A bad week just got worse

Warning: This review may contain flashing images. Don’t worry, that probably just means that Tulisa’s decided to forego the tit-tape – gravity, do your worst.

Apparently, tonight’s theme is Club Classics. Not that you’d guess, since all anyone can talk about is what a terrible week they’ve all had. Drunken evictions, swollen chords and tabloid exposes. It’s enough to make me thankful for my three-hour daily round-trip commute. At least I’m not stuck in a cold studio with Brian Friedman dressed like a Sith Lord.

In a ‘hilarious’ twist, Dermot does an elaborate dance routine to S-Express. Hope you enjoyed it, it’s the last decent dance music you’re going to hear for the next two hours. Of course, it wasn’t really Dermot doing those moves – they didn’t even try to get a dancer who looked like him. If nothing else, the quick switcheroo at the end serves to remind us that this isn’t going out live. Still, he recovers in time to introduce the judges, who come out in standard formation. Nicole and Tulisa both seem to be struggling with their fancy new shoes, like toddlers trying out Mum’s stilettos for the first time. Dermot asks why Gary’s acts have been dropping like flies, to which Gary responds by saying “It’s a good question.” But not so good that it needs answering, so he doesn’t. Louis complements Dermot on his dancing, probably because his milky eyes couldn’t see that it was a stand-in. “Don’t gang up on Louis just yet,” implores Dermot to a jeering crowd. No, let’s all meet at the stage door at 10.30, with a rounders bat and a coal sack.

It’s time to face the music, so let’s start with Gary who introduces Christopher by saying “This is the week I’ve been dreading.” I’m hardly cock-a-hoop at the prospect either. Christopher clearly misread the memo, and is doing Working Mens’ Club Classics. If Jane McDonald shaved her head, and threw on a shiny unisex suit, it might be something like this. The song is Waiting For A Star To Fall, and to be fair to him, it feels like something from the mid-90s. At least that means he’s getting better, and by the end of the series he might only be a couple of years out of date. He’s managed to keep his nerves in check all week, but blows it by finishing on a big note that has his leg shaking like a shitting dog. Tulisa says she doesn’t get it, but to be honest, she’d look for the instructions on a bag of Wotsits. Louis tries to get excited about ‘club classics’ but it sounds as if his dentures are coming unstuck, and Gary reminds us that Christopher is the people’s choice. “You did not let your people down” he booms, seemingly confusing his pub singer with Moses.

Dermot welcomes us back and tells us “It’s hardcore in here.” Guess he’s finally watched the Tulisa video then. Meanwhile, Brian is helping MK1 take the pop out and put the grit back in, because that’s what Saturday tea-time viewers want. Let’s not forget that this show is for people who can’t handle the edginess of the Million Pound Drop. Fearful that someone might accidentally enjoy one of their performances, MK1 have decided to build most of their performance around Gypsy Woman by Crystal Waters; a song so annoying that it was responsible for an additional protocol in the Geneva Conventions. True story – when I was in sixth form, we used to spend out lunch hour in a pub where the jukebox gave twenty plays for a quid. Once, for a laugh, we programmed Gypsy Woman to play twenty times in a row. We cleared the place in 15 minutes. MK1 seem to have a similar effect on the studio audience, and the addition of Tinie Tempah’s Pass Out doesn’t help matters. Gary’s concerned that they sound like impersonators when they take on Tinie, because Barlow knows his rap. Alternatively, Nicole thinks it was “frickin’ sha-mazin.” I guess she’s desperate for her own hashtag. She also has some weird finger jewellery going on, that looks as if she sneezed into her hand and couldn’t find a tissue.

Poor Jahmene’s had a tough week, since the tabloids ran stories about his violent dad. So we probably shouldn’t make matters worse by pointing out how the X-Factor PR machine tends to work. He seems like a genuinely nice kid who’s had a pretty tough start in life, and here he is pouring his heart and soul out to Nicole, who’s decided that today’s the day for an ostentatious hat. Tonight he’s performing Say A Little Prayer, and it’s OK but the vocal acrobatics sound like a gerbil being dangled over a food processor. The judges weigh in with lots of compliments, as the poor lad just stands there and cries. Nicole is back obsessing about his balls again, probably because we can see them through the unforgiving cut of his teal trousers. She tells him “You are here for a reason; you’re destined for great things,” which is probably a sign that his midi-chlorians were testing off the scale.

Now it’s Jade’s turn to complain about what a shitty week she’s had. Or she would if she had any voice at all. She’s packed off to see an ENT consultant who tells her to rest her vocal chords for 72 hours. Thankfully, Samsung have provided her with a tablet and stylus so she can still communicate. I’m hoping this means she’ll be doing an instrumental selection from Michael Nyman’s score for The Piano, and scribbling some improvised lyrics as she goes. But no, she’s thrown on a pink dress that’s part Beyonce, and part Abigail’s Party kaftan, and she’s talk-singing her way through Ultra Nate’s Free. Louis starts grumbling that she didn’t sing like a superstar, but I’m too distracted by the fact that his black polo-neck and jacket make him look like a floating disembodied head; a camp Irish Jor-El.

Then it’s time for a quick commercial break, brought to us by the product placement team at EON Productions. Is there a new Bond film out? They’ve certainly kept that quiet. It gets so bad that I half expect the Sensodyne ad to turn into another James Bond plug, where the dentist shags his hygienist and then shoves her in a supplies cupboard with the pink mouthwash and dental dams.

Back to the show and, guess what, James has had a tough week too. The onsite medic is concerned – James is in a bad way. But I’m surprised she noticed, since he always looks like a week-old Jack-O-Lantern. Apparently, he went green and had spasms, which is when one of the team finally realised that he wasn’t right. Like I said, hard to tell. He’s doing a stripped back acoustic version of ‘Sexy, And I Know It’ and it works better than it has any right to. It’s the first time that his performance hasn’t sound like a desperate cry for help from the roof of a multi-storey car park.  Gary notes that it’s a silly song, but he managed to give the lyrics real meaning. Next week he’ll be tackling the tricky oeuvre of Bombalurina.

Unlike the rest of the crew, Union J have had a great week beating off girls with a shitty stick in Top Shop. They’re doing When Love Takes Over and it’s not bad at all, so Louis allows himself a cheeky smile at his notepad, where I think he’s drawn a big knob. Tulisa’s obviously read the producers’ notes and makes lots of references to their female fanbase, so we’re in no doubt that they’re all unequivocally heterosexual.

Rylan opens with “Oh my God, last Saturday was unreal.” Like a cheese dream. With his beard shaved off he kind of looks like an orange Grace Jones, so his version of Get On The Floor makes J-Lo seem butch in comparison. Tulisa says “I always want to see it again,” but it’s not clear whether she means the performance or her dinner. Nicole kicks off a bizarre argument with Gary by saying “Two words – Borge, Waah!” No-one has a clue what she’s talking about, but it soon descends into a weird exchange where they take it in turns to add unnecessary hyphens to words that have no need for them.

Following the death of her Grandma, Lucy got hammered with Rylan, which ended up with them being kicked out of the hotel. Tonight she’s taken Sia’s Titanium and made it a song about a single mother in a kitchen sink estate. They’ll love that in Ibiza. For once, they’re right when they say she ‘made it her own’. She did, but in the same way that a car thief might change the plates and arrange a quick re-spray.

Gary helps Kye prep for tonight’s performance by pointing out that he hit 32 flat notes in last week’s show. Evenings must be a hoot round at Barlow’s gaff. After much mangling of percentages, Kye takes to the stage to give a piano-based rendition of Swedish House Mafia. His keyboard looks like a giant bonfire, so I hope someone did a sweep for sleepy hedgehogs before he started performing. It’s not exactly a club-banger, more like the accompaniment for a round of curly sandwiches in a funeral home. Nicole says “I felt like I was watching Chris Martin up there.” I’m sure she intended that to be a compliment, but as they say, the road to hell is paved with good intentions. Dermot says “I’ve never seen a mentor give his own act such a hard time,” but then he wasn’t around when Simon Cowell voted off his own act. The Conway Sisters are still holding a grudge about that.

Once again Louis is doing that thing where he makes a point of naming all the members of his groups, so that’s nice. District 3 are keen to show their fun side, which means that while one’s singing, the other two will be doing Bruce Forsyth impressions and card tricks. Their vocals aren’t up to much, so they fall back on that old JLS staple – the unnecessary back-flip. Tulisa’s feedback is all about how to attract girls, so maybe she’s getting them set up on MySingleFriend after the show. Gary enthuses “It’s modern, it’s current.” This from the man who wrote the Queen’s birthday song.

Closing down the show tonight is Ella’s enormous Dartford Tunnel mouth. Ella can dance which has Brian thuper exthited. There’s a stern warning that “The second she has a bum note, she’ll be eaten alive.” Wow, they’re really taking this Colosseum mentality to extremes this year. I can’t be too critical of her rendition of ‘You Got The Love’ since she’s clearly the winner of this series. I guess that means we can all stop watching now, right? 

Dear Diary...

This week, in an attempt to downplay the public outcry about last week's results show, Louis Walsh opened up his 'personal' diary to the Daily Mail. Now, we present exclusive extracts from the diaries of the entire X-Factor team.

Louis Walsh

I won’t lie, it’s been a tough week diary - I’m getting it from every direction. And not in a good way, like that long weekend in Sitges. Gary seems to think I was faking it last week, but it genuinely was a tough choice. I’ve been known to dither of which flavour of Weetabix Minis to buy. I’m also getting pretty sick of people picking on me for always using the same stock phrases. My contract is watertight – like the background players in Corrie who’re only allowed to complement the Hot Pot or mention the weather. If I want to appear on camera at all, I can say “world class,” “sang your heart out” or “made it your own.” Anything else and Equity will have my balls for ear-muffs.

Tonight got pretty stressful when Dermot revealed that my boys District J were in the bottom two. Not because of Gary – if there’s one thing I know, it’s how to calm down a stressed out boy-bander. I was more worried about the fellas having to sing for their lives. Maybe I shouldn’t have put two groups of lads through; I’m sure they’re cannibalising each other’s votes. But it’s not like they haven’t put the work in. They’ve got the whole package, right down to the patented ‘boyband claw’ hand gestures on the big notes. And I thought they sounded great, even with that ridiculous electro-stomper arrangement on Everything I Do (I Do It For You).  

Nicole Scherzinger

Hey y’all!

Heyyyy! You all!

H’y’all!!!

Fuck it, why can’t I make that sound natural?

Two weeks in and I still sound like Sylvester Stallone trying to talk hillbilly in Rhinestone.

You know, I looked back at Kelly’s videos from last year. She seemed to sell in that homespun sass effortlessly. So I can’t figure out what I’m doing wrong. I get the feeling my ‘baby oil’ comment didn’t go down too well on the live show, so I tried it out on a cameraman in the corridor, along with a cheeky wink. I don’t know about the audience at home, but he certainly seemed to appreciate it. 

I’ve been hoping for a little more coverage as the season rolls on, and guess what, I finally got it. I thought I’d blown it with the random ‘chicken wings’ comment, but once we got down to the sing-off, it was yours truly who had to cast the deciding vote. OK - I took it to deadlock, but at least Rylan was already safe, so Gary wasn’t going to get all up in my bidness. Yeah, that’s not working either, is it?

Tulisa Contostavlos

God I’m bored.

Everyone reckons I’m a dead cert to win this year too. But what’s the biggie? Cheryl won twice in a row, and where is she now? Gateshead? Anyway, the fact that Ella’s head and shoulders above everyone else has taken all the suspense out of it. Don’t get me wrong, I love the other two, but they’re just a bit… Well, put it this way, they made quite the double denim duo during the opening song. I didn’t know whether they were supposed to be doing Gotye or a reprise of the Prisoner Cell Block H musical. 

To be honest, I was glad for the chance to take a break this week and shoot a video. Even better, I won’t have to film a public apology for this one. But I do wish they’d stop coming to me whenever someone mentions the word ‘urban’. I’m trying to get away from all that shit, but every time someone shows up in a baseball cap, they’re all over me. Still, I felt it was my responsibility to warn MK1 not to let Louis take the urban out of them. Then again, his acts would be better off not letting him put anything in them either.

Dermot O’Leary

Bollocks. There’s no going back now. T4’s just been axed. So I guess I’m stuck in these badly fitted suits doing my Usain Bolt poses for viewers who don’t like anything more challenging than Wild At Heart on a Sunday evening. Here’s the thing diary, I know this isn’t university challenge, but we seem to be getting stupider with every passing week. Do I really need to explain all the things that the voice-over guy has just said thirty seconds earlier? 

And get this – I got notes two minutes before we went live, saying I had to introduce Rebecca Ferguson as a “member of the X-Factor family.” I guess alumni is too fancy a word for ITV.

I guess it could be worse. I mean Miquita’s hosting shitty video countdowns, and Ben Shephard got caught out trying to flog Nestlé cereals on Channel 5. Losers.

Frank Strachan, X-Factor Stylist

I wasn’t going to write an entry today. I figured I could just slash my wrists and smear the wounds all over the pages. Seriously, I’m never going to work in this town again after tonight’s mess. The group sing-off was just as bad as always, like a ram-raid in Primark. But Jesus, I get two big music stars to work with, and this is what they choose to perform in.

Taylor Swift’s a bonnie lass. And she’s gone supernova, despite having a face like one of those hairless Sphinx cats. The producers played me her new song last week, and I got loads of great ideas. I mean, it just sounds like Katy Perry, Ke$ha, Avril Lavigne and Glee chucked in together. So I figured we could mash up all those looks – face glitter, pink extensions and squirty-cream tits. But no – she turns up in high-waisted black shorts, and a sparkly purple sweater that a trainee librarian might wear in her eHarmony profile picture to show she knows how to let her hair down.

Rebecca Ferguson was no better. She’s always had a great sense of style – that’s why everyone loved her on the show. But here she is in a cheap red weave and a golden catsuit so tight she had trouble walking. I know these divas look for any excuse to have a muscled man helping them along, but she performed like she was trying out Forrest Gump’s leg braces. 

Gary Barlow

That’s it. I’m on the blower to Cowell first thing tomorrow morning and telling him he can poke this show up his arse. First, I have to sit there looking gracious as Rylan talks about me and him dishing it up and giving it back, as if we’re in that Two Girls, One Cup video. Then the producers took my comments completely out of context for the recap. Yes, I said that “the competition is so hot this year,” but if they’d kept the fucking cameras rolling they’d have heard me say “because a cat got caught in the air-conditioning unit.” Seriously, the technicians are fishing a mangled carcass out of the fan-blades right now.

Christopher’s getting a lot of stick right now, but as I said on the show “He’s the people’s vote.” I reckon that’s what David Cameron tells himself when he can’t sleep. Kye did Team Barlow proud this week – as I told him last night, he translated the song perfectly. It’s almost as if everyone’s forgotten that Love The Way You Lie was originally written in Flemish. Of course, you know why I’m ranting. Another week, another casualty. My category’s only got two acts left now. Poor old Melanie did all she could and belted out Stay With Me. I tell you, if that woman sings in the shower, she must imagine she’s being stabbed by some bloke in his mother’s dress. But you know what, diary, I’m going to try and stay positive. She spent the last few weeks moaning that she was missing her kids. At least she got her wish.  

Not much love, but plenty of heartbreak

Hello there - nice of you to join me again. You’re looking well - have you done something with your hair? And that colour, it really makes your eyes pop. Sorry, I thought I’d start off with a little positive reinforcement since, if last week taught me anything, it’s that tonight is likely to go downhill fast.

It’s dramarama right from the word go, opening with a terrifying reconstruction of Sunday’s deadlocktroversy. The clock shows 8.55pm, there’s audible audience discontent, and Gary’s storming through the backstage holding area like Godzilla with a nasty migraine. One of the production assistants is drawing a chalk-line on the stage in the shape of Carolynne. Louis has been in the firing line all week, so in an attempt to save face he’s broken open the clasp on his Hello Kitty diary and allowed the Daily Mail to publish his innermost thoughts - minus the ‘LW hearts DO’L’ scribbles in the margin of course.

Dermot is wearing an unforgiving waistcoat that suggests he could be popping up as the new footman at Downton Abbey. Meanwhile, Gary’s trying to pretend that he’s moved on from last week’s upset, and even offers his nemesis a friendly handshake. But no-one’s going to be too surprised if that that DNA ends up on a murder victim by Wednesday. Tonight, the theme is love and heartbreak, and Dermot tells us we’re gluttons for punishment, as if we needed reminding of that fact.

Jahmene is up first, and this week Nicole’s advised him to find the tiger inside, but the best he can manage is a box of water-damaged Frosties. His white suit is giving me a major Gareth Gates flashback, which I guess is as close as I’ll ever come to knowing what it’s like inside Katie Price’s mind. No matter, the singing is pretty great – Tears Dry On Their Own and Ain’t No Mountain High Enough done in a Jackie Wilson style. The Motown arrangement suits him perfectly, and he finally seems to be a little more confident in his own skin. Tulisa points out that “the ladies are gonna be lining up after that,” but he’s used to facing down hordes of women. Although, admittedly, they’re usually complaining that the chopped tomato tins are all dented.

Christopher is glad to have Gary 100% behind him, probably because the tweedy crooner shares his passion for mid-80s power ballads. This week it’s Heart’s Alone, and it’s about three keys too low on the verses. The chorus is marginally better, but it’s all about as culturally relevant as a Mini-Pops Reunion Tour. There’s two people dry-humping on a leather banquette in the background, which makes it seem as though Christopher’s singing in the cloakroom of Faces. As soon as the music stops he reverts back to his well-rehearsed nerves - quivering hard enough to rotavate a lawn. There’s no mention made of the rumours that he’s a bit of an arrogant diva backstage, but the way he responds to Louis, switching from ‘poor me’ to ‘fuck you’ in an instant, suggests that there could be something to them.

Union J met One Direction backstage last week, presumably inspiring more filthy slash fiction than you could wave a damp sock at. The OD’ers give the Union J the benefit of their wealth of experience, which amounts to little more than how to spot a potential hand-job in the crowd. Louis is determined to show Gary how much he knows about boy-bands, but I’m not sure that Kian and Shane’s inside leg measurements count for much. The boys are bravely tackling a mash-up of Bleeding Love and Broken Strings – a sure-fire way to invite unflattering comparisons. The best anyone can say is ‘it was better than last week’, which is a little like the old joke about the guy who has a leg amputated, but at least someone wants to buy his slippers.

Ella’s on next, but she’s struggling because she’s never been in love. She talks about how the press have linked her with one of the mop-topped twiglets in Louis’ category. Tulisa can empathise, because every time she’s seen out with a guy, the press assume she’s in a relationship. But we all know to wait for the video evidence before jumping to conclusions. Ella throws a curve ball by dressing up as Adele but singing Minnie Ripperton’s Loving You – for my money, one of the most irritating records of all time. She’s thrown some interesting gravel into the mix, but those ultra high notes are still enough to send my Jack Russells scurrying under the dining table. Nicole gets a bit carried away, calling her a timeless Goddess. Louis thinks she’s a “worldwide recording artist” and “can’t believe he’s only sixteen.” Seriously, does he ever say anything new, or is he working his way through a shipping pallet of fortune cookies made exclusively for talent show judges?

Dermot’s busy hugging a hoodie in the audience as Nicole tells us that James took her to his local for a pint and a bag of pork scratchings. How the other half lives, eh? Since he’s going to be doing Mary J Blige’s No More Dramas, Nicole obligingly sets up a call with the legend herself. She tells him to sing it as if he wants something in his life to change, so I’m a little worried he’s going to blow it. I mean, it’s not like he’s ever mentioned anything in his life that he’s dissatisfied with. The vocal is OK, but he still sounds like someone on a constipation drug trial who got stuck with the placebo. Even worse is the arrangement, which is so bland that even Gabrielle would have asked for something with a little edge. Nicole gets cut off by the producers after claiming that ‘Mary J Blige IS the truth’. Calm down love, Songs of Praise is tomorrow.

Poor Lucy has had a difficult week, following her grandmother’s death on Monday, and breaks down barely two words into her VT. To try and shift focus away from her grief, she’s singing Kanye West’s Gold Digger, wearing Benny from Crossroads’ hat. She’s verbally dextrous on the rap bits, but that Sheffield accent cuts right through the heart of the song, like a fire-axe through a pork pie. Nicole’s gone off-script again and is cheerfully referencing Lucy’s gayness – looks like someone needs some of Simon Cowell’s patented insensitivity training.

District 3 are rebelling against Louis’ leadership by putting forward their own song choices. You see, they don’t want to do a boyband song, so they suggest One Direction instead. I guess this means that they’re on the X-Factor because their hair was too floppy for rocket science. The singing is passable, but they haven’t really worked on their stage-craft. When one is singing, the other two wait patiently, as if they’re in line for a vacant toilet cubicle. The massive key change is a mess, but there are lasers, confetti canons and a rotating stage to distract us. The girls in the audience keep screaming randomly throughout the judges’ feedback, like someone’s trying to put a Jim Fixed It For Me medal around their neck. Nicole tells the lads that she wants an apple pie with ice cream, Tabasco and baby oil, suggesting that those pork scratchings have really fucked up her taste buds. Louis is trying to reposition District 3 as a vocal harmony group - somewhere out there, Pete Waterman is rocking in a Shackletons High Seat chair and nodding in agreement.

Jade’s interview focuses on the fact that she doesn’t want to go back to the school run, so that cute kid of hers had better get used to sitting on the kerb until the people from Child Services arrive. For one terrifying moment, the opening piano chord made me think she was going to have a go at I Will Survive. In fact, she’s singing Amy’s Love Is A Losing Game to a lamp-post. The accompaniment is suitably sparse and she looks beautiful, but it’s lacking a little oomph. Jade is another one that Gary is getting right behind. Honestly, give him a block of Lurpak and he thinks he’s Marlon Brando. Jade wanders off before Dermot reads out her phone number, so she misses the chance to do the plaintive ‘call me’ hand-signal.

MK1 are up next, and really seem to be enjoying themselves, even though I get the distinct feeling that most of the audience are thinking “Oh yeah, I forgot they were still in it.” They try to give Louis some urban swag by plonking a baseball cap on his newly titivated barnet, but the effect is a little like trying to squeeze the school dinner-lady into a Wonderbra. They’re doing the Jackson 5’s I Want You Back, and it works better than it has any right to. The rap bits don’t drown out the melody and the singing is ‘on point’ (remind me to send Tulisa a fiver for that comment). Louis says “Guys, I Want You Back next week” which makes me wonder whether he just picks songs that segue neatly into a piss-poor pun.

Kye is now officially the “singing chimney-sweep”, so when he says that Carolynne’s departure hit him “like a tonne of bricks” I have no doubt that he’s speaking from painful personal experience. That certainly explains the heavy guyliner. He’s putting his own spin on Rihanna’s Love The Way You Lie and Dido’s Thank You. If this was a pub quiz, there’d be bonus points for anyone who spotted the Eminem connection there. Louis complains that he got bored, which Gary dismisses as a “non-comment” as though he’s only just noticed that Mr Walsh can fart from either end.

Behind the scenes Rylan and Nicole are cooking up a “special kind of fun” for Gary Barlow. Can no-one else hear Robby The Robot gravely intoning “Danger, Will Robinson?” Rylan opens with the first couple of lines of Back For Good, before winking at Gary and switching into Groove Is In The Heart, followed by Gangnam Style and Pump Up The Jam. The dancers are all dressed as pandas, when a moth-eaten Jive Bunny costume might have been more relevant. Nicole’s on her feet pretending to dance, but it’s more likely that she’s ready to make a speedy exit if Barlow kicks off. Tulisa keeps calling him Ryland, in the same way that people mistakenly stick an ‘S’ on the end of Tesco. “Dancing fashion pandas, who doesn’t love that?” Nicole moves on before anyone can answer her rhetorical question.

Finally, Melanie’s having a teary Sally Field moment about people actually voting for her. I’m glad to see that she’s finally done away with those scarves, and even more relieved that she doesn’t have a huge tattoo that says ‘CUNT’ or an Adam’s apple under there. She’s borrowed one of Celine Dion’s tailored white suits for the evening, and she’s belting her way through Never Tear Us Apart by INXS, but it’s about as rock ‘n’ roll as the soundtrack to a new John Lewis ad. Louis calls her his ‘rock mama’ – but we all know that ‘niece’ would be more age-appropriate. Gary congratulates her for singing her heart out, so let’s just be thankful that it didn’t plop onto the stage on that last high note.

In Celebration of the Horror Anthology

When it comes to the horror genre, the biggest challenge most film-makers face, is sustaining interest once they’ve used up all their big shocks. How do you keep the audience on the edge of their seats once your plucky heroine has noticed that her friends are disappearing one by one? Can you still be frightening when the disbelieving parent has finally stopped trying to rationalise their child’s ability to ignore the laws of physics and human biology? Once the exposition sets in, suspense is thrown out of the window like one of those ubiquitous cats used for a cheap scare. Even the best horror films are lucky if they can muster more than three or four heart-stopping moments. Beyond that, the screenwriter us usually left trying to concoct a story that will sustain a viewer’s interest after they’ve chucked their popcorn all over the carpet.

Many horror fans first discover their love for a good spine-tingler, sitting around a campfire, eating carcinogenic marshmallows and listening to ghost stories. Free from the conventions of a three-act structure, or the need for complex layers of subtext, these stories have a simple purity to them. With one simple goal in mind, they tend to follow the same basic template – set-up, shock, twist. Even horror authors like Stephen King and Clive Barker appreciate the power of the short story, despite the fact that most of their books could give Geoff Capes a nasty hernia. Over the years they’ve both turned out a considerable number of grisly little anecdotes; twisted tales that cut right to the bone.

When it comes to adaptations, however, directors can either pad out the story to feature length, or make a short film that would struggle to find a distribution partner. Thankfully, there’s another option – the anthology, which takes a handful of vignettes and binds them with a wrap-around scene-setter. As well as helping a film make it to ninety minutes without throwing in an hour of mindless chatter, the different stories often allow directors to try their hand at a variety of tones. It’s even better for audiences, who get the celluloid equivalent of Heston Blumenthal’s Fat Duck taster menu, but without the risk of a nonovirus outbreak. Don’t like this story? No worries, there’ll be another one along in a couple of minutes. If nothing else, it at least increases your chances of getting some entertainment out of your trip to the cinema - all meat, no gristle.

Most people’s fondness for this pithy sub-genre is rooted in the prolific output of Amicus studios. Ostensibly a more contemporary alternative to the capes and counts anachronisms of Hammer, Amicus offered up a slew of successful anthology films during the late 60s and early 70s. The most effective, Tales From the Crypt and The Vault of Horror, lifted their grisly anecdotes from the legendary EC comics. These luridly illustrated publications were themselves structured around an anthology model, with four eclectic stories per issue. For several years in the early ‘50s, American kids displayed a voracious appetite for the comics’ menagerie of pun-loving hosts, who served up a mouthwatering selection of miscreants and monsters, all with tongue poking grotesquely through rotted cheek. Focusing on humanity’s most gruesome foibles, the stories all had their own internal morality – even though women tended to be portrayed as duplicitous whores or hopeless victims, often both at the same time.

The portmanteau adaptations produced by Amicus tended to downplay the gory details, focusing instead on the bitterly ironic stings in each tale. They also called upon an impressive range of well-known thespians, and Joan Collins, to create the British equivalent of Irwin Allen’s own all-star casts that were packing them in across the pond. OK, so we didn’t get Steve McQueen facing off against Paul Newman; instead we had to make do with Tom Baker and Patrick Magee. Beyond the stories lifted from EC’s regrettably short glory years, Amicus also looked to writers such as Robert Bloch (author of Psycho) and R. Chetwynd-Hayes for their story selections. Sadly, audience favour quickly waned, and by the time The Monster Club rolled around in 1980, with its animated strippers taking off more than just their clothes, viewers had moved on to more grown-up horror. It probably didn’t help that Vincent Price’s wizened countenance was more frightening than anything the second-rate special FX team could conjure up.

During the 1980s, it was Stephen King’s alarmingly prolific output that was responsible for a short-lived resurgence of interest in anthologies. With film adaptations of his novels been produced quicker than he could write them, canny producers went digging through his back catalogue to find anything they could use to keep the ravenous fans at bay. Thankfully, King had published two considerable collections of short stories, many of which still stand as some of his most interesting work. As the author gradually left horror behind in favour of more redemptive narratives for his long-form work, these twenty-pagers allowed him to prevent all that mainstream success from attacking his atrophying terror muscle.

In the space of five years, three separate anthology films were made from his short stories – Creepshow and its belated sequel, and the PG-rated Cat’s Eye. King was heavily involved in the first Creepshow, even starring as ill-fated farmhand Jordy Verrill, and scripted Cat’s Eye. However, by the time Creepshow 2 went into production in 1986, he was content to open up his back catalogue and let returning scripter George Romero take his pick.

Although these three films vary wildly in tone and execution, they all displayed a previously untapped penchant for dark humour, for both King and Romero. Having built his reputation firmly in the subgenre, the king of the zombies found himself depicting a different kind of undead – a mouldering corpse climbing from his grave, hungry for birthday cake rather than fresh brains. Since the Creepshow concept was also heavily indebted to the EC comics of King’s youth, the colour scheme was almost as over-the-top as the performances. The sequel, directed by Michael Gornick, retained the cartoonish interludes, but aimed for a more conventional horror vibe, with the standout segment being The Raft. Based on one of King’s most brutally simple concepts, this taut sequence sees four college students finding themselves trapped on a floating platform in the middle of a lake, before being devoured by a sentient oil-slick. It’s enough to give Tony Hayward nightmares. Cat’s Eye, on the other hand, focused more on suspense than horror; in part due to the family-friendly rating demanded by producer Dino De Laurentiis. The film may have been devoid of blood, but the first two segments are still compelling almost thirty years later, thanks to committed performances from James Woods and Robert Hayes as the luckless protagonists in Quitters Inc and The Ledge. The less said about the jester troll that dwells inside Drew Barrymore’s skirting board, the better.

In the late eighties, the horror anthology evolved again, this time finding itself a new home in episodic television. Shorter running times eliminated the need to cram three stories into one presentation. Instead, viewers could tune in on a weekly basis to shows like Tales From The Darkside, Friday The 13th: The Series and Freddy’s Nightmares to discover all-new stories of death and (off-screen) dismemberment. The quality and production values varied wildly, with Darkside in particular, suffering from an incredibly low budget – usually limited to two rooms and a handful of speaking parts. Like the old saying goes, necessity is the mother of invention, so there are occasional gems to be found amongst the rubble. In some cases, the shoestring budgets and punishing schedules actually worked to the shows’ advantage, enticing notable names such as Jodie Foster, David Cronenberg, Tobe Hooper and Tom Savini into the director’s chair for a guest slot.

Inspired by the relative success of these syndicated shows, Hollywood heavy hitters Robert Zemeckis, Joel Silver, David Giler, Walter Hill and Richard Donner decided to produce their own small-screen horror anthology based, once again, on those classic EC comics. The difference was that they pitched their concept to cable channel HBO instead. Free from the stranglehold of network standards, theirs was a decidedly adult affair that reveled in its unrestrained use of gore, nudity and foul language. Adding to the show’s instant break-out success was Kevin Yagher’s fantastic Crypt Keeper puppet, voiced by John Kassir. This pun-loving ghoul combined bodily decay and pitiful gags two decades before Bruce Forsyth parlayed the same shtick into a career resurgence on Strictly. Between 1989 and 1996, seven seasons were produced, with the last one made entirely in the UK and boasting a veritable who’s-who of British stars on the cusp of superstardom. In some ways, it seemed that the anthology subgenre had woken up to find itself right back at the beginning.

But, as any good horror fan knows, nothing monstrous ever really dies. It just lies around until someone thinks it might be a good idea to dig it up in a thunderstorm. And so there were numerous unsuccessful attempts to resurrect the format throughout the nineties. Tales From The Darkside had its own stab at the big screen, and included a wraparound story featuring Debbie Harry preparing to cook and eat her paperboy. The three stories he tells her to distract her from igniting the pilot light constitute the rest of the film. A couple of years later John Carpenter and Tobe Hooper teamed up to give us Body Bags, but aside from a compelling opening sequence set in a petrol station, it was largely forgettable. The format even got its own ‘blaxploitation’ entry, made by Spike Lee’s production company 40 Acres & a Mule. Despite its distinctly urban setting, the old EC-values of revenge from beyond the grave were all present and correct.

The last great horror anthology was the long-delayed Trick ‘R’ Treat, a genuinely effective and wonderfully creepy entry by Michael Dougherty, the writer of X2 and Superman Returns. Rather than a wraparound story, Dougherty connected his vicious vignettes with the ominous spirit of a little boy called Sam, wearing orange pajamas and a burlap sack over his head. The film sat on a shelf for two years, before being released straight to DVD, but the fans’ enthusiastic reaction convinced film-makers that there was still an audience out there for a collection of well told tales.

Next January sees the long-awaited release of V/H/S, a new collection of short films from some of Hollywood’s most promising horror names. Given the popularity of films like Paranormal Activity, REC and The Last Exorcism, it’s hardly surprising that this latest anthology uses found footage to conjure up its low-res scares. Touching upon such well-worn tropes as the slasher, demonic possession and torture porn, it’s something of a ‘horror’s greatest hits’. Like Now 72, but with more tits and razorblades. And I, for one, can’t wait.

I Want To Believe

After last night's exhausting yell-a-thon, we can all be happy that tonight's results show is only an hour long. Although even that seems over-indulgent for a programme that should be little more than 13 acts filing onto a stage, and Dermot O'Leary quietly whispering "fuck off home" into someone's ear. As our excitable host trots through his introductions, it becomes apparent that he's developed a rather weird James Brown-style exhausted bow to punctuate his most exciting sentences. I hope this evening isn't too packed with incident, or he's going to be laid up in the chiropractor's office for most of next week.

I'm happy to see that they haven't done away with everyone's favourite element of the results show - the group sing-along. It's just like the end of Grease, but without the flying car and all that ramalamadingdong business. They're strutting around and acting like the best of mates, when really they'd be happier hiding dog shit in each other's pillowcases. At least they're taking the opportunity to give some much-needed publicity to one of this year's most under-played songs; Emeli Sandé's Read All About It. The sad fact is that some musicians just can't catch a break.

If that all got a bit much for you, here's Leona Lewis to plug her new single. Dermot helpfully points out that in the six years since she won the X-Factor, she's blossomed from a shy young girl from Hackney, into a shy young woman from Hackney. Her career's hit the skids lately, largely on account of her record label's indecision about what to do with her third album, but she still screams quality like nothing else on this show. And for all the people complaining about Leona's lack of personality, let's take a moment to consider those past X-Factor contestants with an abundance of the P-Factor: Jedward, Cocozza and Same Difference. Now imagine being stuck in a defective lift with that triptych of terrible. Five minutes in and you'd be sawing through the safety cable yourself. Leona might not get many bookings on the after-dinner speaker circuit, but at least the girl can hold a note.

Dermot congratulates the judges on last night's performances, but their impromptu chat quickly descends into a vaguely inappropriate discussion of our host's balls. Time for another guest slot to pad out the hour. Apparently, Ne-Yo is "an immense talent" with four UK number ones to his name. This is worrying, because I couldn't name anything he's ever done. Perhaps I was in a coma for a couple of years and missed his chart triumph, so I should probably check myself in the bathroom mirror for a telltale head-wound scar. But if I did, I'd be missing a vocal so woeful that it makes Rylan sound like Michael Bublé. Curiously, the vocal continues even when he lowers his microphone to hug his bestie Nicole. If, like me, you grew up listening to Jackie Wilson, Sam Cooke and Otis Redding, the state of modern R&B is enough to make you want pay a Turkish barber to thrust a burning cotton bud into your ears. Ne-Yo, Usher, Chris Brown, they're all much of a sameness. Eurodisco backing tracks, autotune turned up to eleven, and the kind dance moves that would embarrass a Michael Jackson tribute. 

And now we get to the real reason why there's a whole hour allotted for tonight's inaction. It's so that Dermot can leave a long enough pause for Jahmene to grow out his fringe between announcing each safe artiste. Once eleven of them have exited the stage, safe to sing for another week, Carolynne and Rylan are left wondering what they're doing wrong. Nicole can't believe that Rylan is in the bottom two, even though he proceeds to wipe his bleached arse all over One Night Only from Dreamgirls. If I described it as 'gay bar cabaret', I'd be doing a disservice to all the second-rate perfomers who inhale their own body-weight in poppers on makeshift stages up and down the country every night. Gary welcomes back the "supremely talented Carolynne", suggesting that he's the winner of tonight's gratuitous hyperbole award. As Carolynne helpfully points out why she's not fit to shine Faith Hill's Manolo cowboy boots, we can see Rylan and Dermot chatting in the wings. It's like watching someone proposition an off-duty rent boy, but from this distance, it's hard to determine which one of them's holding the wallet.

As the judges vote, it's no surprise that the Gary and Nicole choose their own acts to save. Tulisa also saves Carolynne, despite claiming that "every time Rylan steps on the stage I'm entertained." People said the same thing about Rod Hull. Finally, we get to Louis, who's never missed an opportunity to milk this moment for all it's worth. His eyes grow misty, his hands wave, and he dithers like a granny at the M&S self-service tills. Dermot's getting anxious that they're going to get yanked off, but that might have something to do with whatever arrangement he made with Rylan.

In the end, Louis says he wants to save Carolynne and then changes his mind, sending it to deadlock. Gary's already on his feet in protest, and when his act is named as the one with the lowest votes, he's off. The audience are booing at the fact there are no vegetables to throw, and we're left wondering whether Gary will be back next week. As if that was ever really in doubt. Over on Twitter and the gossip websites, the viewers are threatening to quit the show in droves, claiming that the X-Factor has lost all credibility. Now there's a word you don't often see in connection with anything that started out in Simon Cowell's cerebrum. The conspiracy theorists are focusing on the "man seen talking to Louis during Rylan's performance" - so it seems that all we're missing is a grassy knoll and a pink pillbox hat.

Carolynne appears gracious in defeat and Rylan looks like he's about to swallow his own tongue. For the rest of us, the road rolls ever on.

Making it their own

Two and a half hours. I know the producers of the X-Factor want to make a big deal about the return of the live shows, but I could cook a leg of lamb in less time. Throughout tonight’s show, we’re going to hear lots of people saying “I’ve waited my whole life for this.” And chances are, that’s how I’m going to feel about making it to the end of this broadcast. No sense complaining about things I can’t change, so on with the show.

It’s amazing how overly familiar it all seems once the opening titles are out of the way, as well established routines and clichés keep popping up like Vietnam flashbacks throughout tonight’s excessive running time. The first of these is MISTER Dermot O’Leary’s entirely unnecessary Gangnam Style dance routine. For a show that’s supposedly all about fun, the look on Dermot’s face suggests he’s finally realising the true price of his Faustian pact. With Syco Productions. As the dancers slope off the stage, Dermot welcomes “Four pop music moguls” which is a bit rich – Tulisa thinks moguls are the steamed dumplings that they serve in the Happy Rickshaw. The judges enter to John Williams’ Superman theme, and Tulisa gives the audience a cheeky wink (I said ‘wink’, with an ‘i’). Nicole, on the other hand, appears to be wearing half a dress, with only a piece of black masking tape between her and another irate Daily Mail campaign about ‘the Sex Factor’.

First up, it’s time to find out who won the wildcard – they’re all delighted to be back, apart from Christopher, who in customary style is gulping and shaking as if he’s trying to swallow a whole goose.  No need to worry, as it turns out that he’s won that coveted thirteenth spot, and collapses in a melodramatic manner that makes Rylan’s performance last week look like the model of ambivalence. As he gives his jittery thanks, his voice gets higher and higher, as though they’re piping helium into the studio. Hope someone shuts it off before he floats away and bursts on the spotlights.

This year they’re making a much bigger deal about social media, so we’re instructed to “get involved in the live debate on Twitter.”  To illustrate the point for the hard-of-thinking, a giant screen aggregates the comments so far. Missing the point of Twitter, the producers have deleted all the commenters’ names, because this show has never really been about the fans. As the numbers for the contestants are revealed, Dermot makes his way along the line-up, getting increasingly touchy feely as he goes. At this rate, Jahmene is going to be lucky if he makes it offstage without being penetrated. Thankfully, Dermot reigns it in just in time, sending the jittery lad away with a chaste kiss. No tongue.

District 3 are kicking off tonight’s show, but don’t worry if that’s got you puzzled. They’re the artists formerly ignored as GMD3. That old name didn’t really do it for anyone, so they turn to the internet for advice – which is always a good idea. The boys appear to be snuggled up in bed together, to review the shortlist. This curious mise-en-scène is inspiring a few suggestions of my own, but I doubt they’d be suitable for a pre-watershed boyband. The newly monickered District 3 take to the stage to do an unusual arrangement of Simply The Best, but restyled to sound more like Sia’s Titanium. Their vocals are fine, but it’s got all the energy of a pensioner’s EKG reading. Tulisa is right in there with the first of many “You made that song your own” comments. Nicole confesses that the boys have a soft spot in her heart, and in that dress we can actually see it. The best feedback so far comes from Louis who tells the lads “You’re like a young Boyz II Men.” which serves only to remind me of my favourite line in The Jerk – “I met a girl Momma, and she’s just like you. But thin and white.”

After a pointless walk-on by One Direction, presumably in a desperate bid to remind viewers that X-Factor can still generate record sales, it’s time to say ‘hello’ to the newly made-over James. It’s amazing what a good wash and a haircut can do, but Nicole is over-egging things slightly when she unconvincingly claims that she barely recognized him when he walked in. Maybe she could borrow his Deirdre Barlow specs. Tonight he’s doing an irritating gloomwobble rap-augmented version of (What Doesn’t Kill You) Stronger, complete with a badly mangled key change. For the last part of the performance, he stomps around the stage like he’s trying to pick a fight with himself in a shopping precinct. Louis feedback amounts to little more than “Well done Middlesborough” and Gary tells him not to lose his integrity. Louis has completely lost it now, drowning out Barlow by repeatedly shouting “He made it his own.” Someone change his batteries before he does himself an injury. Nicole helpfully explains that this song is about ‘What doesn’t kill you makes you stronger’ for the benefit of anyone who didn’t get that from the title. Suddenly, even James is telling us that he made the song his own. It’s like that scene in Outbreak, where you see the airborne virus spreading through a cinema.

MILF-alert now, as it’s time for Melanie. She’s looking particularly lovely in her VT, but she really needs to stop wearing those scarves in a vain attempt to hide her turkey wattle. Her song choice is pretty predictable – Joe Cocker’s redo of ‘With A Little Help From My Friends’. The stylist clearly couldn’t be bothered, so they’ve just given her the wardrobe from a regional production of Jesus Christ Superstar, and told her to figure something out. As in previous appearances, she sings the first half, and screams the second. Louis says that he loves it, because he remembers Woodstock. Not the festival, the movie.

Lucy is the first person to sing her own composition on the X-Factor, and it’s all about moving mountains. Speaking of which, Brian Friedman is clearly struggling as he attempts to create a dynamic performance out of a mild-mannered lesbian with an acoustic guitar. He looks as frustrated as a neutered dog in a surgical collar trying to lick its wounds. The song is pretty dull, and she delivers it in an irritatingly exaggerated accent. Nonetheless, the judges are all falling over themselves to call her unique, as though she’s the first woman to ever pick up a guitar.

After a quick meet and greet with Christopher’s Nan, it’s time to check in with MK1. They’re giving it 100% tonight, and they’re delighted to have Louis as a mentor. He might not know much about urban music, but he can certainly teach them to ignore the laws of maths and start cranking up those percentages. The lyrics talk about pushing themselves to the limit, but a combination of excitement and nerves mean they’re way beyond that. Louis has nothing of value to add, so instead settles for that old favourite: “I need people to vote for this band.” 

Christopher is here, still quivering like Michael J Fox on a washing machine. In an ill-advised move, he’s having a go at Mariah Carey (not like Nicki Minaj did) by taking tonight’s ‘hero’ theme a little too literally. It’s just as pub-singer average as you’d expect - in tune, in time, and about as exciting as a pack of reduced fat digestives. Nicole patronises him with a ‘way to go, Sport’ air punch, and Tulisa calls his voice “undeniably amazing”. Tonight’s homework will be looking up the definition of ‘undeniably’.

Time for more unthreateningly photogenic young lads now, as Union J take their turn. They’ve been working hard on boyband VT 101 – which basically consists of shouting out random sentences in unison. They’re boasting that they’ve all had facials, but I’m not here to speculate on Louis’ hands-on management technique. The boys are delighted that George joined them, adding “I don’t even remember Triple J.” But I don’t think they’re alone in that. With voices that are weaker than a happy hour cocktail, their version of Don’t Stop Me know would have Freddie’s corpse spinning like the Large Hadron Collider. The key word is pain, and it’s etched on all the judges’ faces. Louis offers up a Mea Culpa for the song choice, giving it some serious Tony Blair double palming, but it’s too little, too late.

There’s something earthy and calm-headed about Jade that makes her one of the most appealing performers in this year’s roster. It’s just a shame that they’ve over-styled her so much, since she looks her best without all the make-up and cascading blonde curls. Her version of Enrique’s Hero is all very low tempo, but it manages to stay the right side of cheesy, thanks to her distinctive voice. Oh shit, Nicole’s gone off script and is actually giving notes on key and tone.  Backstage, the producers are hovering over the kill switch – the last thing anyone needs is for the audience to start thinking about the music.

“The fierce and fabulous Rylan Clark” is on next, briefing the team on his desired look for the live show: “I’m thinking sparkle, but subtle. Like, ‘Oh’, but ‘Oh’. Do you know what I mean?” The poor stylist is mentally updating his CV. After a week of Twitter abuse, Nicole consoles Rylan and tells him “You’re here for a reason,” but neglects to mention that it’s because the producers didn’t give her a choice in the matter. He’s come on dressed as a giant Wispa Gold, and it’s as awful as you’re probably imagining. Only the long close-up on one dancer’s remarkable camel toe can distract me from the tuneless mess that’s falling out of his pouting face. Louis tells him he’s a good singer, and Tulisa users her trademarked “on point” feedback. Gary points the finger of judgment at everyone, reserving particular scorn for Nicole. She responds by reminding him of the Do What You Like video, then carrying on like a drunken drag queen throwing shade and snaps in equal measure.

“Normal service resumes” now, as Gary introduces Kye. That means lots more promotional footage of the hotel the contestants are staying in, because there’s bills to be paid. Particularly exciting for Kye is the moment when ‘Gary’s Overs’ get to jam with Mark Owen, which in the grand scheme of things must be almost as exciting as going to a strip club with Theresa May. Kye’s version of Man In The Mirror is really strong, sounding like a fresh reinterpretation with a strong vocal. But I still can’t shake the feeling that I’m watching a musical dream sequence from The Big Bang Theory.

Ella is up next, with her mouth like the entrance of a bus depot. She’s still rocking that throwback hairdo, but something’s gone a bit wrong – like she spent ages backcombing it, then wore a really heavy hat. Tonight she’s doing a lovely pared down version of Take That’s Rule The World, and she sounds fantastic, apart from a couple of wobbles on the high notes. Even so, if she doesn’t make it to the last two, I’ll eat MK1’s extensive collection of caps. Nicole’s channeling some Paula Abdul madness in her feedback, and Louis invokes the holy name of Leona Lewis. High praise indeed.

Carolynne is gorgeous, but as dull as a shoebox full of damp wool. Gary’s determined to remold her as a country singer, presumably because she looks a bit like Shania Twain. The song choice might seem like an odd one – Nicki Minaj’s Starships doesn’t scream steel-guitar – but there’s a long history of songs that work in R&B and Nashville. It’s not bad, but the sluggish tempo and ambivalent vocal won’t see her troubling the final.

Finally, we get to see whether Jahmene can hold it together long enough to make it through yet another badly arranged interpretation of Imagine. They’ve put a weird echo filter on his voice, that makes it sound as if he’s performing in Wookey Hole. Towards the end there’s a massive key change, and then a lot of uncontrollable ad-libbing, prompting Tulisa to use an awful lot of words to explain that how speechless she is. As for Nicole, she’s delighted he’s found his balls and just wants to squeeze him, but that manicure could bring tears to his eyes. 

One hotel, plenty of reservations

The incessant fusion of second rate celebrities with derivative reality TV formats continues apace, with Channel 4's latest innovation - Hotel GB. They've taken over a hotel for a week, and filled it with "some of Britain's most famous faces", whilst Paddy McGuinness parades up and down the pavement outside like he's running the taxi rank.

The lofty goal of the show is to "get Britain working again," as though the whole country has spent the last five years watching Jeremy Kyle and fishing stray pork scratchings out of its underwear. There's a depressing gender bias in the allocation of roles, with Gordon Ramsay and Gok Wan looking after the food and drink, and Mary Portas "and her girls" taking care of hospitality. Gordon comments that he's worried that they'll be stuck with the biggest shithole in London; which is precisely how the rest of the team must feel about him whenever he leaves the room.

Elsewhere, Dr Christian Jensen is managing the gym, and hoping that no-one will be dropping their trousers in front of him. It's a long time since I've watched Embarrassing Bodies, so I'm shocked to see that the once handsome doctor appears to have transformed into a withered tree from the Addams Family's back garden. If he looked petrified before, it's nothing compared with the shell of a man that's left after Kim Woodburn has straddled him on a sit-up bench.

According to Paddy's occasional voice-over, one in five young Brits are unemployed. 2,500 have applied to be trainees in Hotel GB, where Gordon is looking for hunger from his prospective employees. But he's a chef, so he would say that. As for Mary, she's hoping to find people with a sense of joy - presumably so she's got something to crush out of them.

The young hopefuls are a less than inspiring bunch, especially Tom who seems to have come straight from the village shop in Royston Vasey. They enthuse about the chance to clean toilets for minimum wage, and when one girls cries about her struggles with cystic fibrosis, you can see the glee in Gordon's eyes that they've hit the sob story jackpot. For all the talk about wanting to make this one of the best hotels in the world, the successful applicants get half a day's training before being thrust into the firing line, suggesting that no-one's taking the show's concept too seriously. The poor fuckers don't even get to keep their own tips - since they'll all be donated to charity.

Day one begins with Kim, Gok, Gordon and Mary all gathering in the lobby to congratulate each other on the fact that they're all the 'queen' of something. But there's an embarrassing silence when they get round to Gordon, and legal considerations prevent me from speculating why this might be. In a shocking twist, it appears that a couple of hours' training might not have been sufficient for these apprentices who've never had a full-time job before. University graduate Vanessa has a meltdown during a role play and quits before anyone's even turned the sign on the door to open.

On the big opening day, the team is given one last pep talk before the real customers arrive. They're told that they've got some "big hitters" coming in tonight, which means we could be getting a surprise visit from Justin Lee Collins. But it turns out that the celebrity guests are Hilary Devey and Jackie Collins. Meanwhile, Phil Spencer is being put through his paces as maître d' and promptly confirms every single preconception about estate agents being utterly useless.

The reception staff are struggling to get their heads around the concept of customer service, as the creepy hobbit decides to focus on a guest's eyelashes until she starts reaching for the pepper spray in her handbag. Over in the spa, Katie Piper is relieved that her first treatment has "a happy ending." I hadn't realised it was that kind of an establishment. Christian is busy getting settled in a gym that the Borrowers would find a little too cramped, and Kim's upstairs giving Hilary's room some "special attention." I think that means giving her duvet cover the once-over with a UV lamp. 

In honour of the other esteemed guest, Gok has knocked up a special cocktail called the Jackie Collins. I'm not sure what went into it, but I'd bet a tenner it tastes like cum and hairspray. Poor old Hilary, who rocks up with two Yorkshire terriers in tow and a body warmer that looks like it was made out of Cookie Monster, doesn't get a cocktail named after her. Not to worry, she looks like the sort of woman who'd settle for a bottle of Gordons and a couple of straws. She and Mary bond in her room, and I'm reminded of her charming laugh, which sounds like a garage door scraping across a gravel driveway.

Up on the top floor, there's supposed to be a wild hot tub party taking place in the penthouse suite, but it looks more like a dozen bored students throwing a housewarming in a Barratt new build. Emily on reception has to deal with an aggressive drunken cock from the party, who comes down to demand more vodka. Despite her lack of training, she handles the encounter admirably, and resists the temptation to ask him if he wants it administered anally. 

Ultimately, I'm not sure what the point of this show is. By mashing up elements of Celebrity Big Brother, Jamie's Fifteen, The Apprentice and Secret Millionaire, it feels as though Channel 4 is hedging its bets. For all the lofty intentions about getting Britain back to work, it's really just another week-long exercise in vapid celebrity worship that's really not worth checking out.