Fighting and Stealing - The Voice turns into the Croydon Riots

If it seems a little windy out tonight, we can probably blame it on the nation's collective sigh of relief, as eight million people realise that the interminable blind auditions have finally finished. So now, we limp exhaustedly towards the dual rounds, where two singers go head-to-head, and only one survives. That sounds a lot more dramatic than it really is. Maybe this is more explosive on the US edition of the show, where competitiveness is part of their DNA. Here in the UK, it’s a decidedly polite affair – imagine a political debate moderated by Gloria Hunniford.

The judges are still excited to be here though, as we see Ricky cartwheeling across the stage, and hear various iterations of “It was great, it was amazing.” Trust me, there’s going to be a lot of that tonight. Even if they’re just talking about how well the Febreze worked on Jessie’s old chair. Tom insists he’s looking for the complete package, having spent the last 60 years wearing out his own, and Ricky’s moaning: “I’ve got twelve, then I’ve got to cut them down to six. What’s that all about?” It’s called The Voice, Ricky. Didn’t you read your contract? Will even warns that he brought a knife to the duels, so don’t be too shocked if the show goes full West Side Story by 9pm.

It’s time for the judges to take their place, so Will helps Kylie down the stage steps. Which reminds me; we’ve yet to see a single woman walk up or down those four steps unaided. If this show comes back for a fourth season, the BBC would do well to put in a Stannah – it’ll half their insurance premiums.

Tonight’s first duel is courtesy of Team Will. To help him get his acts prepared, he’s brought back his fellow Pea, Dante Santiago, as well as Leah McFall – last year’s runner up. It’s a canny move on Will’s part, to promote the album the two of them have been working on for the last twelve months, but she’s not exactly gifted with abundant industry insight. Leah’s been through this process, so feels that she can empathise. That’s great, but they’re stressed enough as it is, without some pointless Irish badger saying, “Yeah, I did that too.”

Will picks Jermaine and Sarah to sing I Knew You Were Waiting. He tells us that he loves how Sarah enjoys every note, now if she could just translate that into the audience feeling the same. He also observes the fact that Jermaine keeps “moving his little head,” which is a bit rich coming from someone who could use a magnifying glass as a shaving mirror. The boxing motif is back in full force, but it’s doubtful that anyone’s going to get punched in the face. Tom gives his crinkly-eyed smile because he’s heard this one before. Sarah’s strong, if a little dated in her style, and Jermaine seems like a compilation of secondary characters from Coming To America, especially the preacher and the lead singer of Sexual Chocolate. Still, at least it worked pretty well as a duet. Emma wonders how Jermaine gets so low, and Will thinks his whole story is “kismic.” I’m guessing that’s supposed to be a combination of karmic and kismet. In the end, Will keeps Jermaine, which makes Sarah available for the steal. As she stands there hopefully, bathed in cold, blue light, the other judges avoid eye-contact, like they’re checking their voicemail.

Over on Team Kylie, we’re introduced to her “filthy, gorgeous Scissor Sister friend, Jake Shears.” His eyes are bulging so wide, it’s like watching Cohaagen die in Total Recall. They’re reflecting on Lee and Jimmy’s original auditions, where Lee apparently “sang Kylie’s song back to her, with interest.” Just not mine. Jimmy’s the one who works as a decorator, but warns us that he’s “not living for the paint brush,” cleverly referencing one of Stevie Wonder’s original discarded lyrics. They’re singing When You Were Young by The Killers, and Lee is feeling a little insecure – “Jake isn’t the one entering the ring with Jimmy,” he observes, in a comment that ought to be accompanied by the sound of a swanee whistle. Marvin pitches the duel as a “civil war between Kylie’s Coventry boys,” but in all honesty, it’s more of a dispute in a small claims court. Lee’s shirt doesn’t fit, and neither does the song, leaving Ricky looking as if he’s sitting on one of those studded iPhone cases. There are far too many close-ups on people’s wide open mouths – this must be like porn for dentists. Kylie seems to be siding with Lee, who’s so stocky he’s practically a pork pie with tattoos, and Marvin is just hoping that no-one’s noticed his red shirt and pink trouser combo. Jimmy knows his time is up, but at least he could get work as Linda Henry’s stunt double on EastEnders.

Tom walks into the rehearsal room to be greeted by a bevy of brassy women, like a Tupperware salesman who just hit the jackpot. He’s bizarrely picked Tinie Tempah as his advisor, presumably because the producers are worried that he’s only pulling in the Countryfile crowd. Sally and Talia, are going head-to-head with their version of Olly Murs’ Dear Darlin’. At 54, Sally’s not entirely familiar with it, so picks up her clamshell phone (bless her) to ask her kids for insight. Not that any of this matters, since she’s flawless and haunting – elevating a rather ordinary pop song into something quite special. Talia, on the other hand, is struggling with the Cranberries equaliser in her head. Marvin tells them that they both look amazing, but that seems to be the only adjective in his repertoire, so we won’t be too harsh on him for lying. Tom’s choked up with emotion again, but I reckon the label on an Innocent smoothie would make him weepy. Ricky thinks Sally gives off a mist that makes him happy. I think means he’s just called her a hookah. You’re welcome.

Ricky is talking about taking his team from good to great, with Katy B as his advisor, mostly because she’s got a new album to plug. He’s pitting Beth against twins Tila & Tavelah on Katy Perry’s Roar. His coaching style has a touch of the Gervais about it, and Katy B is just a Catherine Tate character in search of a half-decent sketch – is this The Voice or have I switched over to Dave by mistake? The twins are good at jumping in and disguising the weaknesses in each others’ voices, which comes in handy on a song that’s in such a low register that Barry White would struggle. The whole performance is a hot, leopard print mess and, for once, I’m actually wishing that Katy Perry was here to sing it. Marvin says it was amazing, (surprise!) and the judges overegg the references to prowling. Marvin has to “axe” Ricky for his decision, so the Kaiser frontman chooses Beth, which makes Will pull a face like the invisible man is giving him a root canal.

Kylie picks Leo and Steven. Leo may have some “thunder down under,” but he’s not impressing Jake with his unwillingness to learn the lyrics of Thunder In My Heart. At least, I think he’s unimpressed – it’d be hard to discern any expression other than “Oh fuck, a train!” from his wide-eyed countenance. Too much is made of Leo’s attraction to Kylie, as if that cheap Primark skirt could genuinely throw him off his game. He might have struggled with the lyrics, but Leo opens strong, and Steven matches him with a James Morrison growl to his voice. The ad-libs are excruciating though, as they try to out-falsetto each other, waggling their fingers like gospel caricatures. Emma is managing the post-performance chatter like a pro, reminding us why she seems to be booked on every show except Panorama. Kylie chooses Leo, and Tom steals Steven; winning a grateful hug from Kylie. The sly old dog.

Time to saunter back down memory lane, as Tom recalls performing with Wilson Pickett on his TV show. This is because Bizzi and Kenny are going head-to-head on a soul version of Hey, Jude. Bizzi goes first, and it’s fine, if a little too much like the gig at a corporate do. Kenny has a great voice, but wears an expression like he’s worried about his overdue library fines. Will calls it as the best battle in three seasons, but it’s not like been spoiled for choice, since most of them were skirmishes at best. Tom picks Bizzi, and Kenny goes unstolen, like the hostess trolley in a looted Debenhams.

Marvin tells us we’re at the halfway point, and I begin to curse the fact that we don’t have bigger wine glasses.

Will pairs Tom with Callum, who’s come dressed as Ruby Rhod from The Fifth Element. Before they’ve sung a note, I’ve already decided that Tom should win, just because he’s not an insufferable wanker who takes his styling tips from old Salt N Pepa videos. PYT might have made a great Michael Jackson record, but it’s not exactly a great song, and in this format even 90 seconds can feel like a lifetime. In Belmarsh. Ricky thinks they look as if they’ve been performing together for years. So did Buckingham and Nicks – it didn’t mean they were happy to share the stage. Will chooses Callum, who then hangs around in the wings pretending that he’s hoping Tom will get a steal.

Kylie picks Jai and Nomakhosi to go next. Jai was apparently one of only a handful of performers to get all four judges to turn, “But whose team did she choose?” asks Marvin redundantly. “Jake and I have done many a thing together,” warns Kylie, prompting Jake’s eyes to bulge like he’s in a malfunctioning hyperbaric chamber. The girls are doing Tainted Love and are struggling with the competitive element. The band starts up and it could be Love Cats or Good Thing by Fine Young Cannibals. For most of the song, Nomakhosi is solidly impressive, unlike Jai who relies far too much on her shrilly affected Winehouseisms. It’s all very civilized until Nomakhosi improvises a showy final note that doesn’t impress Jai at all. Marvin says “I feel like a thorn between two roses right now,” and I can certainly see a prick. Kylie picks Jai, predictably, leaving Will to steal Nomakhosi. “Give him a hug, give him a hug,” chants Marvin, like the world’s most aggressive matchmaker.

Back to Team Ricky now, and Emily is tired of serving brown soup to pensioners, so she’s thrilled to be yelling Aguilera’s Fighter at Kelsey-Beth. Ricky gives them a pep talk, that seems to have been engineered primarily to show off his neat new haircut in some half-decent lighting. Kelsey-Beth sounds far too mannered, with no gravel or anger in her voice, whereas Emily fares much better with the vocals but struggles on the performance. Their hopeless sparring looks like the kind of rumble that happens in soft-porn movies about female prisoners. Kelsey-Beth admits she went a little numb during the performance, as did my ears. The judges try a variety of ways of saying Kelsey-Beth sucked, and it’s clear that Ricky agrees. As rivulets of tears work grooves into Kelsey-Beth’s makeup, Tom helpfully observes, “She’s crying.” Kylie’s the only one able to steal at this point, but hasn’t forgotten how Kelsey-Beth ignored her “I’ve been in a soap opera too,” pitch.

Celestine and Mairead are singing a song by Jessie J, to remind us of Tom’s favourite former judge. All that’s missing is Mrs Danvers, to tell us all about Miss Jessie’s multi-octave range. For some reason, they’re both wearing the kind of outfits I usually see outside my local Baptist church on a Sunday lunchtime, and I’m beginning to regret watching this in HD. They both sound awful, and I resent anyone making me miss Jessie J, in any context. It’s hard to tell whether the audience is waving in approval, or trying to signal the attention of emergency services. “That was so brilliant” says Mairead, having at least been spared the indignities of listening to it. Tom picks Celestine, leaving the audience to chant “Steal, steal” as if we’re back in the Croydon riots. “We’re still going to be best friends, aren’t we?” a crushed Mairead asks Tom. “Yeah, yeah, of course,” he lies through his veneers.

Over on Team Will, we’re reminded that Jessica is yet another Winehouse wannabe, and she’s intimidated by going up against Anna, the harp-playing pixie. Together they’re doing Green Day’s Good Riddance, and Jessica has added a keyboard to her repertoire, so she won’t be left twiddling her thumbs when her counterpart starts plucking away. Jessica’s vocal is screechy and tuneless, whereas Anna is cute and tuneful. That being said, the best part of the whole performance was the instrumental solo at the beginning. Anna laughs at Jessica’s desperation when the latter puts her leg up on the fence and points her groin at Ricky. Will picks Anna, leaving the constantly hysterical Jessica to cry on stage until Ricky steals her. It’s not pretty either – even Clare Danes would tell her it’s not a good luck. She weeps again backstage, telling us “I’ve been given a second chance once. Now I’ve been given a second chance again.” Technically, that’s a third chance, but I don’t think she’s in any fit state to take advice right now. Someone needs to get her a brown paper bag to breathe into.

Finally, Ricky gives us Christina Marie and Nathan. Christina Marie gets a bit bitchy about her chunky duet partner when Ricky advises them to play up the intimacy on their song, whereas Nathan spouts a bunch of clichés about turning it up to 11. Ricky breaks the fourth wall and tells us “You’re in for a treat.” But I’ve just polished off a tub of Haagen Dazs, so I think his timing’s a little off. They’re both very good, but Nathan’s shouting like Meatloaf on a proctologist’s table. Thankfully, Christina Marie gets Ricky’s vote, leaving Nathan to think about regrowing that awful moustache.

I'd Rather Go Deaf - The Voice, Week 6

Time is running out on The Voice. Not only for the judges, who’ve still got a number of performers to recruit for their respective teams, but also for the viewers, who are looking at their EPGs and thinking “Well, maybe Take Me Out isn’t so bad.” These are dark times indeed.

Six weeks in and the four judges have comfortably settled into their roles now. Will is still grinning like he just grew a second dick, Kylie has extended her flirting to inanimate objects (and it appears to be working), Tom still looks as confused as a camel trying to understand shortwave radio frequencies, and Ricky’s wondering why he didn’t try clear mascara sooner. “This is the hardest bit for me,” moans Tom, but he could be trying to unscrew the lid off a jar of pickled cabbage.

Tonight’s first young hopeful is Emily Adams, whose family run one of those hotels in Blackpool that looks like the smoking lounge on a P&O ferry.  “There’s a lot of pressure for people my age to get their A-levels and go off to uni. That’s not really what I want to do.” She’d rather pin her hopes and dreams on an ineffective TV talent show instead – someone’s careers advisor won’t be getting a Christmas card this year. She’s singing this year’s go-to standard: I’d Rather Go Blind, and it’s a strong, if rather mannered vocal performance. Ricky gets his first team-member of the night, and Will finds a nice way of telling Emily she sounds like a fat old woman. He also thinks that she needs to go to church, but given the severity of her perm, I’d be calling into a hairdresser’s first.

Keen to “put his favourite musical style on the map,” John Rafferty is a shapeless pile of man who used to impersonate Garth Brooks when he was skinnier. Poor syntax means it’s hard to tell whether he means when he was slim, or when Garth himself was more svelte. To be honest, they’d both struggle to squeeze onto the Nemesis at Alton Towers. He ambles out onto the stage as if he knows there’s a sniper in the audience, and proceeds to perform a woefully pedestrian John Denver cover. It’s a little better at the end, but in terms of star quality, he made Andrea Begley sound like Whitney Houston. No-one turns, because they didn’t think he lived the lyric. Then again, I’m not paying too much attention – I’m too distracted by the tattoo in his arm that’s the size of a crop circle.

Continuing the country theme, here’s Talia Smith, who looks like Liz Jones without the aging effects of misanthropy. She’s singing Hell on High Heels, which is also a fairly apt description of the performance; the high notes are rough and the low notes are worse. Ricky didn’t like the fact she sang in an accent, whereas I’m more put off by the fact that she sang at all.

Having dispensed with the country theme, we’re now in Family Hour, as we see a bunch of genetically linked pairings. Buheiji are a brother and sister duo, who mangle Dog Days Are Over and disappear almost as quickly as they appeared. Leanne and Natalie are a pair of sisters who look like they were booked for Sun, Sex and Suspicious Parents, but wandered into the wrong production office. We only see about ten seconds of their performance, but it’s enough to know why no-one turned. Their Dad’s a big Tom Jones fan, so they drag him all the way to the green room as the audience sit and twiddle their fingers.

The next family affair is Shenton and Bizzi Dixon. Bizzi had a record contract, but “it didn’t go as well as we all hoped,” he explains diplomatically. Shenton, on the other hand, does a load of terrible impressions, none of which look or sound like the person he’s supposed to be. They’re not performing as a pair; they’ll be going up as individuals. Helping to facilitate peaceful family relations, Mum says “May the best son win.” Shenton is up first and sounds like the kind of tribute act you’ll see at a million company Christmas dos. You know the sort - throwing down a couple of half-decent Kool and the Gang covers, before parking himself by the vodka luge and making a move on the interns.

Shenton is upbeat and implores Bizzi to do what he always does. But since the only thing we know he’s able to do is fail, that doesn’t sound like total encouragement. He’s going to close his eyes and give it his best shot, not realising that the term ‘blind audition’ is supposed to refer to the judges being unable to see. His version of Use Somebody is rougher than his brother’s performance, but Kylie and Tom turn anyway. Tom wants to hear what else he can do, hoping that he’s saving ‘singing in tune’ for the duels.  

Nathan Amzi can do the splits and has the least convincing moustache since Baldrick befriended a slug. The vocal is under par, but Ricky’s got four spaces to fill so hits his button anyway. Kiki deVille is a burlesque performer. She shows off her nipple tassels to a bemused Marvin, who asks “Where do they go?” She offers an inconsequential version of Paloma Faith’s Stone Cold Sober, with some very weird pronunciation and a dress that looks like Joshua Allen Harris’ bin-bag sculptures. With the judges playing it hard to get, she screams the last note to win Will’s support.

Callum Crowley is described by him mother as “very theatrical,” and we all know what that means. Having rolled his eyes and pursed his lips, he comes out in a beanie and a pair of ridiculous glasses that would make Joe 90 think twice. His voice is a nasal falsetto and the song is unlistenably shrill. Nonetheless, three judges turn, leaving Tom gurning like he’s forgotten how the button works. “You know all about sexy,” Callum says to Kylie, unconvincingly. Will wants to fine-tune his areas, and Ricky hopes he’s a Kaiser Chiefs fan. To be honest, he’s more likely to pick Ricky for the volumised eyelashes. “I’m all about the commercialised pop music,” he admits, then throws a curve ball by picking Will instead of Kylie. “We’ve waited so long for this,” says his mum, as if she’s talking about finally getting the spare room back.

The next pair are a couple of stage school graduates, who are whinging about the fact that they studied alongside Pixie Lott, Adele and Katy B. Marc William performs Whole Lotta Love in an outfit that makes me want to turn my back to the TV. The shirt’s bad enough, but sandals, in February? Bitch, please.  Tom tells him he has an incredible voice, and Will implores him to sing as if he was planning an outfit. On the strength of tonight’s ensemble, that’s the worst possible advice. Paul Raj is a nice looking lad, with strange Irn Bru-coloured hair. He’s got too much of an echo effect on his microphone, and his vocal is a tuneless falsetto. Still, at least he’s answered his own question about why his classmates hit the big-time instead of him.

Amrick Channa was raised as a Sikh, but loves “going out clubbing with friends and blinging it up.” Looking a little like Boy George, before he lost all that weight on the vegan diet, he says “Yes I’m an Indian guy in a turban but don’t stereotype me.” I guess this means he’d prefer us to think of him as a brash, vulgar prick. The less said about his version of Pride (A Deeper Love), the better, although now I’ve got the nickname Urethra Franklin stuck in my head. “Don’t worry son,” shouts his emotionless mum when none of the judges turn.

Jazz Bates Chambers loves nail varnish, and has one of those mums that tries to convince people they’re sisters. She also has a fringe so severe that it probably needed planning permission. Jazz is a pretty girl, although she’s wearing an unflattering powder blue outfit that’s too high on the waist and too short on the leg. The vocal is good, but way too affected, and bears no resemblance whatsoever to her speaking voice. Her phrasing and diction is awful; it’s like listening to Fran Drescher throw up into a milk bottle. Even so, Ricky turns because, well, time’s running out.

Amelia O’Connell has some fetching Scouse brows and is the daughter of a Tom Jones tribute act. There’s lots of talk about the surgery she had when she was seven, none of which has anything to do with anything. And that, in a nutshell, is what’s wrong with The Voice. It may talk the talk about being fresh and different, but it’s quite willing to play all the same derivative, exploitative games as its fellow TV talent shows. As for Amelia – her version of The First Time Ever I Saw Your Face is far too melismatic, but three of the four judges turn anyway. Maybe it sounded better through a well padded leather headrest. Tom tells her to focus on her education and being on his team, while he’s busy focusing on counting out his blood pressure pills.

Kylie's still Spinning Around - Week 5 of The Voice

It doesn’t take long for sparkly newness to be replaced with flaccid familiarity, does it? We’re less than six hours into this make-or-break series of The Voice, and already I’m greeting it with a sense of tired resignation. The blind auditions are a great concept, but five weeks in, I feel I’ve seen enough button pushing and chair spinning to last a lifetime.

Tonight’s first auditionee is Steven Alexander, whose Auntie Max was on the last series as one half of a pair of overweight middle-aged women. They’re giving him loads of advice, presumably on how to get quickly voted off the show. Steven’s performance is as breathless as it is tuneless, but it’s enough to get Kylie and Tom to turn. Tom doesn’t so much offer feedback, as talk through the last few minutes of his life. Then, when Steven name-checks his Auntie, Tom’s eyes widen like he just sat on a proctologist’s ice-cold speculum. In the end, Steven picks Kylie because, well, he looks like he knows all the words to Step Back In Time.  

Fiona Kelly gives us an extended skit about cheating on her husband with a horse. It’s supposed to be a cute and daffy portrayal of a middle-aged woman, but I’ve seen enough grainy VHS in my life to envisage a far more grim scenario. As for performing in the studio, Fiona wants to “Grab it with both hands and make one of those chairs turn,” although I think she might struggle with the mechanics. Her voice is thinner than one of Kate Moss’ shits, and she sings in a weird semi- operatic style. That would be bad enough, but paired with Gary Barlow’s insipid Rule The World, it’s downright wretched. None of the judges turn, so we’re forced to listen to them as they take it in turns to patronise her. Ricky tells her he could lead her down a very dark path, and she gets momentarily excited – sounds like Bob the packhorse might have some competition after all.

Chris Royal is Toadfish off Neighbours in a bobble hat. “I’m not working no more,” he tells us, explaining that he moved to Walthamstow from Manchester to pursue his dreams. He does a slow, mournful version of Wake Me Up, but until the beat kicks in halfway through, it’s more likely to trigger narcolopsy. The tuning is all over the place, but several of the judges turn anyway. Kylie’s surprised: “You seriously didn’t expect anyone to turn around?” which begs the question, why the fuck did he show up in the first place? She offers to sit and go through his record collection with him. Maybe it’s because he’s from Manchester, she feels she needs to go the Tracy Barlow seduction route. Ricky compares The Voice to a catapult (don’t ask) and Chris decides that the Kaiser frontman is his best option: “Maybe he can pull something out of me that I don’t even know is there.” I’m not sure, but he could be talking about a Guinea worm. Marvin’s on hand to ask him whether it was worth packing up and moving to London, oblivious to the fact that he had to come back up to Manchester for the fucking audition.

The next two acts were on last year’s show and are back for a second chance. Nick Dixon talks about his heart pounding and hitting rock bottom – dramatic stuff for a man who resembles a tarpaulin thrown over a pile of dumped tires. In fact, his performance is pretty good; he’s singing Home Again and there’s a lovely tone to his voice, but he projects zero charisma when he sings. None of the judges turn for him, but they happily accept one of his business cards, that looks as though it was printed in a batch of 100 for a fiver at a petrol station.

Elesha Paul Moses was formerly part of a duet, and made it as far as the duels. She wants to establish her own identity as a singer, but it would help if she could find the right key. After the judges spend half her performance complaining that it’s too low, she switches it up, and it doesn’t really help matters. As she stands on the stage in her denim shirt and leggings, she looks less like a pop star, and more like a company member in the touring production of Prisoner Cell Block H The Musical.

Lucy Winter’s based in Cyprus, where her husband is in the armed forces. Apparently she used to sing in the Cypriot bars which helps to set our expectations suitably low. As it happens, she’s surprisingly rocky with a nice throaty edge. She pushes her voice without ever losing the melody, but it’s all a bit incongruous with her image – like one of the Andrew Sisters in a cocktail dress and denim jacket. The judges all thought she was trying to hard, but she takes it well.

Max Murphy is a full-time judo athlete, which has me picturing him trying to enjoy a drink down the pub without punching someone in the neck. With his sturdy build and monotonous voice, he’s a bit like a sentient tree, but he’s being cheered on by his coaches Brian and Gary (think the Mitchell Brothers with mild head injuries). His rendition of Electric Feel is like a volcano belching, but it seems to work for Ricky. Kylie sees him, and hitches down the shoulder straps of her top. Subtle work, Minogue. Ricky  explains “We’re gonna pick songs you want to sing,” making this coaching lark sound like a piece of piss.

Joe Keegan has been Irish dancing for more than half his life, and looks like he can’t wait to escape his controlling Dad. As he makes his way to the stage, he manages to look like Ant and Dec all at once, before squinting like Michael Sheen eating a grapefruit. He starts out pretty weak, but he gets better in time to win a spin from Kylie and Ricky. Kylie falls back on her slightly contrived seduction technique, but things get confusing when she crosses streams and directs her full force flirting at Ricky by mistake. At this rate it’s going to be like the orgy at the end of Perfume.

There are confused faces all round when it comes to our next act. The VT is designed to make us think we’re getting another female singer, until the rug is pulled Crying Game-style (without the cock shot, thank goodness) to reveal that our young hopeful is James Byron. It’s unclear whether he identifies as transgendered – he certainly dresses and acts like a woman, but answers to James and is referred to as ‘he’ by his family. When he starts singing (very well, as it happens) Tom’s asks his fellow mentors, “Is it a boy or a girl?” If he thinks he’s confused now, they’ll have to up his dosage once he’s facing the stage. Will turns just in time, and manages to recover from his initial shock by pretending his wide-eyed reaction was because he thought his latest team member was called James BOND.

As if to hammer home the ‘appearances don’t matter’ message, we get a quick montage of pretty singers who failed to make the grade, before finally moving onto one who does.  “This is about the voice,” warns Sir Tom, “It’s not about the way you look,” he says, sneaking  a peek down Kylie’s top. Here’s Jade Mayjean Peters, wearing a dress slashed so high you can see her shoulder blade. Looking like the dictionary definition of sophisticated, circa 1987, she’s here to remind us that Gabriella Cilmi once happened. The judges all turn, and react predictably to her leggy loveliness. The boys are all staring at her, like she’s a large cartoon ham, and Kylie comments “You’re kind of like me, but curvier.” Since Jade obviously left her mace in her handbag, she picks Kylie just to be on the safe side. 

Because this is the good old BBC, we have to end on an uplifting note. Femi Santiago tells a tragic tale of homelessness and suicidal thoughts, before revealing that he’s now happily married with a baby. He’s doing My Cherie Amour and he’s got probably the most straightforwardly appealing singing voice and richest tone we’ve heard all series. Although the last note wobbles,  Will turns on it anyway. Meanwhile, Tom says he almost went for his button, but he could well be talking about the medical alert one, in case he has a nasty fall.

The Jump - Only The Ratings Will Plummet Faster

This time last year, I was sitting on a couch watching a parade of barely recognisable celebrities leap into the deep end of a swimming pool. Twitter descended into a cacophony of comments about how the show would be improved if it was recorded in a multi-storey car park, rather than the Luton leisure lagoon.

Well, someone at Channel 4 was obviously paying attention, because they’ve found a way of upping the stakes. In the process, they’ve even managed to trump Tom Daley’s show in terms of turgid pointlessness. Which is why we now find ourselves watching a live link from Innsbruck, as Davina McCall attempts to make small talk around the public screening of some pre-recorded slalom footage. Gripping stuff.

Sorry, I must be all caught up in the excitement, and I’m getting ahead of myself. Here’s how it’s going to work. Twelve celebrities have spent several weeks training in a variety of winter sports. They’ll compete in a different sport each day, without knowing how they’ve done, and on the daily live show, they’ll see their results. The two with the lowest scores will have to tackle one of three ski jumps, to see who stays and who crashes out of the competition.

The appeal of the show seems to be predicated on the public’s desire to see celebrities placed in mortal jeopardy. Presumably, there a whiteboard somewhere in Endemol’s offices that still bears the marker pen legends ‘Bobbing for Scythes’ and ‘Corn Thresher Trampolining’. With Sochi 2014 tobogganing over the horizon, winter sports are enjoying an uncharacteristically high profile, which is how viewers like me have found themselves switching over from Dancing On Ice to this. But as much as The Jump might be trying to get its celebrities trembling like a shitting dog, a one kilometer downhill slalom is nowhere near as much fun as watching Bonnie Langford in a headbanger.

Aside from the triumphant return of Davina McCall, who makes this presenting lark look as easy as tumbling down a ravine, the rest of the show is decidedly low rent. Co-presenter Alex Brooker amazes, if only for the fact that his agent’s phone continues to ring, and ‘resident ski-jumping icon Eddie the Eagle Edwards’ is on hand to remind us how it felt to be an international laughing stock. The Jamaican bobsled team has clearly dodged a bullet here.

The celebrities (I refuse to capitalise that word) are assembled in their padded winter finery, which makes them look like a sleeping bag sale in Millets, to watch how the boys performed in today’s Giant Slalom. They’re all complaining about how sick they feel, but at least they’re not sat at home trying to make sense of this shit. There’s a big deal made about the three ski jumps that the two lowest scorers will be expected to master, without ever actually acknowledging that people are only watching in the hope of seeing bits of Amy Childs being power-hosed off the branches of a Douglas fir. With no phone-in vote to worry about; a calamitous accident must be the only reason Channel 4 decided to broadcast this live.

Commentator Graham Bell talks us through the Giant Slalom; apparently the most technical of all the alpine disciplines. “Legs and lungs are screaming,” the guitars on the soundtrack are screaming, and I’m pounding Panadol like it’s a bag of Haribo. “An awful lot can go wrong,” the voiceover warns, as Denis Norden asks his carer to turn up the volume.

The first contestant tonight is Darren Gough; England cricketer, Talk Sport presenter, Strictly winner and the face of Costcutter. The producers are trying to ramp up the excitement on the bits that no-one’s interested in, so every clip of the training has been shot to look as thrilling as possible. Credit to them – they’ve managed to make an EasyJet flight to Innsbruck looks like it was directed by Irwin Allen. Sadly, the skiing comes without any risk to life or limb, and Darren scores an acceptable 47.74 seconds.

Next up is Richie Neville. “You may know me from the band 5ive,” he grins, oblivious to the fact that most people only know him from The Big Reunion. For a non-skier, he’s committed to the training and impressed the experts. “I’m gonna give this everything I’ve got – focus, determination. Let’s see where we end up.” I can’t be the only one hoping for a snow-blower to freewheel into shot. “Richie has thrown himself fully into his training.” Unfortunately, he fails to throw himself into some fencing, and comes in with a time of 54.79 seconds.

Marcus Brigstocke, is struggling. Not so much with the skiing – he’s quite posh so had plenty of experience on the slopes. It’s being funny on the fly that seems to be giving some trouble. There’s lots of talk of tightening up his turns as Marcus scores a respectable 44.75 seconds.

Now we’re talking. If ever there was someone we’d love to see on the business end of a ski pole, it’s fashion writer and smug socialite Henry Conway. Looking like Roy Hattersley’s Spitting Image puppet smeared in lipgloss, Conway growls “Come on my lovelies” all the way down the course. I think that was an attempt to butch up his act, but it sounded more like the Wicked Witch of the West. His score of 47.77 seconds isn’t bad, but he confesses that he had his heart in his mouth all the way down. I imagine that’s an entirely new organ for him.  

Five-time gold medal winner Steve Redgrave really should be above all this, but like any retiree; there’s only so much Sudoku a man can stand. He’s wowing the trainers by not falling over, then takes off to his room to practice moving his hips. His slalom is very impressive, and he’s tighter on the poles than UKIP, but I’m distracted by the deafening clang of cowbells on his descent – like someone’s jammed a goat in a tumble dryer. Steve ends on 39.30 seconds, which puts him in the lead.

Tonight’s final contestant is Nicky Clarke – a genetic fusion of Christopher Dean and Lion-O. We’re told his services to hairdressing saw him awarded “an OBE from the Queen” as opposed to the ones they hand out at B&Q. According to the experts, “he’s a classic 1980s skier” which goes perfectly with his stupid fucking hair. As he limbers up at the top of the run, Graham wonders aloud “Which Nicky Clarke will we see today?” Jesus, don’t tell me there’s two of the cunts. Happily, his pitiful time of 53.21 seconds means he’ll be tackling the jump alongside Richie Neville.

After some more excruciating banter-lite with Alex Brooker, we get to see what happened when Darren attempted the jump in rehearsal. And let me tell you – if you think this show is unwatchable, try sitting through it with someone who once suffered a knee injury. We also get a glimpse into tomorrow’s action, as the women tackle The Skeleton. It’s a one-person toboggan thing that looks like a tea-tray – so Monday’s show is going to be Last of the Summer Wine with collagen implants. After the quick VT recap, Davina says “Sinitta, that was you, wasn’t it?” I don’t wish to appear indelicate or insensitive, but when surrounded by a bunch of blonde women, the So Macho singer isn’t exactly hard to spot.

After 55 minutes of build up, the finale is a massive anti-climax. It’s less a ski jump; more like watching a sulky child hop down off the naughty step. Richie scores 11 metres, which barely seems longer than the length of his skis, and Nicky manages even less. Maybe some of the other sports will prove a little more captivating, but for now, The Jump is a stone-cold flop.

Si grates, Ricky waits and Tom detonates - The Voice Week 3

The ratings are in, and it seems as though that ill-important reshuffle has had the desired effect. Viewers are flocking back to the BBC, to see Kylie spinning around, and place their bets on when Ricky Wilson started curling his eyelashes. Even Emma and Marvin seem to be getting a little more confident in their presenting, making their way through the studio doing a two part introduction:

“This corridor leads to these stairs.”

“And these stairs lead to this stage.”

And this stage leads to public appearances at the opening of a new Wilko’s. OK, maybe it still needs a little work. The judges seem much happier too, especially Tom who speaks excitedly about Kylie: “She’s a ball of fire, that one.” The word ‘fireball’ never having made it to South Wales, apparently.

Tonight’s first auditionee is Andy Otley from North Wales. He taught himself to play guitar so he could woo women with Enrique Iglesias songs. He works in an estate agent’s office that’s full of garish cartoon women. There are also some painted on the walls. For some reason he’s ditched the guitar and decided to do Dance With Me Tonight. Since it’s making me miss Olly Murs’ rich tone and warmly melodic voice, we can count that as the criticism it so clearly is. “It’s a boy is it?” asks a befuddled Tom, who was obviously still tuning in when the song began with “My name is Andy, nice to meet you…” Ricky gives him some milquetoast feedback about why no-one turned, and Will compares it to hitting an opossum with his car then deciding to put it out of its misery. In the gallery, the producers are poking each other and saying “Is he talking about us?” Once they find out he’s an estate agent, Andy and Will enter into a weird kind of property-selling duel. I’m not sure what we’re supposed to call this – a wank-off?

After a bunch of pointless teasers in search of a commercial break to book-end, we’re introduced to Iesher Haughton. She’s from Walthamstow, and works in my local multiplex, so I’m already rooting for her to fail. While her laminate-loving parents get carried away backstage, she comes out and nails Who’s Loving You, like a cross between Alicia Keys and Minnie Ripperton. She might work in the world’s worst cinema, but she’s actually pretty likeable, particularly since she has that Leona Lewis quality of disappearing once she’s finished singing. Tom loved the phrasing, because he’s always happy when he can hear the words. Will turned round on the first note, pretty much securing her fealty. And Kylie? Well, she thinks Iesher can do anything. I’d like to see her painting a bannister-rail.

Paul Black is a Welsh tattooist who thinks that rock music and body art go hand-in-hand. His interview is a depressing array of tedious clichés, name-checking Ozzy and Iron Maiden, but it’s all part of an elaborate double bluff. After an opening burst of guitar, he launches into a swing re-do of Van Halen’s Jump. It’s better than it sounds, but this is the kind of novelty trick that only works once, like pulling a dove out of a dinner jacket. Will tells Paul that he’d like to come and see him gigging, but I doubt the R&B polymath is ready for the delights of Merthyr Tydfil.

This week’s contrived double audition is all about relatives of famous singers, and stars Adele’s cousin Georgia, and Danny-from-McFly’s sister Vicky. The latter, in particular, seems to have some serious psychological issues about growing up in the shadow of a famous sibling. Looking like a cross between Elvira Mistress of the Dark and Strawberry Shortcake, she hollers Bed of Roses, as a coven of orange women cheer along backstage. It was a pretty good vocal, securing Kylie and Tom’s vote. She picks the Welsh wonder as her mentor, but as she strides victoriously out of the studio, her exit is accompanied by McFly’s Five Colours In Her Hair. That’ll fuck her right off when she watches this back.

Georgia is also keen to be noticed for her own talent, rather than her famous relative, so maybe she should avoid starting every other sentence with “My cousin, Adele…” Just a thought. She’s doing a bouncy but soulless version of ‘Hallelujah, I Love Him So’ – her voice is pitchy and thin, and almost loses the melody completely on the high runs. The judges all complement her on looking younger than her 27 years: “I know, that’ll come in handy when I’m forty, won’t it?” she asks. “Yes it will,” concurs Kylie’s waxy countenance.

The producers have obviously realised that there are only three blind audition shows left, and none of the teams are even close to being half-assembled. So we start to see snippets of auditions, rather than the whole thing. The first contestant to lose out on valuable screen-time, is Celestine, who has a bit of a Grace Jones vibe, but doesn’t stand much of a chance of progressing beyond the duels round.

Si Genaro is an infuriating 42 year-old who seems to be channeling Billy Mack, and has confused talking incessantly with actual entertainment. He wants to bring an end to war and conflict through his folk, breakbeat, reggae music, and takes an overelaborate bow as soon as he gets on stage. Dressed in trousers too big, and a T-shirt that’s too small, he runs around the stage like an over-stimulated toddler, giving a rendition of Down Under that’s tuneless, breathless and endless. No-one turns, which means that the pressure’s still on the UN to solve the whole ‘world peace’ thing. He’s not very good at listening to feedback, and the judges spend far too long humouring someone for whom none of them actually turned. By the time he launches into a self-composition called Chicken Train, all we can see is a wall of pained smiles, like a Victorian photo shoot.

If last week’s show was all about Will’s unwillingness to turn, tonight’s is focusing on the acts who think they’re on Ricky’s wavelength. That means lots of acoustic guitars, strained vocals and ‘serious’ face. Nathan Kobierowski would be nice looking if he didn’t look like he just fellated a nailgun, and John Rush does Bad Romance in a Chris Isaak style, but it sounds more like a novelty record than a clever reinterpretation. Jeff Anderson does a decent Axl Rose screech, but it’s incongruous with his image – which is more mild-mannered marketing executive. Aside from shared delusions of affinity with Ricky, they have all been busy stretching the neck of their t-shirts (collarbones are the new black) but none of it impresses any of the judges.

Finally, someone manages to connect with the Kaiser frontman. Myles Evans is a trainee lawyer who was entered by his sister. Oh stop it, don’t be disgusting. Anyway, his sister had cancer last year and is emotionally blackmailing him into taking part. She seems far more feisty and interesting, so I’m a little disappointed that she’s not the one performing tonight. As the studio lights hit him, Emma does an audible ‘phwoar’ backstage – he’s got cheekbones you could surrender in a knife amnesty. Ricky hears something he likes and hits his button, giving Myles the kind of feeble wave you might offer a previous one-night-stand if you saw them in ASDA.

The last act on tonight’s show is Leverne Scott Roberts, who was in a girlband at 18, but got pregnant and moved to Cheshire to have babies. She’s clearly here to confuse the Daily Mail – a single mother with four kids, but lives in a £500k house. She seems to have wrapped herself in a hot pink beach towel, and she’s clearly nervous since her voice strains on the high notes. But she has a clean tone and nice musicality. The band obviously love her, because they seem happier than she is when all four judges turn. Tom commends her on not doing anything clever, which probably would have been a complement back in the 1920s.  Ricky steals Kylie’s babysitter angle, whereas Will goes straight for the  ‘You’re an angel who fell from heaven.’ As yet another female singer chooses the Welsh lothario, Ricky expresses concern that we need to diffuse Tom’s powerful sexbomb. I’d just throw a wet tea towel over it and whack it with a temperance spoon.

Unveiling Kylie's secret weapon - The Voice Week Two

Something weird happened last week. I ended up writing a largely positive recap of The Voice; an eventuality I had never considered, having previously suffered through two intolerable seasons. Of course, it still feels a little stiff, a little worthy, and a bit too hung up on its own misplaced sense of artistic integrity. Nonetheless, the departure of Jessie J and Danny Something-or-other, combined with the arrival of Ricky Wilson and Kylie, has given the show a much-needed shot of adrenalin, right in the ribcage. Let’s see if they can keep our interest for another 80 minutes, shall we?

The annoyingly stunning Emma Willis is here to explain the concept of the show to all the people who tuned out the moment Jessie J first appeared, and are making their first tentative steps back into the fold. “It’s all about the sound of the voice,” she advises, “if our judges like what they hear, they’ll spin into action.” You know, like Wonder Woman. There’s not much time allocated for judging clichés tonight, apart from Ricky telling us that he’s so competitive, he won’t even play charades. One word, two syllables, *shakes closed fist.*

Today’s first contestant is the pleasingly alliterative Jamie Johnson from Gillingham – the kind of name that would give Stan Lee a semi. He’s a massive mummy’s boy, and a lot like Olly Murs, without being quite so drownable. He seems to find everything hilarious, so I don’t feel too bad laughing at his sister’s pride in his limited achievements: “It’s amazing, now he’s made it onto The Voice.” He’s singing So Sick, and the R&B flecks really suit the performance. He’s all smiles once Kylie and Ricky turn around, and shows off some impressive gnashers. They’re almost like Rylan’s, except that they’re the size of actual teeth. Tom admits that he couldn’t tell whether it was a boy or a girl, “But that’s no bad thing,” he admits, growing misty at the recollections of a long weekend in Vegas.

Backstage, Emma asks Jamie’s hyperventilating next-of-kin whether he’s a Kylie fan. “No, but he thinks she’s fit,” answers his charmingly honest sister, deftly explaining why so many serious musos want the pint-sized pop tart as their mentor. All the other judges keep telling us that Tom is a legend, but since I’ve just seen Paul Young and Tom Daley respectively described as pop and diving legends, the word is beginning to lose all meaning. With another signing under her belt, the other judges are complaining that she’s “getting an army together,” as if she’s the Mouth of Sauron but with poutier lips. 

Maireid Conlon has three dogs that she tortures by dressing them in ridiculous hats and throwing them into canals. Apparently, her mum and dad wanted her to go to college but, in her own words, she’s not very academic. I don’t know how else to say this, but she doesn’t look academic either. Her choice of Purple Rain is an easy win for Kylie, since she’s always been a massive fan of the Minneapolis maestro. She does an impressive job, even rivaling Ruth Lorenzo’s epic version from the X Factor, and secures three judges in the process. Will seems a little disengaged tonight, and is in no rush to hit the button. Or maybe his has been disconnected by the producers as a punishment for all that tweeting last series. Then again, I’ve seen enough of these shows to know that he’ll probably hold out until the end of the programme and score a great signing for his team. Anyway, back to Mairead. “I didn’t expect to see you when I came round” says Ricky, like she just fished him out of the deep end of the pool. Tom heard her hit some powerful notes “and I just had to push my button,” he teases, veering dangerously close to some post-watershed language. As Maireid deliberates, Ricky gives it some subtle lip-licking, but since Tom smiles like her Dad, she goes with the Welsh wonder. Like I said, not exactly academic. Will expresses surprise that Tom and Prince share the same birthday. “Not the same year though,” Tom jokes. Please, I doubt they’re even the same fucking century.

The next slot is one of those double auditions The Voice is so fond of, if only to temporarily break away from the tediously rigid format. We’re briefly introduced to Lewis Clay, who’s moved back into his parents’ front room so his mum can make his tea, and Jimmy Weston; a 39 year-old painter/decorator. They’re like two halves of the same Matt Cardle. Jimmy likes to come home from a hard day’s decorating and ‘get in the zone’, but that could just mean huffing the paint fumes.

Lewis is up first, having already penned a ridiculous ode to Emma Willis. His voice is a little breathy and has too much fake grit, which affects his tuning. Not what you want on a full-scale screamer like Aerosmith’s Cryin’. When no judges turn for him, there’s a painful bit of “How’s it going mate?” “Yeah, alright mate” between him and Ricky. Will rambles about riding a horse, and in the end it seems they just can’t get rid of him quick enough.

Jimmy fares a little better, even though he’s similarly breathy and flat. However, the Bryan Adams tone of his voice seems to work for the judges, and his choice of Desperado is definitely more listenable. After Tom, Kylie and Ricky all turn, Jimmy gets a big whoop for being from Coventry. Strangely, that’s the most excited the audience have sounded all night. Kylie starts talking about when she was just beginning in the industry, but she loses her own thread and it all gets a bit awkward. No-one knows where she’s going, least of all her, so thank God Tom’s on hand to interject with the observation that Jimmy sounds like a human. Will asks what an alien sounds like, implying he’s never listened to his own back catalogue. Ricky offers to “hold it steady at the bottom,” inadvertently setting #gaycode trending on Twitter. Despite all logic and reason, Jimmy picks Kylie as his mentor. “We’re gonna do some beautiful stuff together,” she teases, offering an instant insight into why he picked her. “What does Kylie have that the other judges don’t?” asks a bemused Marvin backstage, as the producers belatedly give him ‘the talk’.

Kelsey-Beth is a former Emmerdale star, who’s now looking to break into the music industry. I know, she should be so lucky, right? In honour of her idol, she’s come along in some preposterously short shorts, although she’s pulled them up so high that the waistband could double as the underwire in her bra. Ricky and Kylie agree to both turn, which kind of undermines the point of battling it out for a contestant’s endorsement. She seems genuinely moved by their belief in her, which instantly distinguishes her from all the entitled ‘second-chancers’ who’ve in previous series. Despite her clear affinity with Kylie, Kelsey-Beth falls for Ricky’s impassioned pitch.

Bob Blakeley is a bald granddad who works in a chilled warehouse. Strangely, he tells us that he loves his job, so he probably forgot to read the briefing notes before filming his VT. He looks like the sort of heavy you’d usually find menacing Danny Dyer in an East End shooters & looters epic, but he’s actually super polite to everyone, calling them all ‘sir.’ Even Kylie. He does an impressive version of Bublé’s Cry Me A River, but his vocal probably sounds a little too much like Tom Jones for comfort. The other judges are all imploring Tom to turn, as if he’s only allowed to mentor singers who keep their teeth in a glass of water. Ricky seems embarrassed that none of them pushed their button: “We four didn’t turn round, but I think you got the whole country out of their seat.” I went to the bathroom, if that counts?

Miles Anthony is from East London and gives us tonight’s tragic family back-story. His niece has severe health issues, and this prevented him from appearing on the show last year. He’s so earnest and sincere, it’s clear that everyone is clearly rooting for him. In the end, he does a nice update of I (Who Have Nothing) which works really well, but it doesn’t win over any of the judges. Will’s critique is right on the money, as he explains that Miles was stuck between performing and producing. Kylie is genuinely moved, and attempts to comfort him, but after 25 years in the business she should probably know that whispering doesn’t really work when you’re mic’d up. A tear-stained Emma tells him he’s a wonderful man, only for him to say “Can I meet Marvin before I go?”

Sophie May Williams is another teenage singer with a ridiculous vintage clothes fetish. There’s at least one every year; turning up at the studio with a polka-dotted scarf wrapped round their head, looking like a back-up Puppini. Her granddad loves his time on camera, talking to the film crew like they’re a scout troop interviewing him about the war. Sophie’s got a Rosie Webster vibe about her when she talks, so let’s be glad that she’s hear to sing, rather than join a debate team. Her song is a curiously tempo-ed version of Time After Time that, whilst not quite the vintage I was expecting, certainly makes her sound old beyond her years. Will pushes his button at the very last minute and it’s a smart choice, because she’s precisely the kind of singer he enjoys working with. She and Will bond over classic jazz, and dressing like old people, while he goes off on one about his early life. He’s been so inert this evening that he could have nodded off and dreamed he was on Piers Morgan’s Life Stories. Heading backstage, Sophie looks terrified to see her family. I know how she feels; I’ve been to Wakefield.

Jermaine Jackman is from Hackney, so initially we get lots of footage of him in a hoodie, leaning against fences. Aha, but it’s all a clever bluff, because he’s actually active in youth parliament and is keen to address preconceptions about London’s black youth. And I Am Telling You (I’m Not Going) is a bold choice for a male vocalist, and I’d probably have advised him to avoid singing it like a demonstration of multiple personality disorder. Even so, he does a great job with it, and secures Will’s second vote of the night.  There’s much excitement about Jermaine’s potential, especially once Will talks about the “crazy, fresh, dope philanthropic stuff” they could be doing together. Unfortunately, my eyes just rolled so hard I’m going to have to wear a patch until they realign. They’ve got seven days to straighten out.