The One and Only

I subjected myself to the latest talent show offering from the BBC over the weekend – The One and Only. And then, horrified, I found myself enjoying it.

After viewing fluff of this kind, your head tends to devolve into a kind of goo. It’s television sticking it’s head out of it’s own anus and saying ‘fuck you!’ to the viewer while spitting poo onto the carpet. But it’s so easily digestable and so simple to absorb, it rolls over you like a numb duvet.

Hosted by rentapillock, Graham Norton, Britain’s greatest tribute acts battle it out over eight weeks to win the title of ‘Britain’s One and Only Greatest Tribute Act’. Think of winning that title. It makes your balls-ache, your lips quiver and your bumhole do a squelch. Moist!

How far has TV come with this trend for bastardising that old-classic-that was-actually-always-shit, New Faces? I’ll tell you how far: TV has taken Stars in their Eyes and strung it up by its neck, nude. And now, having gently squeezed its balls in a threatening manner, he’s now got them gripped in his fist as New Faces howls with a guttural yelp.

I actually found myself rooting for one or two of the contestants. Rather than being auditioned on camera like some of the obviously talentless idiots on Cowell’s X Factor, we only see three of the best from each category fighting it out. And when you consider that these people might make a career out of a sprinkling of success in the competition (i.e. a few more pub bookings), it actually puts X Factor to shame. Michelle McManus, where are you now?

My favourite moment last Saturday was when lovable ginger wigga Moni fought off the competition to win the Lionel Richie category, selected by three members of Lionel’s fan club. That’s right. I was spiritually lifted on a Saturday night by a ginger man pretending to be an 80s soul singer. If you think too hard about that, you start eyeing up knives and regarding them as wrist-slitters rather than handy food-slicers.

On the other hand, I was gutted when the superfans selected the WRONG Rod Stewart. It was an ageist choice, based not on talent but on the hollow appeal of youth. I actually shouted at the screen.

‘YOU’VE GOT THE WRONG ROD’, I hollered, before running to the window and shouting my opinion to the world.

‘THEY’VE GOT THE WRONG ROD’.

So, as you can see, I’ve allowed myself to get too involved, too quickly. It’ll only end in tears, once this sublime honeymoon period has worn off. As it stands, I’m just looking forward to my next date with Graham Norton on Saturday night. Coo-ee!