ITV ASSAULT

I was sitting. Relaxing. Minding my own business. There was a baked potato. There was some Come Dine With Me. It was good. I was content. Then, from nowhere, an attack. I was screamed at. I was beaten about the head by a christmas turkey. Joanna Lumley hissed at me. Flashing lights blinded me.

Had I been kidnapped by the government and tortured? Was this my extraordinary rendition?

No. I had sat through the final of The X Factor. I know, I know. But worry not. I just about survived, though I felt like a rape victim. Yes, rape victim. Offended? Tell it to Trisha.

The whole two hours was, of course, punctuated by equally painful christmas ads. In the space of two minutes, there were four, yes four, ads for co-op food. I think they may have even been exactly the same ad. And why? For what? In media training, we are taught not to underestimate our audience. But co-op clearly believed I was a retarded amnesiac who had neither the brain capacity, recollective skills, or attention span, to remember not to shop there.

But how could our attention spans not be fatally shortened? X Factor has an average shot length of less than a second. And, after having so many memorable shartists rammed down our throats over the course of each series, we are then actively encouraged to forget about them so we can embrace their new stable of woefully untalented units when the next series starts just months later. The Jackson-Pollock's-vomit colour palette of the show, combined with thousands of needlessly flashing lights, made me wish I was an epileptic so I could at least have a fit and be excused from proceedings.

Half an hour in, and my painfully-devoted-to-the-cause-on-account-of-drinking-the-special-kool-aid-provided-by-the-reverend housemate offers me a glass of red. The classy stuff, not the two for £5 plonk I normally sup on. This, he thinks, will take the edge off the whole experience. I suggest a bottle of bleach and a straw would suffice, but he declines to indulge me.

And so back to the thunderous platitudes from Cole and Co. 'You tore that from your soul', says Cheryl Cole of a performance by Olly Murs. What soul? He sang the way all of them sing, all the time! Dull, soulless, and occasionally amusing because they can't reach certain notes. If he tore that song from his soul then evidently he can't tear his way out of a single ply Kleenex. This ridiculous remark was only trumped by Simon Cowell remarking that a slow motion black and white montage of Olly's 'best bits' (contradiction in terms) made him 'feel quite emotional actually'. Mr. Cowell, you feel nothing but pure evil. And evil is a compulsion, not an emotion, you idiot. Olly himself then remarked that Joe deserved to win because he has always been 'breathless with his vocal'. The same way I'm pissy with my sperm.

Just to kick me when I was down, Paul McCartney, joined by the previous X-Factor rejects, took to the stage to sing 'Drive My Car'. How dare he cheapen The Beatles back catalogue by fusing it with this show. And why this particular song? Is it because it's currently being used on a shit perfume ad starring that other great shartist, Sienna Miller? I think so. George Michael sang a truly bizarre song about dreaming of christmas. Not in a Bing Crosby aren't-I-nice-and-cuddly-and-an-Academy-Award-winner-to-boot-though-I-secretly-beat-my-kids kind of way. This song was about white sugar from Jesus, a virgin mother, something about sitting in front of the t.v all day, and all sung in a depressing minor key with backing from a creepy choir. And, naturally, Leona Lewis sang an Oasis cover which was in too low a register for her to belt properly, causing her to shoe-horn in some unnecessary ooh-ing and aah-ing in order to get her to the octave change that allowed her to let rip. And for those of you waiting for her to sing with her eyes open, we were once again sorely disappointed. Come on. She would hate for us to see the pound signs in her eyes and spoil the girl-next-door illusion.

But on to my personal highlights. Cheryl began to cry while wearing red, glittery eyeshadow. I'd hoped it would run down her face and at least give me some joy because it could look like someone had scratched her eyes out. Alack, it did not run. Then someone won. That was all. At the very end, it had already begun. They stopped mentioning previous contestants. Even the one that, seconds before, still had a chance of winning it. The process of forgetting was happening again. This is one part of the indispensable X-Factor experience I shall surrender to with relish.

Next year, I might bounce current housemate into the street in order not to do this again. I think making me sit through a whole series of X-Factor is an entirely unfair punishment for us watching Mamma Mia. Especially when he was the one that requested it.

In other news, a dear friend played me some Mumford and Sons the other day. It was good but all I kept thinking was how sad it was that Daniel's wife had died and that Matt would now be Betty's boss at Mode.

Peace xx