How to win the SeX-Factor

It doesn't matter how proficient we think we might be at bedroom gymnastics, no-one really wants to know the truth. We might occasionally ask "How was it for you?" but only because we know our sexual partner will soften the blow if we weren't quite up to scratch. So the idea of having a third party critiquing our talents is enough to kill wood quicker than a nasty dose of Dutch Elm.

That didn't seem to stop one overconfident couple approaching Simon Cowell in an LA restaurant with an indecent proposal of their own. Rather than whoring themselves out to the music mogul for a million dollars, they just wanted Mr. Nasty to sit in judgement as they demonstrated their best moves. And they were willing to pay him $150,000 for his input. Ever the gentleman, Cowell politely declined the offer, but happily related the story to a writer from the Wall Street Journal last week. It's clear that Simon doesn't get out of bed for that kind of paltry sum, so he's certainly not going to sit at the end of one for the same amount.

Catching an eyeful of Simon's furry chesticles mid-thrust, would ordinarily be enough to put even the most hardened porn star off their stroke. So I can only imagine that this outgoing twosome had done their homework, and knew how give it 110 per cent. Actually, if you've been watching the X-Factor, Britain's Got Talent or American Idol, you should already know how to get Cowell standing to attention at the end of your performance.

Make an entrance

Simon likes to enter with a burst of Carmina Burana. So if you really want to pop his shirt buttons, make sure that the moment of penetration comes with a melodramatic burst of O Fortuna. That's sure to get him Orff.

Bust a move

The best decision Simon ever made, was dumping Brian Friedman from the judging panel and appointing him as the X-Factor's creative director. Now, every performance is camper than Dale Winton in a nail bar - a multi-colour kaleidoscope of awkward choreography, laughable costumes and shoddily built sets. Cirque du Soleil, sponsored by Aldi. In order to catch Simon's eye, you'll need to be willing to move around and show him that you're the full package. And don't just settle for waving around your full package, feel free to accessorise with a few props.

Stand out from the crowd

Simon wants to see you making it your own, so repeated shouts of "who's your daddy?" will prove to him that you're fully in control. It's also important to think about what position you want to try out. Beware of anything too predictable - if you stick to the missionary or reverse cowgirl, he'll just yawn and tell you that he's seen it a million times before in hotels around the world.

But equally, don't go too far in the other direction. It's fine to demonstrate that you take your shenanigans seriously, but if you show off your enthusiasm for autopederasty (literally fucking yourself), he'll tell you you're being self-indulgent. And he'd have a point.

Be a team player

Simon enjoys nothing more than spontaneously creating bands from a bunch of underperforming individuals. So maybe start your session off with some half-hearted solo play, and when it looks as though you're losing his interest, bring in a third member and call yourselves a group.

Show some emotion

One of the worst things about porn is the dead-eyed stare on the faces of its stars. There's nothing erotic about watching someone getting stuffed every way to Sunday if it looks as if they're barely conscious. If you want to make it memorable you have to commit to the moment, and an emotional backstory is the easiest way to win Simon's favour. So don't be afraid to burst into tears as you're getting onto the vinegar strokes. Or you could take a tip from Katie Waissel and drop to your knees with a despairing "Oh sod it." Then, while you're down there...

Stretch it out

When it comes to over-extended running times, Simon is the king of filler. It should only take five minutes to deliver the bad news and announce who's going home, and yet the average Syco-produced results show stretches to about 90 minutes. If you're usually arguing over the wet patch less than quarter of an hour in, you really need to practice your breathing, or swot up on tantric techniques. Don't worry if there's only ten minutes of actual performance in a two-hour set - he's used to that.

Finish with a bang

Simon's a big fan of the explosive finish, having overseen more key changes than a chain of locksmiths. It's all about making those final thirty seconds count - when you feel your toes starting to curl, get into position to make sure that your partner gets drenched in a glittering shower. And don't worry if you're all out of silver ticker tape, I'm sure you'll come up with something appropriate.

Cher or Cher-alike?

"It's not the winning, it's the taking part." That hopeless, condescending aphorism that rings in the ears of every chubby, asthmatic kid on school sports day. All designed to encourage a sense of camaraderie and team spirit, rather than the venal every-man-for-himself mentality that defines a true champion. Maybe that's why we're just not very good at winning in the UK. Perhaps those P.E. teachers were simply too effective in encouraging everyone to have a go, irrespective of talent or inclination.

It's a cultural thing - just look at Murray Mount (or Henman Hill as it used to be known). All those hopelessly cheerful people waving their flags and gulping down their Marks & Spencers sausage rolls, knowing full well that they'll be heading home long before the final, much like the object of their misplaced affection. They shrug, shake off their picnic blankets, and make a mental note to book tickets for next year.

Our TV shows are no better. Take Big Brother for example. The only rule of the whole show is that contestants are forbidden from talking about nominations. That means no allegiances, no tactical voting, and certainly no expressing a desire to win. Yeah yeah, you're just "in it for the experience". In the States Big Brother is all about winning - in fact it's all they talk about. Because in the good old U.S of A, there are no prizes for second place.

But the most disturbing side-effect of this culture of also-rans, can be seen in shows like the X-Factor. Listen to the contestants in the run-up to the final and they'll even admit that they're not really in it to win it. They're smart enough to realise that all they really need from the show is sufficient exposure to secure an audience, then they can sign up with a smaller record label and make it "all about the music".

And it's precisely that nauseating naivete that is responsible for the abomination that is Cher Lloyd. Having risen to fame last year as Cheryl Cole's nominated assassination decoy, she's now ready to unleash her debut single on an unsuspecting world. You can grumble all you like about the anodyne pap being churned out by the winners of the X-Factor, but at least someone's happily providing soundtracks for dentists' waiting rooms and lifts up and down the country. And within six months, they'll be dropped by Cowell's sausage factory, free to return to a life of pain-free anonymity. It's the runners-up, the ones with aspirations of 'artistry', that you really have to worry about.

So what are we to make of Cher's 'Swagger Jagger'? Aside from the nonsensical title, which makes you long for the narrative coherence of the Cheeky Girls, it's all about showcasing Will.I.Am's Machiavellian influence. Coming across like a sink estate answer to the Black Eyed Peas, the track combines a shouty, tuneless verse with a chorus that riffs on 'Oh My Darling Clementine'. All blended together with the subtlety of a cut-and-shut Vauxhall Nova.

All through the X-Factor, the judging panel repeatedly asserted that Cher was exactly what the British public was crying out for. And I guess they were right, which is why 'My Big Fat Gypsy Wedding' was such a huge smash. Even so, it doesn't mean that anyone's going to rush out and buy 'Swagger Jagger'. But what would I know - I turned 36 last week, which means I'm old enough to be intimidated at a bus-stop by Cher and her hoodie-loving posse. Or I would be, if they didn't come across like a bunch of Pineapple Dance Studio rejects. They can strike all the poses they like, but I know they spent their weekend rinsing out Louis Spence's leg-warmers.

In fact, everything about the video, and the song itself, is utterly insincere. And for all her swagger (jagged or otherwise), there's something disingenuous about the big-haired faux-Fergie herself. The whole point of the song is that Cher's "haterz" are just jealous. That's why they're all so keen to steal her style. And yet, responding to negative reviews of her video over the weekend, Cher Tweeted "I have feelings. I come across as a hard faced bitch, but please give me a break. If someone can say that to me then they can say it to anyone! fight the bullies! Don't let them win! These people are not safe to be on the internet, many people are affected badly by this sort of behaviour!" Now, I may not be the world's foremost expert on the subject, but that doesn't sound much like swagger to me. Then again, my rhyming dictionary drew a blank when I looked up "petulant whining brat".

Britain's Got Shafted

Poor old Simon Cowell's having a bad week. When he jetted into the UK to sit at the end of the judges' table and stop David Hasselhoff from falling over, he was probably expecting a hero's welcome. Local boy done good and all that. Instead he had to endure a cacophony of boos, not to mention a ribbing from Geordie's answer to Hale & Pace. Ever the professional, he tried to turn a blind eye to the criticism. Unfortunately, it turned out to be more of a droopy eye, since his botched botox job made it look as though one of the floor managers had just opened the Ark of the Covenant.

First there was Cherylgate, a story which managed to make front page news right across the US, despite the fact that all anyone had been talking about in the preceding weeks was the fact that no-one in the States knew who she was. In the absence of any genuine insider insight, the news media resurrected all their previous speculation about why she was never going to land the US X-Factor gig in the first place. They just changed the tense and simply re-appropriated it as a hot-off-the-presses exclusive.

Was it the impenetrable accent, a lack of chemistry with the queen of self-medication, or that pesky assault conviction? No-one knows and, despite the paper's best efforts to convince us otherwise, no-one really cares. So Simon loses his luxuriously-maned pet rock, and everyone moves down a seat. Over in the Middle East, the war still rages on. Interestingly, Cheryl's managed to maintain a dignified silence over the whole farce, leaving the rest of us to wish that she'd remained similarly tight-lipped last time she visited a recording studio.

Simon's return to Britain's Got Talent, accompanied by John William's triumphant Superman march, was supposed to reassure the great viewing public that our favourite shows were safely nuzzled between his hairy tit-sacks. And that was probably the case until a former colleague decided to pull a Wikileaks and expose the talent factory for the dubious scam that it is.

The contents of the anonymous whistleblower's blog were only online for a short time, but were quickly cut-and-pasted into a bunch of other sites. Many of those sites were forced to quickly remove the article, replacing it with a notice that read "moved due to a claim from Simco Limited ('Syco') and Sony Music Entertainment UK Limited ('Sony')."

The veracity of the writer's claims are yet to be established, but it makes for interesting reading nonetheless. Although I could do without all the cloak-and-dagger subterfuge; he's talking about a reality TV show, not the fucking Enigma machine. If you didn't get to see the original post, allow me to paraphrase it for you: Britain's Got Talent preselects its preferred acts and manipulates the audience vote. Anyone with half a brain, which admittedly excludes about 75 percent of the show's viewers, already knew that.

Much of the post focuses on 12 year-old Ronan Parke, who's a dead-cert for victory on Saturday night according to our anonymous informant. Try telling that to Susan Boyle, assuming she stops yelling at pigeons in the precinct long enough to listen. If the article is to be believed, acts are allegedly hand-picked for stardom well in advance of the show being filmed, then groomed, coached and re-invented, ready for their TV debut. There's also a bizarre focus on Parke's indeterminate sexuality, suggesting that Cowell's team decided to 'play up' the gay angle, without the author ever explaining how he thought that might enhance the kid's Stateside appeal.

Whether or not these claims are true is really of little consequence. But Cowell's foolish overreaction does suggest that there's something in the article that he didn't want the public to know about. Many people have labelled Simon a genius for his ability to gift-wrap a dogshit and make us say "thank you" for it. And although I'd grudgingly agree that he displays moments of cunning brilliance, let's not forget that this is also a man who goes to Sinitta for advice, but only because Debbie Gibson's line is always engaged.

Who knows, maybe Ronan will win tomorrow's BGT final. And maybe he even had it in the bag months before the cameras started rolling. But does it doesn't really matter? Those who enjoy watching the show do so because it attempts to recapture the spirit of all those 70s talent shows that used to clog up the airways - admit it, there are few things more fun than watching Nina Myskow make a teenage magician cry.

Anyway, the point is, this might look like a talent contest. And we may even get the chance to vote. But the audience-participation element is just a novelty addition to the format, like the bedsit they stuck on the side of the Big Brother house. Cast your mind back to the origins of the Idol/X-Factor format and you'll recall that Popstars made no attempt to involve the audience. In fact, the outcome was a fait accompli before the first show even aired. The genius of the concept, was in lifting the lid on the cruel and fickle nature of the record label's A&R process. Shows like the X-Factor and Britain's Got Talent may give us the illusion of control, but ultimately, we're just fifteen million unpaid participants in an extended focus group for next year's slate of new artists.

Simon's troops are rallying around him in his hour of need, with one underling telling the press "There's no way this person will get away with this." Comforting words, even if they imply that the villainous blogger is actually a disgruntled caretaker who dresses as a luminous zombie. Forget Scotland Yard, Simon needs to get Scooby and the gang on the case. In the meantime, the police believe they're closing in on their prime suspect. Let's just hope that Joe McElderry, Shayne Ward and Leon Jackson have all got a fucking good alibi.

The finish line is in sight

So here we are again - another night, another couple of hours set aside to line Simon Cowell's pockets and speculate about the state of modern pop music. The good news is that at least we'll be spared any more awkward guest appearances by people attempting to steal the contestants' thunder. Try not to think about all the things you could do with the next two hours instead of watching this crap.

Time for a group sing-a-long, although they've got to do it live since, well, it's the final. As usual One Direction couldn't find the harmony with a metal detector and a treasure map, and Rebecca's choosing random notes to show that she could blow all five of them off the stage. Matt is still under the weather, so let's hope he pulls it together later.

Screeeeeeeeeaammmmm! It's Take That in the world's least surprising guest appearance ever - joining our finalists for a rousing chorus of Never Forget. It sounds pretty horrible because they're all over the place - with more random keys than a locksmith's back office. Unusually, Howard Donald is handling the lead vocals for Take That, inspiring Zain that he doesn't necessarily have to look forward to a lifelong career as a bookend.

Time for recaps of last night's 'excitement' - lots of up-the-nostril camera shots of Simon and Cheryl racing down the corridor for a sneaky smoke during the ad-break. Cheryl claims that thinking about how big One Direction could become is "literally mind-blowing" - although this is Cheryl's mind we're talking about, so not such a big deal. She also says "the fight is on" so the toilet attendants of London had best be on their guard...

Slot machines

There's an old saying that goes "You know you're getting older when the policemen start looking younger." But there's another sure sign that you're just moments away from filling your Costco trolley with crates of Werthers' Original.

It's when you start looking at the way young people dress and rolling your eyes at the youth of today. When I was growing up, it was the drainpipe jeans and gothy guyliner that was inspiring the ire of the older generation. Today however, the jeans are much baggier, so much so that teenagers seem to be struggling to keep them up at all.

These days, kids seem quite happy wandering the streets with their nether regions on display. For a while, it was the done thing to allow the waistband to peep over the top of one's jeans, affording a tantalising glimpse of that Calvin Klein logo. Not anymore - now it's more fashionable to show the world everything, right down to the leg holes.

Apparently, this trend for low-slung denim began in prisons, where inmates were forced to turn in their belts to avoid the suicide risk. As a consequence, having trousers halfway around your thighs was a way of showing your tough-guy credentials (not to mention your baby-making credentials). Although I always struggled to understand the logic of showing off one's private area in a predatory penitentiary environment. A bit like seasoning a raw steak and leaving it within reach of a hungry dog.

The saggy crotch is now a blight on every high street, as teenagers attempt to shuffle from shop to shop, with only their below-the-knee leg length providing any kind of mobility. Meanwhile, everyone else is treated to a display of their inseam, as well as  the efficacy of their laundry detergent on those 'ground in' stains.

Although many people are willing to shrug their shoulders and resign themselves to being the wrong side of the generation gap, others are determined not to take this falling lying down. In Memphis, one school has developed an innovative new dress code designed to name and shame the low-slung crowd.

Westside Middle School has implemented the 'Urkel Initiative', based on the annoying mid-nineties sitcom character Steve Urkel from Family Matters. Any Westside pupils found to be wearing their jeans a little too low are being forced to suffer the ultimate humiliation - an industrial strength wedgie, fastened around the waste with twist ties, and captured for posterity on the school's 'wall of shame'.

With their trousers pulled so high they could choke Simon Cowell, these sloppily dressed teens will think twice about showing the world their underwear. And it already sounds like the initiative is working, with the school reporting that it has "drastically cut the number of students who wear saggy pants or no belt".

As school Principal Bobby White explained, "What we wanted to do with our changing of the culture was to think of something that would stick with them, but not make it seem like they were being punished, and add a little humor all at the same time. You're not going to go to a job interview where I can see your underwear. You're not going to be hired. So we're just going to teach you right now." 

Now that's what I'd go to school for...

Smoking guns

As the X-Factor reaches the mid-point, it's clear who's tipped to win. Better head down to your local William Hill and place your bets now. I'll put a tenner on Simon Cowell - he's got this one in the bag.

Not with his hopeless attempt at resurrecting the age of the manufactured boyband - One Direction have all the charisma and vocal skills of nursery school pantomime. With slightly less body hair.

Simon's laughing all the way to the bank because once again, those timely 'leaks' from 'unnamed sources' have ensured that the X-Factor has dominated every tabloid front page for the last six weeks. In fact, I don't know why Syco even bothered launching 'The Official X-Factor Magazine' when the Sun or Daily Mail could have just redesigned their masthead and fitted the bill perfectly.

Sadly, the majority of the viewing public accept every bulletin, exclusive and revelation as though it's the gospel truth, and willingly subject themselves to the constant press maniupulation. This week it reached its nadir as Cheryl Cole refused to send one of her acts home, leaving the show's producers to go to a majority vote.

Unfortuantely, a brief interview with the Sun about how the show is put together, led tabloid hacks to proclaim that the show's host Dermot O'Leary had given them the smoking gun with which they could prove that the entire show is rigged.

The Daily Mail claimed: "One of the most controversial X Factor shows ever was last night exposed as nothing more than a charade. Presenter Dermot O’Leary revealed that Cheryl Cole’s decision not to vote when two of her acts were up against each other to escape the axe had been planned all along."

Except that's not really what happened at all. As Dermot explained (and then re-explained on Twitter for the hard-of-thinking audience), producers had briefly conferred about how to proceed if Cheryl refused to participate. Rather than casting a vote to take the decision to deadlock (which then reveals the lowest audience vote), Cheryl abstained completely. This way, the producers had a pre-prepared contingency to add a little more drama to the proceedings - in effect punishing Cheryl for non-participation.

Hardly a conspiracy to rival '9-11 was an inside job'. Assuming for a second that these mindless journalists actually believe any of the trash they print, how do they think a live show gets made? Does Dermot make it up as he goes along, with someone waving at the back of the studio to let him know when the time's up? Perhaps next week they'll uncover the name of the show's Stage Manager and use that as evidence that the show is planned ahead of time. 

The press want us to believe that Simon Cowell wants Katie to win, when nothing could be further from the truth. At best, she's good value to the X-Factor because the press are obsessed with her. On the rare occasion where they and the public are aligned in their distate for someone, it legitimises their love of bullying and gives them carte blanche to proceed without caution. 

The fact is, Katie can shout "sod it", drop to her knees and beg people to vote for her, like she did in last week's sing-off. But the audience have made it quite clear that she's a taste which none of us have acquired.  She, like Wagner, is only in the show for one reason. And winning isn't it. 

If audiences are genuinely furious about being manipulated, maybe they need to stop mooing long enough to question the bullshit they consume everyday, and remember that ultimately, it's a singing contest. The moment you make it any more than the sum of its parts, people start getting hurt. But you can bet that Simon Cowell won't be one of them. 

Protesting too much?

Oh Nadine!

It should have all been so easy. She's got the voice, the swishy hair, and legs like a pubescent giraffe. Her solo career should have been a no-brainer.

Unfortunately for the Chupa-Chup chanteuse, she's the no-brainer in question. Why else would she have decided to sign an exclusive deal with Tesco for her debut album? I can picture the scene now: "I'm just popping to the supermarket to pick up some Toilet Duck, Mini-Kievs and the new Nadine Coyle CD."

Now, to hear Nadine tell it (in an accent that could warp a copper kettle), it's all about the music. In looking for a home for her solo career, she claims that she turned down all the major labels, in favour of the one with 'value' on it.

Describing the bidding war that sprung up when Nadine announced plans to branch out on her own, her manager claims "It wasn't just waving cheque books at her. Tesco has a massive marketing campaign, which is innovative. It uses every aspect of Teco's canopy of services: the entertainment section, the cosmetics... Tesco card holders...Nadine is putting the launch of the rest of her life in the hands of a company that she trusts. And we will get their undivided attention." As long as there's not a recall on frozen sausage rolls.

He has a point. Whilst her bandmate had to settle for a full-scale production in front of 15 million TV viewers, lucky old Nadine was invited to perform to a bunch of Tesco executives at their annual management conference. Score!

Last Sunday it was revealed that Nadine's debut single Insatiable had limped to number 26 in the charts, as Cheryl's second CD entered the album charts at number one. But Nadine's not bitter, her lips are just naturally pursed.

She told Star magazine "To be honest, I'm happier doing what I'm doing now, no matter what the sales are like. I'd rather be singing in pubs for 50 quid a night and be happy than doing something that I wasn't really interested in or passionate about. For me, it's not about money or fame or getting on big television shows - it's about being happy with myself."

I'm not sure exactly which 'big television show' she's talking about. It must be yet another passive-aggressive dig at the Nation's Sweetheart. Because she couldn't possibly be referring the Irish edition of Popstars which she lied about her age to take part in. Or Popstars: The Rivals, which saw her win a place in Girls Aloud. That would be like biting the hand that feeds her (then sticks its finger down her throat).

But it's hard to know what Nadine means. She's not exactly consistent when it comes to talking about her life or career. She can claim that it's all about being happy, and yet in the next breath she says that she's "absolutely gutted" that she only just scraped into the top 30.

Cheryl might have "the power of The X Factor and Simon Cowell behind her", but she also has the goodwill of the nation. And that's worth more than the other two put together. Nadine may have the better voice, but she's also got a massive chip on her shoulder. Not that she'd ever dream of eating it.

X marks the spot

Hmmmm. It's been raining for so long that pairs of animals are starting to congregate nervously awaiting the arrival of a big wooden boat, and the papers are filled with X-Factor 'exclusives'. So it must be August.

As Big Brother 11 limps past the finish line with barely enough public interest to warrant a write-up in the Hertfordshire Mercury, the press must be delighted to be able to switch their 'random scandal generator' back on. It's been a slow summer after all.

Thankfully, Simon Cowell's ratings juggernaut is here to save the day, and its press team is leaving no stone unturned in ensuring that every page of every paper is filled with more twists than the James Patterson shelf of Waterstones.

First was the shocking exclusive that the show's producers have been using 'Autotune' to enhance performers' live vocals. Eagle-eared viewers were quick to clog up the message boards, decrying the cynical show for manipulating their emotions and swaying their voting inclinations.

The Daily Mail even roared in its headline that "Bosses admit they have routinely used 'auto-tune' technology before as fans accuse them of deception." This, despite the fact that their own story admitted nothing of the sort. The producers did confirm that audio was edited to prepare footage for broadcast, but so far, the only person to 'confirm' the use of Autotune is an ex-employee of the show. And we all know what reliable witnesses they can be.

Next in line for a full-page story was Katie Waissel, the poodle-permed lovechild of mid-eighties Madonna and Gwen Stefani (assuming that the pair had a sperm donor and a turkey baster to hand). Although she won over the crowd with a half-decent rendition of 'At Last', it's since emerged that she has recorded a jazz album in the US which is currently being lined up for release.

Now producers are looking into whether Waissel actually has a management contract, which will mean her forfeiting her place on the show. Rather than wait for the matter to be settled professionally, the Mail preferred to label her a 'lying Madonna wannabe'.

But perhaps the most explosive story so far concerns Shirlena Johnson, who improvised a unique take on Duffy's Mercy - prompting Simon to comment that it was like listening to an exorcism. To be honest, his assessment was a little too kind.

Since Saturday's broadcast, it's emerged that Shirlena's 'mad-as-a-sackful-of-Janice-Dickinsons' persona was no act. In fact, Shirlena has well-documented mental health problems and is on medication for long-term stress.

Given the fall-out after Susan Boyle went postal following her rise to fame, Simon's clearly taking no risks this time around. Shirlena, who has apparently made it as far as the judges' houses stage, was released from the show on Monday. Although I'm not sure what that says about the mental acuity of the people who put her through this far.

Within 24 hours of this news being announced, Shirlena's family were on the phone to the Mirror accusing the show's producers of being cruel for building up her hopes and then dashing them. Producers were quick to respond that, although the medical forms had her GP's contact details on them, they only received the doctor's notes this week. I'm amazed they got them that quickly, but that's for another blog.

So poor old Simon is damned if he does and damned if he doesn't. Susan Boyle's brother seems to be in the paper every other day complaining how his sister is being manipulated and exploited. And now when Cowell attempts to do the right thing (and is reportedly 'devastated' about it), he gets another kick in the veneers.

But who's he kidding? This isn't really about Simon Cowell. And it certainly isn't about the contestants. They're all just grist to the mill. The papers keep printing their speculative stories, and the viewing figures keep rising. Pats on the back all round then.

You Can't Stop The Music

As Simon Cowell gets busy readying the US version of X-Factor for TV audiences Stateside, fans are left wondering about what will become of their favourite talent-fest. Since Simon's departure at the end of season 9, a big question mark has hung over the judges' table on American Idol.

Simon has always been the show's primary draw, despite the often incredible vocal talents on display, and his leaving has left producers with a major headache. It didn't help matters that Ellen DeGeneres announced that she won't be returning for the show's tenth season - citing her discomfort with shooting down young people's dreams. Lightweight.

Within a week, stories had begun circulating that the unpronounceable Kara DioGuardi had also been released from her contract, making a seat on the judge's panel seem about as secure as the passenger seat in James Bond's Aston Martin. Now only Randy Jackson remains, and since his comments are usually as incomprehensible as the third Pirates of the Caribbean movie, he's clearly expendable too.

So what's next for America's most popular TV show? Pretty much anyone with the ability to sit still for an hour and drink Coca-Cola is in the running, with bookies currently favouring Jennifer Lopez and Steven Tyler for the pane. But an interesting alternative candidate has also been suggested, who could change the dynamic in all kinds of ways.

Having contacted TV producers to put himself forward for the role, Victor Willis believes he could be in with a shot, since he staged "the original American Idol" in the mid-1970s. If you're wondering who Victor is, you're probably not alone. But it's safe to say that, for a while at least, he was one of the most recognisable pop stars in the world.

Victor was the lead singer of iconic group (and bad wedding disco staple) The Village People, and could usually be seen sporting a less-than-convincing police officer uniform. OK, so the band featured more crude caricatures than Rolf Harris' doodle-pad, but for a while they defined Disco.

According to Willis, the band was cast in much the same way as the TV show, "It's amazing how similar the current American Idol show is to what actually took place during the original Village People auditions. Many of the singers and dancers were absolutely horrendous while others were very good. Jacques [Morali] and I sat at a table and listened to each of them pitch their talent. And, just like Simon Cowell, Jacques had very little patience for bad talent. I was more laid back in my judging though."

Despite his self-belief, Willis is pragmatic about his chances, which is probably for the best. Although, as he points out: "Apparently they're looking for someone who the public would least suspect." In which case, he could be in with a shot after all.

Britain, let's take a look at your best bits

Well, the time has come. After weeks and weeks of tedious analysis and more inarticulate vox-pops that you could shake a junior researcher at, the election is finally here.

According to the experts, this one is really too close to call. David Cameron's probably slightly ahead, but Nick Clegg surprised everyone in the televised debates by being more than just the nice bloke in the middle. Occasionally, his repeated 'I'm not like the other guys' mantra started to sound like he was going to burst into a rendition of Thriller, but on the whole he equipped himself surprisingly well.

Gordon Brown stalked around the country like an angry thundercloud, with fists clenched and a smile of sorts, that hung permanently at half-mast. That left David Cameron to try and convince the world that the Conservatives are the only ones we can trust to look after education, the environment and the NHS. Which is a bit like recruiting a nanny from the sex offenders register.

There's little more that any of them can to to persuade those stubbornly non-committal floating voters. So it's now in the hands of the gods, and Simon Cowell, to tell us which box to cross.

As the unofficial barometer of public preference, Cowell has written exclusively in The Sun that Cameron is, like Obi-Wan Kenobi before him, our only hope: "David Cameron is the prime minister Britain needs at this time. He has the substance and the stomach to navigate us through difficult times."

Cowell has clearly been scrutinising the candidates' policies very closely in order to fully inform his decision: "I have always trusted my gut instinct - and this was a guy who I thought would do the right things for this country." This is the same gut instinct that gave the world Eoghan Quigg.

Although he's careful not to criticise Gordon Brown too much (Gillian Duffy took care of that), he pulls no punches when it comes to Clegg. Ironically, the man whose influence is directly responsible for turning this election into the X-Factor with colour-coded neckties, argues "We are not talent show judges picking pretty-sounding contestants now. The future government of our country is so much more important than that."

Simon Cowell has an uncanny knack for manipulating the will of the British people. If his preferred act is off to an early lead, he savages them in order to encourage the fans to vote. If they're falling behind he uses tactical praise to pick off the weaker contestants. But every once in a while, he misreads public sentiment.

Sites like 'votefortheworst' function solely to irritate Simon, creating communities of fans who'll vote for the underdog on any talent show just to piss him off. It'll be interesting to see whether Cowell's decision to back a favourite triggers a similar backlash.

Now, go exercise your democratic right...

Remember me?

I guess you can blame Leona. Once she took to the stage in the X Factor back in 2006, Simon forgot all about everyone else he was supposed to be working with. He was bewitched by those corkscrew curls and a voice that was more flexible than Madonna's yoga instructor. Poor old Shayne Ward never stood a chance.

He'd shot to fame the year before, when he won the show and, in the process, reassured Simon that Michelle McManus and Steve Brookstein were just temporary aberrations. With his earthy good looks (like Justin Timberlake with an ASBO) and powerful falsetto, he was an entire boyband compressed into one comely package.

His debut album managed to shift over half a million copies, with each new track carefully designed to follow the template of the more established songs he'd performed on the show. There was one that sounded like 'Unchained Melody', one that sounded like 'If You're Not The One' and one that sounded like 'Cry Me A River'. Given that he'd started out in a covers band called Destiny, it seemed that he hadn't progressed that far after all.

By the time Leona's world-beating album arrived at the end of 2007, Shayne was little more than a squeaky footnote in TV talent show history. His second album sold well, but the singles didn't do much to cement him in the public's consciousness.

Last year it was announced that Shayne's long-awaited third album would have to be even more awaited, as it was pushed back to May 2010. His fans took to the streets of Manchester in their tens to protest Simon Cowell's callous indifference, sporting homemade banners that wouldn't look out of place in a prison canteen riot. Voicing their fury, they sang "I don't know what I've been told/Wardy's album's still on hold/This just isn't good enough/We want him to do his stuff."

So they'll be delighted to hear that Shayne is finally taking control of his own destiny. With absolutely no ulterior motive, Shayne has thoughtfully posted a video clip on YouTube to try and raise awareness of the plight of people in Haiti. Speaking from the heart, and definitely not trying to raise his profile the cheapest way possible just weeks ahead of the release of his new album, Shayne said "I would just like to stress how devastated I am by the tragedies that have happened in Haiti. I urge everybody to donate as much as they possibly can to help the people out there."

Phoebe and Joey once had a heated debate about the nature of altruism, because Joey believed that there was no such thing as a truly selfless act. I think Shayne's thoughtful and considerate appeal for charitable benevolence should settle that argument once and for all.

Bigging up the runners up

Two blasts from the past are gearing up their promotional efforts to remind the CD-buying public of their existence, and both are showing quite marvellous levels of chutzpah in doing it.

Tomorrow sees the release of Daniel Evans' debut single - a cover of Journey's Open Arms - ahead of the album 'No Easy Way' released on February 22nd. Don't remember Daniel? Maybe that's because he's better known by his unofficial stage name 'Dead Wife'.

During his painfully successful run on the 2008 series of X-Factor, Daniel managed to reference the fact that his wife had passed away every time he came within six feet of a microphone. Of course, Simon Cowell lapped it up, since he understands the value of a good sob story. But he's also smart enough to recognise that what makes for good TV doesn't always translate into solid record sales - which is why Daniel's record is being released independently.

Even though 18 months have passed since Daniel first bludgeoned his way into the nation's tearducts, he's still bashing away at the grief button - even the promotional write-up on Amazon.co.uk begins: "Released in time for Mothers Day and in memory of his late wife Jackie and also dedicated to his mother Pauline..." You know, just in case anyone had forgotten.

But with a tracklist boasting such unsubtle choices as 'To Where You Are', 'On My Own' and 'She's Out Of My Life' - even someone in a persistent vegetative state would find it all rather cynical. Weirdly, the promotional copy describes the album as being "born in the hills of North Wales using talent from the local area", which makes it sound like some demonic chimera, created by a gang bang of Satan-worshipping farmhands.

Daniel says "We are hoping to show that you dont need to be signed to a massive label or a big management company to make good music heard as long as you have realistic expectations and believe in yourself." But just in case his expectations reach beyond his physical capabilities, he's also pledged 30p from every disk sold to the Help for Heroes campaign, which is rather helpfully plastered all over the album's cover.

Speaking of realistic expectations, say 'hello again' to Lemar, the one-time bank worker who came third in the BBC's Fame Academy. With a smoky voice that sounds like someone blowing air over the top of an empty milk-bottle, Lemar has somehow managed to churn out four reasonably successful albums and is currently putting the finishing touches to his Greatest Hits package.

Now, you may be struggling to recall any of Lemar's hits, never mind the greatest ones, but he's in no doubt of his music's legacy. He told the Daily Record "I do feel, while listening to my songs... that I've influenced the sound that you hear in the charts at the moment."

According to Lemar, it's all part of the musical circle of life: "I was influenced by Michael Jackson, Marvin Gaye, Sam Cooke and Al Green then did my thing with it. After you've done it for a certain amount of time you influence other people and inadvertently become a part of musical history."

So there you have it - history has been made by a man beaten into third place by those titans of modern song, David Sneddon and Sinead Quinn. Still, his new song is quite nice in a mid-nineties disco kind of way:

Raging against Simon's machine

Well, the numbers are in and it turns out that Sunday's result was nowhere near as close as everyone expected. Joe McElderry, the definitely heterosexual winner of X-Factor, was clear favourite for a month before the final - Olly never stood a chance.

But despite the judges' confidence, it's possible that the other predetermined outcome of the X-Factor isn't quite so guaranteed. A Facebook campaign to beat Joe to number one is now in full swing, and it may end up crushing Joe's dreams of festive chart-topper.

Established by imaginative rebels Tracy and Jon Morter, the Facebook group "Rage Against the Machine for Christmas No 1" was created to teach Simon Cowell a lesson about monopolising the charts. Lots of people, including regular readers of this blog, have been quick to join the group and pledge their commitment to keeping Joe off the top spot. But what will it really accomplish?

For a start, the Rage Against The Machine track is on the Sony BMG record label, the same as Simon Cowell's ever-expanding menagerie of pop puppets. So you may be attempting to convince yourself that you're sticking it to the man, but you're really giving him a reach-around - in essence, robbing Peter to buy Paul's download. Either way, Simon's getting a nice fat bonus this Christmas for continuing to drive up record sales.

Maybe it's all about making the point that Simon's acts are just temporary blips on the overall musical landscape? As if Rage Against The Machine can look forward to a resurgence of interest, given that 'Killing In The Name' only managed to scrape its way to number 23 when it was originally released in 1992. It's doubtful that the O2 will be holding any of its Michael Jackson vacancies for their big comeback tour.

But "it's a victory for proper music", they'll cry. Forgetting that Christmas Number One is traditionally the place where music goes to die. If a vote for RATM represents a vote for anti-establishment rock rebellion, why stick them in the history books alongside Bob the Builder, Mr Blobby and St Winifred's School Choir? It also doesn't say much for the song itself, given that these same 'music fans' would download the sound of Su Pollard hammering rusty nails into her own shins, if they thought it was rebelling against Simon Cowell's empire.

More to the point, if these 'fans' are so determined to fly in the face of convention, why do they even give a shit about who's Christmas number one anyway? It's possibly the most trite, meaningless accolade in music - the sales equivalent of being damned with faint praise.

And is it really a victory for real music, if the reason people are buying it is to cast a vote against something else? In an article on the Guardian Blog, Tim Jonze argues that this campaign is an example of democracy in action. If so, then it's the same kind of democracy that treated us to four extra years of George Bush. John Kerry hardly won any votes on his own merits as a candidate. In fact, a broken suitcase full of fish heads could have scored almost as many votes, simply by virtue of not being George Bush. That's not democracy - that's conscientious objection.

Ultimately, these newly converted RATM fans are simply trying to find a movement that gives them a sense of connection and togetherness. New Facebook groups pop up all the time, but here's one with half a million passionate followers. Could this be the key that we're all missing? For all its sweary, counter-culture rebellion, this song represents a coming together of people from all walks of life in a shared act of community. Now that's what I call Christmassy.

No X please, we're musicians

With two weeks left to go before the new X-Factor champ is crowned in a flurry of glitter and bombast, it's time to start thinking about life after X. Viewers have a four-week respite before switching over to ITV2 for the next series of American Idol, and this year's contestants will be knuckling down for a grueling 52 date tour.

But what about life after that? Irrespective of who wins, several of the final 12 will release albums in the next twelve months which will likely follow the same inauspicious path of Eoghan Quigg, who must have set a land-speed record in his rush to the bargain bin.

That's the problem with the X-Factor - it's a soap opera rather than an effective A&R strategy. Viewers get caught up in the drama, they vote for their favourites, and they boo the cartoon villains. But they never actually express a desire to buy the musical output.

The true measure of whether or not someone has the X-Factor, lies in the audience's willingness to support the acts outside of the glare from Simon's teeth. Thankfully, one ex-factor alumnus has a plan to help contestants cope with the post-traumatic stress of anonymity. Ben Mills, the gravel-voiced rocker who was beaten by both Leona (understandable) and Ray Quinn (unforgivable), intends to open a 'sanctuary' for the show's runner-ups.

Like Windsor Safari Park with a mixing desk, the rehab-meets-recording studio concept will be "somewhere that people who have been on a show like X Factor could come...and talk about what they've been through." I guess the first step towards recovery is admitting that you're not very good.

Ben's intention is to look after reality TV contestants who are "struggling with their fame". Or lack thereof. He's even planning to have "some llama and a few kangaroos." Seriously, I am not making any of this up. 

But what about the rest of the music industry? How will it cope in a post-X-Factor world? Not well, if The Guardian is to be believed - pop music is dying as a result of Simon's ratings juggernaut. In an article filled with loftily arrogant statements about the idiocy of the masses, various commentators come forward to condemn both the format and its audiences. Alan McGee who signed Oasis and managed the Libertines, claims "If you are stupid enough to watch it that is what you get, you deserve it. I have no pity for you."

The rest of the article rehashes the same old arguments - pop music as commodity versus indie music as art, singer-songwriters being inherently more worthy than vocalists. But popular music doesn't have to be high art. And no-one ever dismissed an orchestra for only ever doing cover versions of other people's compositions.

The most annoying quote, however, comes from Jon Savage who wrote England's Dreaming, a history of punk. He describes X-Factor viewers as "people who aren't passionate about music. And there's always been a huge market for people who weren't passionate about music." Maybe you're not authentically passionate about music until you've stood in a Camden basement watching Amy Winehouse bleeding from the toes.

If nothing else, the X-Factor is now the last format standing for getting music artists in front of a mainstream audience. With no Top of the Pops, no Chart Show and no CD:UK, this is the only music-specific TV show left. Even if the audience wouldn't know 'real music' if they fell over it. 

Mariah says "I'll Be There"

The Daily Mail today announced that Mariah Carey has had her slot filled by the Jersey Boys. As unappealing a prospect as that may sound, fear not - there's no sex tape on the horizon for Mimi. That's Jennifer Lopez's nightmare instead. 

The Mail was, in fact, referring to Mariah's 'unprofessional' decision to pull out of an appearance on this Saturday's Strictly Come Dancing, leaving the BBC scrambling to find a last-minute replacement.


Now it seems as though the long-simmering rivalry between the two Saturday evening juggernauts is threatening to boil over into all out war. According to the tabloids, the owner of the least-appealing chest in pop, had pencilled in an appearance on the sequins-and-slap kitch-fest, only for Simon to entice her back to the X-Factor instead. 

Although it can't have been too hard a decision, given the choice between an awkward chat with Dermot, or standing around as Bruce Forsyth tries to retell a joke he first made 67 years ago.

Actually, "entice" is probably the wrong word, since reports suggest that Cowell told Mariah's management that he wouldn't stand for her appearing on both networks. His petulant ultimatum paid off, so now X-Factor viewers will need to reach for the mute button on Sunday night, or risk losing half their glassware and their dogs' sanity.

Mariah has already recorded her performance of ' I Want To Know What Love Is' (yes, that one) - after spending several hours arguing over the kind of car in which she wanted to be transported to the studio. She wanted a Rolls-Royce Phantom with stencilled butterflies on the windows, as you do. Because Mariah is used to getting what she wants, much like Simon himself.

But not everyone is so keen to accept one of Simon's double-edged invitations. Having slated the X-Factor as "appalling" and nothing more than "televised karaoke" (inarguable logic if you ask me), Sting found himself on the receiving end of a loaded invitation to come on the show and "impart his knowledge". Which is a little like a restaurant giving someone food poisoning then apologising with a voucher for a free meal on their next visit. 

Unsurprisingly Sting has RSVP'ed in the negative through his spokeswoman Regine Moylett, who told the Daily Star that "Sting has probably said everything he wants to say about The X-Factor." Sadly, the same can't be said for the rest of the media, as this report (featuring a quote from yours truly) clearly shows. Still, at least this means we'll be spared Jedward's inevitable fusion of 'Every breath you take' and 'I'll be missing you'. 

Calling time on the X-Factor

The problem with any show that relies on audience votes to determine its outcomes, is that sometimes the public will get it wrong. Which is why the X-Factor's stroke of genius was to introduce the judges' casting vote. That way, when the thirteen year-olds with unlimited texting contracts decide to vote with their hormones, a modicum of sense could easily be restored. Or so we thought. Tonight, everything that we feared about the X-Factor was proven correct in one ill-judged move by executive producer and professional flat-head Simon Cowell.

Throughout this series, the only constant has been the disdain he's shown for Louis' decision to put Children of the Damned John and Edward through to the live finals. While all the other contestants gave it their all, or tried a lame backflip when their voice let them down, Jedward (thanks for that mainstream press) showed a knack for tuning that would make a mating walrus ask them to "keep it down".

Week after week, the twins have surrounded themselves with a whole circus full of dancers to distract from their staggeringly awful vocals. They also cannily chose tracks that require chanting rather than singing - the kind of songs that even Marlee Matlin could pull off.

As the show has progressed, Simon's initial hostility has melted as he's realised that the twins have been garnering more press coverage than all the other contestants put together. Ultimately, shows like the X-Factor win the ratings battle based on the column inches, rather than the musical output.

This week, Simon's supernaturally ageless sidekick Sinitta took time out from her busy topiary schedule to talk about his plans to turn the Irish imbeciles into the new Ant and Dec. It's clear that Simon has reviewed the talent on show and decided that this is a Brookstein, rather than a Lewis year. As a consequence, he's likely to make more money from managing Jedward than he is from a bunch of Eoghan Quiggs.

Nonetheless, it's safe to say that Simon finally drove a stake through the heart of his beloved creation with his choice tonight. The bottom two were announced, and viewers everywhere rejoiced that Jedward had finally irritated enough people to face the sing-off. Lucie came out and gave good Whitney with her version of One Moment in Time - a song whose DNA can be found in every winners' song since the first Pop Idol gave Will Young a silver shower.

And then Jedward came out in their poorly made Ghostbusters jump-suits and ran around the stage shouting Rock DJ, like toddlers in need of Ritalin. It should have been the quickest Judge's vote ever, but with two votes against them, John and Edward found themselves waiting for Simon's verdict.

In Simon's own words, Lucie had finally overcome her disconnect with the audience, and had started to mark herself out as a contender. She was singing with more confidence and finally acting her age. But alarmingly, Simon said he'd rather see the boys perform again. He even admitted how much criticism he'd received for chickening out of the casting vote in the previous week. And then did exactly the same thing again.

As the creator, executive producer and record label owner behind the show, Simon's entitled to do whatever he likes. It's his venture and ultimately, he'll make whatever decision is likely to net him the most money. It's also extremely unlikely that Simon didn't know which way the 'deadlock' vote would go. Simon got his wish and, despite his assertion that he would be making his decision based solely on the merits of the vocal performances, the wrong act went home.

The X-Factor has always been a pantomime. Heroes and villains, tragedy and comedy, plus a handful of colourful performances. But before today, it also had a sense of innocence. Not anymore.

It could be that Simon's decision to save Jedward (albeit indirectly) was a 'fuck you' to the people who pledged to vote for the twins to teach Simon a lesson. But by playing along Simon has shown just as much contempt for his show, and the very principle of a talent contest, as its most vocal critics. And when its own creator loses interest in the format, you know its days are numbered.

It's the end of the world as we know it...

Excitement is currently building over in the US about the imminent release of the debut CD from this year's American Idol winner. When I say winner, I don't mean the guy who actually got to yell the winner's song while being shot in the face by a glitter cannon. I'm referring to Adam Lambert, the runner-up who has successfully managed to leverage his time on the ratings juggernaut into what could be a genuinely exciting career.

Admittedly, things didn't get off to the best start. As well as losing in the final of the long-running talent show, he was forced to dress like a Borg fan at Comic-Con to perform alongside Kiss, and won the approval of Brian May, a man who is to cool what Simon Cowell is to hipsters.

Since then, Glambert (as his imaginative fans have Christened him) has been on the cover of Rolling Stone, for an interview in which he spoke openly about his homosexuality, and recording with the likes of uberproducer RedOne and Lady GaGa. He's already popular enough to have his own stalker, and be pelted on stage with dildos by overexcited female fans, who at least wanted to give him something he could use.

The music industry is waiting with baited breath to see what the world makes of one of its first 'out' young artists, especially one who is proudly provocactive (rather than creepily asexual, like fellow Idol also-ran Clay Aiken). When the latter finally crept out of the closet last September after years of denial, his fans deserted him overnight, suggesting that America just wasn't ready for a gay pop star.

Confusing things further, Adam has also posed for a teasingly ambisexual series of poses for Details magazine, alongside a semi-naked female model. Perhaps understanding that, even when the truth is 'out' there, it's good to keep them guessing, Adam teased in the accompanying interview "I like kissing women sometimes. Women are pretty. It doesn't mean I'm necessarily sleeping with them."

After all the interviews, photoshoots and tour appearances, we're now finally able to judge what Adam sounds like as a recording artist, with the release of 'Time For Miracles' from the soundtrack of forthcoming megapocalypse movie 2012. The song itself is so overblown that it makes Aerosmith's 'Don't Wanna Miss A Thing' sound like a Elmo singing a lullaby, but it's sure to be a big hit, since the video crams in enough end-of-the-world footage that viewers won't actually need to see the film.

The best thing about all this, is seeing a prophecy fulfilled. Not the Mayan predictions which give 2012 its basic plot, but the fire and brimstone attitudes expressed by some ultra-right-wing nutjobs in the US, at the prospect of a victorious gay idol. Seeing Adam stride moodily through the artfully arranged destruction as the sky falls around him, it would appear that dreams really do come true.

Time For Miracles

Adam Lambert | MySpace Video

Putting the issue to bed

Well, it looks like the BBC can finally close the lid on the whole Anton De Beke racism fiasco, since the followers of Saturday evening talent shows have a new controversy to contend with. And once again, Simon Cowell finds himself laughing all the way to the BARB Christmas party.

If you watched the first live final of the X-Factor last night, or caught up on all the action here at p0pvulture, you'll know about Dannii's somewhat tactless comment to Danyl. The judges are clearly miffed that one contestant has outshone all the others since his very first appearance, and they weren't letting anything stand in the way of bringing him down a peg or two.

Louis told Danyl that he needed to be more likeable, an example of irony so epic that pots and kettles across the country are fearful that their iconic idiom status is now under threat. Cheryl, meanwhile, claimed that Danyl was in danger of becoming over-confident. Of course, her feedback may have been different if she'd been granted her original wish and had Danyl in her group. Unfortunately, Dannii threw caution to the wind machine, and decided to open up a whole can of worms with a comment about lyric-changes.

Changing the words to suit the singer is nothing new on shows like the X-Factor - I've lost count of the times that 'Lady Marmalade' has been rendered incomprehensible by changing the lyrics to 'voulex vous chantez avec moi', turning it into the story of a whore who offers singing lessons. All that happened on Danyl's performance, was that the gender of the person being sung about was changed to suit a male singer.

Dannii clearly felt that she was being clever, commenting on this by saying "No need to change the gender references, if we're to believe everything we read in the press." This was followed by a staggeringly painful silence, long enough for Dannii to realise that her flippant remark had crashed and burned. Danyl looked shocked, babbled something about not being ashamed of anything and Simon went into full-on indignant mode, as his protégé's enormous eyes filled with enough tears to drown Rebecca Adlington.

Within minutes, the entire internet was sagging under the weight of all the people taking to the message boards to decry Minogue Jr's supposed slight. Cries of "Sack Dannii" echoed around the forums, with Digital Spy scoring 48 pages of comments on the subject, by lunchtime today.

But was Dannii really being homophobic? She certainly denies it, making her apology on her blog and pointing out that she has spent her entire career supporting the gay and lesbian community. Indeed, she's as much of a Mardi Gras staple as overpriced lager or the stench of amyl nitrate.

In her own way, Dannii was probably trying to show solidarity by encouraging Danyl to be true to himself when performing. Let's not forget that it was Danyl who gave the interview to The Mirror shortly after his first audition, telling the world that he is bisexual. Although strangely, the Mirror has forgotten, since they were today accusing Dannii of 'outing' the young teacher.

The sexuality of talent show contestants has long been a hot potato. It's not that we've ever been short of pink contestants, but with the exception of Alex Parks (whose career showed all the longevity of warm milk) none of them have ever 'come out' - at least until after they'd won. Unfortunately, it works a little like the US military policy of 'Don't Ask, Don't Tell' which yesterday President Obama promised to end.

Dannii's real mistake was to openly reference the love that dare not speak its name on prime-time. If she'd had more than seven seconds to make her remarks, she may well have been able to articulate herself more clearly. It also didn't help that she made her comments with what looked like a sneer, but this could simply be because she has only recently regained control of her facial muscles and seems a little out of practice.

Perhaps it's for the best that tonight's results show is overshadowed by the untimely death of another out gay performer, Boyzone singer Stephen Gately. I was going to write something about Stephen's death, but I think PopJustice says it better than I ever could.