X-Factor is now showing at my Student Union bar: they can forget about my custom.

As a student the weekend normally means staying in; five days consisting of probably little work and much play (freshers?) have taken their toll, stag do’s from up north have arrived by the mini-bus load and the clubs hike up their prices for those unsuspecting people who work full-time- blimey imagine what that’s like?

Unfortunately being in a student house on a Saturday or Sunday may involve a word beginning with X and ending in Factor. I can’t quite bring myself to say the complete name because it's all consuming; it blasts in your face, screams in your ears and spreads all over Facebook.  

That guy can’t sing, she’s really common, he’s got a wooden leg etc.

Have you seen the news? There’s probably something quite important going on, like an earthquake. But wait, one of the judges is crying. My heart bleeds, they could be in their villa in Mauritius.

It really is a whole world of trollop. But typically when you’re in a house of at least four people, one reprobate wants to watch it. Personally, I’d rather stab myself in the eye, or one of the contestants. Sometimes I can’t decide.

The problem this year in particular is that the program’s head has grown the size of an abnormally large hot air balloon.

The lights flash like a techno rave, the commentators voice reminds me of the evil Saw man, and the audience is unbearable – imagine the man at the front telling them to cheer louder: he must be on acid.

Everything about it now screams American. Why? Because they want to send the winner over there and makes loads of wonga. In less they’re old. Or fat.

One thing that is particularly irritating is when they bring back old contestants who are now ‘successful’: “100 millions albums, 20,000 sell out tours and now fantastic at miming.” You get the drift. Well, what they don’t mention is what happens to the less lucky ones, who for some reason were not cool enough to make the dosh and were therefore quickly dropped by their label.

They really should bring them back. Here’s the ones who you voted for and didn’t make it:

“Hi, remember me, Steve err, what’s my surname, I can’t remember. Ah, Brookstein. Well I’m now singing in The Kings Arms, west Woolwich. The guys at the pub love me. I often get requests for Leona Lewis.”

Just to verify, said persons name in quote had to be looked up on Wikipedia in order to find their full name. And in case you’re interested he has actually been appearing in a musical called Our House. Sounds a hoot.

Second contestant:

“Hi my names Michelle McManus and well the industry is really image….”

Dermot: “Move on love you’ve on the wrong show. It’s a dog eat dog world.”

Anyway there’s still probably about ten treacherous weeks of the spectacle left.

That’s a lot of Saturdays out on the town, although note-to-self: apparently they've started showing the show at my Student Union bar so that's one to avoid. And well on Sunday, maybe I’ll lock myself in my room, apparently that’s really fun. 

PART 2: Revenge

Simon Cowell, for Christmas, you get a bag of coal. 

"Simon, I've got some disturbing news, you're no longer the big dog, the X-Factor single is at........number two."

S.C:  "WHAT, WHAT, WHAT's at number one?"

Adviser: "It's a....metal song sir."

S.C: "A METAL SONG, but the kids love Miley Cyrus."

Adviser: "It appears the listeners are a little angry, they are raging against you, sir."

This is the Facebook campaign to get Rage Against The Machine to number 1 this Christmas.

(http://www.facebook.com/group.php?gid=2228594104)

I mean could you imagine:

The top 40 Christmas chart countdown which everyone has forgotten:

"At number two, it's, IT's, the X-Factor single, which means, children, erm, turn your speakers up for.......... Killing In The Name."

Oh the joy that would bring to my ears.

It's the most seasonal song since Mr Blobby, but a whole lot more meaningful. 

This by the way is not an epiphany, but, I will now be praying to Jesus this Christmas that Rage Against The Machine beats the X-Factor to Christmas number one.

Literally, if you are listening God, turn your spawn on Mr Cowell and ruin his yuletide X-Factor X-mas monopoly. 

It would be the surprise present for such a song to hit the number one spot next Sunday - the coal in Simon Cowell's stocking.

I mean they even played the rock tune at our student nightclub last night, after Rhianna - what a mix up.

And finally what an amazing way to broadcast the tune, through the mouths of Cowell's puppets: