowly panning down Tom’s front to focus on his giant red throbbing button. Sadly, it’s not enough to get the judges to respond. In fact, even once the singing’s finished, the rotation of their chairs seems decidedly grudging. When he admits he’s a Tom Jones cover act, he’s encouraged to launch into an impromptu rendition. Let’s accept that for what it is, and try not to question why the producers just happened to have the backing music on standby. David invites the elderly crooner to join him, but it looks as though the elastic bands holding his expression in place are giving him some trouble.

Time for our second pair of interwoven stories tonight, as Laura and Jessica both lack confidence but come alive when they sing. Laura’s up first, and flares her nostrils dramatically as she waits for Florence and the Machine’s Spectrum to kick in. In the end, it wasn’t really worth the wait - the big notes sound as if she’s having trouble swallowing a runny egg. Danny turns around, presumably because it’s getting late and he’s already let two hot women get away. But as Will cleverly observes, Danny’s enthusiasm seemed to wane once he’d had a look at the young hopeful.

Jessica points out that she really, really wants it, which instantly distinguishes her from everyone else who’s ever auditioned on a talent show. She’s doing an interesting version of Don’t You Want Me, but the Amy Winehouse affectations start to become a little wearying. Backstage, Holly appears to be cheering more emphatically than any of the family. None of the judges turn around, which leaves Jessica looking as though she’s chewing off her own face from the inside. Will tells her that she has a unique star quality voice, but sounds too much like someone else on his team. Jessica seems OK with that feedback, even though it has me wondering if Will knows what ‘unique’ means. Tom and Jessie tell her to come back next year, expressing far more confidence in the show’s future than any of its viewers.

Tonight’s final performance is from Karl Michael. Six months he was recording an album, only for the record label to pull out without any warning. Now he’s cleaning windows and working in a bar, just to pay his rent. Let’s all feel sorry for him, because he’s been forced to live in the real world. He even seems to blame the record label’s fickleness for the fact that he doesn’t have a girlfriend. He’s singing No More I Love You’s, but without any of the melody from Annie Lennox’s version, and straining his throat so hard that it’s got me needing a lozenge. All four judges turn, and Jessie kicks things off by making it all about her: “If you want to learn technique, and about what it’s like to be an artist right now, I’m your girl.” Danny, on the other hand, tells Karl “I’ve been in those exact same shoes.” Dolcis, £34.99. Sounding philosophical, O’Donoghue remarks “One singer comes along that you see a lot of yourself in.” But I think he’s just licking his wounds because he missed the chance to see himself in Alice. 

Loud, not Proud

In the interest of full disclosure, I should probably point out that I rushed home from a friend’s album launch tonight, in order to review The Voice. He wrote the songs himself, used friends around the world to provide accompaniment, and even crowd-sourced the funding. So having heard the not inconsiderable fruits of The President Lincoln’s labour, the prospect of ninety minutes of over-earnest ‘authenticity’ feels like something of a come-down.

The show’s opening comments are a craven attempt at positioning The Voice as something unique and worthwhile on the TV landscape. To be honest, it would have been more effective if they’d just cut to the Director General’s office, so he could say “I’ll give each of you a fiver if you promise not to switch over to Britain’s Got Talent.” Jessie points out  “We’re holding our hands up for people who are singers. That’s why this show is different,” giving us a poignant reminder of the year that Leona Lewis won the X-Factor by playing the spoons.

Reggie jumps in to announce that “This week, The Voice is louder than ever,” but it’s already deafening enough to give Lou Ferrigno a headache. Contributing to the cacophony this week, will be another former nineties star who’s hoping for a warmer reception than the four cold shoulders that greeted Kym Mazelle. At this rate, the show is running the risk of turning into a reprise of ITV’s Reborn In The USA, but without the excitement of seeing Peter Cox trying to fuck Gina G on a Greyhound to Alabama. King of Wishful Thinking indeed.

Anyway, tonight’s first performer is the former pop star in question – Cleo Higgins. As a prodigious teenager, she and her two sisters formed Cleopatra (Comin’ Atcha) and had a short run of success whilst signed to Madonna’ Maverick label. Now she’s a mum of two and trained pastry chef, but she’s “so tired of people recognising me for my history,” so perhaps she should have kept her girl band past out of it. Still, she’s here now, and “I’ve grown up, just like everybody else,” to which her unbuttoned blouse can happily attest. Her performance of Beyoncé’s Love On Top is pretty good, but feels decidedly lackluster after Amber Holcomb’s rendition on this week’s American Idol. Jessie turns round within seconds of Cleo starting, and Danny isn’t too far behind. Unfortunately, the poor thing doesn’t know the song like Jessie does, so he just tries to mouth the “You-ou-ou” bits. There are a lot of them. As the judges give their feedback, Will remains standing on his chair, as though the studio is slowly filling with raw sewage. And I’ve sat through enough of this show to know that might not be too far off. Danny commends the fact that she’s been in the music industry for a long time, although I’ve a sneaking suspicion she’s been making mille feuille for far longer than she ever spent in a recording studio. He doesn’t care though – he too has known the harsh sting of failure, and the feeling that people are trying to keep him down. I’m just wishing they’d used stronger restraints. In the end, Cleo chooses Will, so Jessie pretends she’s upset and moans that no-one is believing her this year. And so the theme of tonight’s show is established.

Barry James Thomas is the uncle of those two twins off Corrie, and the kindest thing I can say is that the boys clearly didn’t get their looks from his side of the family. Looking like the bastard offspring of James May and Heather off EastEnders, he’s busy making sure that nephew Ryan Thomas is in every piece of VT footage to help his profile. They’re all doing lots of forced laughing, as Ryan proudly admits that he styled his uncle for his big moment. It’s safe to say that Edith Head’s legendary reputation remains uncontested. Singing The Boys Are Back In Town he sounds every inch the pub singer. And, to be clear, we’re talking a knackered Wetherspoons on a depressed high street, not The Cavern. None of the judges turn round, and Danny helpfully explains that he remained unmoved because he didn’t get hit in the gut. If that’s all it takes, I’d happily have him spinning like a Lazy Susan.

Another rocker follows Barry’s unsuccessful bid – this time it’s Mitchel Emms, who once performed as Kurt Cobain on Stars In Their Eyes when he was ten. His dad is very supportive and keeps getting emotional, which takes some of the edge off Mitchel’s rocker vibe. The voice is fine, if a little overstretched, and he looks the part, even if he does worryingly remind me of The People Under The Stairs. Making a bid for this series’ most obnoxious moment (and there’ll be some stiff competition, I imagine) Danny stands on his chair, kicks the button with his boot, and rotates whilst playing air guitar. At this point, Simon Cowell’s returning talent show got such a ratings boost that the National Grid must have thought North Korea was attacking. Danny tells his newest protégé that he’s going to be a big star. This from a man whose own family think his last name is From-The-Script.

Elise Evans is from The Valleys, which comes as a surprise, since I didn’t think there’d be anyone left. She wants to come on The Voice for her Nan who is not dead. Looks like someone didn’t read the rulebook. She’s a lovely girl, who excitedly tells us that the judges have inspired her since forever, but I have an inkling that there’s only one mentor she’s got in mind. And he seems happy because someone’s finally picked a song he knows. They all turn around with just seconds to spare. Danny appears to be post-coital, and Will offers to help her out even if she doesn’t pick him, which scores a big “aaawwwwwww” from the audience. Tom stands up, largely to prove that he still can, and makes a final bid to recruit another footsoldier to his Welsh army. Perhaps they’re planning to secede from Great Britain and establish a nation founded on power ballads and slate mining.   

Emma Louise Jackson joins us from a long-lost Smack The Pony sketch; all eight foot of her. She’s got her hair up in an enormous bun that seems stuck on the side, like it’s threatening to tip her over.  The performance is so cabaret that Liza Minelli would be making a cutting gesture across her throat. It doesn’t help matters that she’s covering Ike and Tina with less soul than a Daniel O’Donnell Christmas album.  Will puts on his pretend glasses to applaud her sense of fun, and she responds by offering to eat some fire. Grinning like a lunatic, Emma Louise keeps telling is that she’s looking for a party, but I have a feeling that all over the country, people have doused the volume and switched off the lights to pretend that no-one’s home.

Connor Scott joins us from the front cover of Mad Magazine, where he’s spent the last sixty years asking ‘What, Me Worry?’ His mother needs to learn to let go a little, since she’s fussing about clean underwear when he’s trying to psyche himself up for his big break. Backstage, she gets very excited when Connor appears on the screen, as if she’s experiencing TV for the first time. He’s doing a very angry version of Ellie Goulding’s Starry Eyed, and tells the judges he learned his craft as a busker. Danny nods sagely, “Yeah, like me” because busking is the same as being in a boyband. This segment is really all about the lanky Irish pillock who keeps repeating everything Connor says, as if he needs a minute to process each soundbite. Finally, Connor admits that his sister really fancies his new mentor and is waiting in the green room. Danny perks up at this, as Connor offers to take him backstage. But I think he ought to let the sister make those kinds of offers.

Amy Wilkinson was going to audition last year, but chickened out because her nerves got the better of her. She spent three years in a girl band, but it’s not one that ever troubled the inside of a recording studio. Most of the pictures of the girls seem to suggest an act that was clothes-optional. Apparently, the other two band members were massive bitches – she doesn’t tell us that explicitly, but ‘personal differences’ is all we need. She’s picked She Wolf by David Guetta and Sia, but it’s so out of tune, she may as well have howled at the moon and then chewed at her arse for the rest of the performance. She tells the judges this is the first time she’s sung in four years, so I’m not sure how she got through the first round of auditions. Jessie leaps out of her chair to hug Amy, because she just can’t stand to see girls cry. Bless her, it’s been at least ten minutes since it was all about her, so she needed to do something to secure another close up. 

Time for a double act now, as Shelley and Maxine (also known as ‘Diva’) take to the stage. They’re two brassy old birds from the North East, one of which looks alarmingly like Tim Healy in drag on Benidorm. When they’re not bellowing Streisand hits to indifferent Working Men’s Clubs, they’re serving up steak bakes. They also appear to find the word ‘pasty’ utterly hilarious, which would probably grow tiresome for the other women on the Greggs counter. They’re clearly the life and soul of every party you ever left early saying you had to check on the kids. Their duet is actually pretty good, even if it does invite some unfavourable comparisons with the Barbra and Celine original. Tom and Jessie turn around, whereas Will is content to flirt with them, which actually pips that documentary about dogging for the title of ‘least sexy TV broadcast of the week’. In the end, they choose Tom, so at least Jessie didn’t have to pretend she knew what to do with them.

Leah McFall is from Belfast, but now lives in Camden and looks every inch of it. She’s nervous about performing in front of four big megastars, which makes me worry that she’s wandered into the wrong studio by mistake. In the first half of her song, she sounds like Larry the Lamb doing a Britney Spears tribute, but she comes into her own as the warbling and trilling gets more pronounced. Jessie says she’s “honoured to be part of your journey,” whereas Will starts talking about ducks and eagles. I have no idea. Jessie’s final pitch involves a piss-poor declaration of “girl power,” so it’s no wonder that she opts for Mr Am.  This leads into a glorious bit of schadenfreude, as we see a compilation of all the times Jessie has been rejected – it’s like You’ve Been Framed, but without the trampolines.

Lovelle is from South East London and works in one of those posh burger joints where the chips come in a galvanized steel bucket. After some carefully stage-managed impromptu kitchen singing, she’s ready for her big moment. She’s singing Rihanna’s Diamonds, and looks the part, except for the wooly hat. Jessie tells Lovelle that she’s hardcore, and only turns around for acts that she really believes in. But the clips we’ve just seen have reminded us that she’s spun around so many times it’s a wonder her nose isn’t bleeding.

Tonight’s final act is Lem Knights, who claims to have been following Jessie J since she first set up her YouTube channel. She’s even the alarm tone on his phone. Come on – admit it – we’ve all woken up screaming at the thought of Jessie J, right? He looks like an enormous troll doll, and is singing a hideous version of Do It Like A Dude. By some remarkable coincidence, playing to Jessie’s ego is precisely what it takes to win her patronage. Who knew? She offers Lem the ultimate prize – a chance to sing with her. For some people, that would be like getting the bag of lemons, but it’s enough to prompt a joyous flurry of gay hands. They duet on an improvised reprise of his performance, which acts as a stark warning of what’s to come on this series. Finally, the tension mounts as the lifelong Jessie J fan deliberates over which mentor to pick. Seriously.

All that remains is for Holly to remind us that we’re only halfway through the blind auditions, as I spontaneously develop an anxiety rash across my upper body. Pass the Savlon.