I think I have perfected the best way of getting through the auditions on that annual “talent” contest known as the X-Factor. This cannot possibly fail!
Basically, I should just sing really quite awfully until Simon Cowell starts his justified demolition of my attempted murder of whatever record it was, and then get really welled up and burst into tears as reality hits, much like a freight train. ‘Cos, of course, I’ll have spent the precluding months somehow convincing myself completely falsely that I actually have some untapped, unrecognised talent. It makes for great telly.
To bolster my chances, I’ll throw in a contrived, camera-friendly sob story, usually around a dead family member who I'm “doing it for”, which in reality is quite meaningless, in order to win the support of the thousands of people who watch these hopeless acts flail and blub for their “futures” live on stage in some form of weird, perverse circus act, who can then boo the judges (what do they know?!) into submission.
Because, when it comes down to it, there’s 15,000 music industry glitterati and specialists who know everything there is to know about the record industry and how that works at these auditions, and 4 idiots behind a desk at the front who really know f**k all and latch onto shallow, schmaltzy crap like this without a cursory glance at trivial things such as talent or star quality.
Oh, wait…
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