John

Edward

So John and Edward are through. Yes! Woot woot. This tribute act to David Lynch’s classic won’t win the eventual final but having Simon Cowell’s show devalued in such an embarrassing way is wonderful entertainment.

We love crass. And John and Edward are a crass act.

In my day it was acts like Kenny and Chicory Tip who polluted the charts with backing tapes made by session musicians over which these cheerful  chummy chavs would strut excitedly onto the famous TOTP stage and mime. We would scream at the telly and declare death sentences on the guilty. Many actually paid good money to keep them in ciggies for a year.

Nothing changes.

“Die you bastards.” Oh you know I don’t mean it. I am sure John and Edward have a direct debit with Save a Donkey but they simply cannot sing or dance.

File in gay icon category. And no I am not homophobic just punch drunk to image marketing.

The reason why the wonderful sitcom,  Extras was so successful was because Gervais and Merchant  eeked out the cult of celebrity and distributed its innards around your front room.

John and Edward are your traditional Vaudeville flops. But wait, they just can’t go off stage before we have thrown some more tomatoes. Now, thanks to the phone vote, we can. Maybe even for a couple of years.

We love you, John and Edward. Aww bless.

The whole show reeked of crass.  How we laughed when Whitney attempted one more platitude armed with a whiff of crack pipe between takes.

Me? I blew some Helium.

Meanwhile Clive the Aged Prophet uttered a couple more encouraging one liners like “Keep it up yeah” while soaking up the tributes from Cowell, who should know better,  that this man alone (not Epstein) was pivotal to all our record collections.

He discovered Whitney. Gobshite.

Cheryl Cole, intent on blowing everyone off the stage, shocked us all with her “risqué” cheerleader garb and, with the help of around 73 dancers,  succeeded in showing how a lack of basic talent could be masqued by persona and a thick layer of war paint.

Altogether now gulls. We’re worth it.

Leona Lewis has talent. But in the absence of any imminent catfights in posh night clubs, the media aren’t going to give her the coverage that Amy Winehouse receives in spades.

Jamie Archer isn’t a bad singer. But wait. There’s something missing. Nice hair. But where’s the guitar or even a banjo? Trumpet? Gob iron even? Songwriting? Null points.

We get what we deserve.  Enjoy John and Edward’s journey to red tabloid hell. Now where did I put those fish heads?

Picture credit: www.davidlynch.com