I can yell louder than you can, so there tags TheVoiceUK, Reality TV

This item was published on Sunday April 22, after The Voice UK’s Battle Round . . .

WE’D been wondering how The Voice UK would pan out, once the blind auditions were out of the way.

And the moment the show moved on to its next round – the, er, Battle Phase – we had our answer.

In what was undoubtedly a TV first, what we had on our hands instead was a screeching contest.

Each mentor paired up a couple of his or her team members and got them to do a duet in front of the studio audience.

“Screech!” one contestant would go, the moment the band struck up.

“Screeeeeech!” their rival would immediately reply.

“SCREEEEEEECH!!” was how the first contestant would then respond.

“SCREEEEEEEECH!!!” went contestant number two.

“Bleeding bloody blinking SCREEEECHING bloody flaming SCREEEEEEECH!!!!!” contestant number two would come back with, stubbornly refusing to be outyelled.

“Oh yeah?” number one would say. “Well, in that case, pal, I’ll SCREEEEEECH and I’ll SCREEEEEEECH and I’ll SCREEEEEEEEECH until my head explodes all over the stage – SO THERE!”

And so it went on.

Their mentor then faced the difficult decision as to which of these two should stay in the contest and which should be sent packing, based on who’d made the least hideous racket. Their fellow mentors, meanwhile, would go: “Gosh, I don’t envy you, there’s hardly anything to choose between them,” which was true in ways they probably didn’t mean.

When it came back to the mentor who was having to make the choice, the verdict then went, in almost every case, to the act that was most visually memorable – the posh bird with the big eyes who’s been in the papers, the lady who’s lost her hair, the lad who looks like a scary blond pixie, the fat speccy quiffy bloke who needs a good hard slap etc.

And so the unique selling point of The Voice UK – “hey, you guys, your looks don’t count, it’s how you sing that matters” – had pretty much been dropped at the first opportunity.

Still, it’ll continue being great fun, I don’t doubt.

Screeching is, after all, a deeply underrated talent and one for which the BBC has a public duty to provide showcases such as these.

For those still in contention, it’s now going to be a case of ‘practice, practice, practice’, seven days a week.

So, come on, guys – the nation is right behind you. We want to hear you screech like your life depended on it.

And if you’re struggling to hit those high squeals, why not drop a fridge-freezer on your foot or slam your fingers in the car door?

Trust me, you’ll be amazed by the results.

If you’d like further constructive advice of this kind, please don’t hestitate to get in touch.

The Voice UK? I’ve got a much better idea. Or two…

WHAT surprises me about The Voice – or The Voice UK, as absolutely no one is calling it – is the fact that TV executives were prepared to bid silly money for the rights.

I mean, it’s a perfectly OK show, it really is. And bear in mind I’d been determined beforehand to hate it. You know, being the open-minded kind of guy I am.

But when I’m reminded that the format has been a colossal ratings smash in something like a billion-and-one countries, I can’t help but ask myself: “Is it just me?”

It’s not as if these execs were bidding for something really important, like the recipe for Coca-Cola or Colonel Sanders’ secret blend of herbs and spices. Obviously those are the sort of things that WOULD have been worth paying mental amounts of money for, or possibly even handing over a minor body organ.

Maybe I’m being naive, but in the end isn’t it just another run-of-the-mill singing contest? Sure, it’s got its unique selling point to begin with – namely, the blind auditions via which the warbling wannabes are initially whittled down. But then what? After that, unless I’m missing the point (which has been known, I grant you), it all becomes a bit so-whatty. You either do or don’t give a flying toss about the contestants.

And if you do something truly deranged, such as pick up the phone, once the live shows begin, and spend your hard-earned money actually voting for these people, you’ll be perusing your itemised phone bill a few weeks later with the same crushing sense of shame and bewilderment you experience after an ill-advised night on the lash.

What’s so barmy is that, with just a wee bit of imagination, those same TV executives could surely have dreamed up a new talent show format of their own, saving themselves a small fortune in the process.

It’s not as if this is a particularly tricky process.

For example, how about The Face UK?

It would work like this:

In front of four celebrity ‘mentors’ – including the obligatory Irish guy, a shouty 60s veteran, a token Yank with a punchably affected name and an overrated contemporary chart star with a big gob and Lego hair – a succession of would-be singing stars would file onto the stage. But rather than witnessing the audition in the conventional manner, the mentors would have to wear earplugs. That way, although they’d be able to know what these performers looked like, they’d have no idea whether they sang like angels or made a noise like a harpooned whale.

They’d have to decide, based on looks alone, whether each act was worth taking under their wing. And, just as important, they wouldn’t be allowed to dump any performer if he or she turned out to be tone-deaf.

See, it’s already a way better idea than The Voice, isn’t it? It’s got oodles of scope for entertainment – eg. the talented ones who never make it because they look like horses, the rubbish ones who miraculously get transformed into singing superstars. In fact, the more I think about this ingenious format, the more I should be kicking my stupid self for revealing it on this page. What an idiot I am. This is TV gold.

But hey, what the hell.

Now that I’m on a creative roll, how about I give you another of my brilliant new TV ideas? How about – wait for it – Britain’s Goat Talent, in which four celebrity judges audition a series of talented farmyard animals?

Goats that produce cheese! Goats whose coats make luxury sweaters! Goats who end up as tasty curries!

Yeah, OK – perhaps I should’ve quit while I was ahead…

* Read Mike every day in the Daily Star and every weekend in the Daily Express Saturday magazine. You can hear him on talkSPORT every Monday at 3.15pm with Hawksbee & Jacobs and every Thursday at midnight with Andy Goldstein.

Why Corden should have cut Adele’s BRITS speech even shorter

OK, so the BRITS could do with another shake-up, agreed? Right, so let’s not waste a second. First up, it’s time for a new presenter. James Corden has done a decent enough job for the past couple of years, bless him, but as we saw the other night with the fiasco over Adele’s thank-you speech, we need to hire someone a bit tougher.

Someone who could have stood up to those nitwit producers, screeching in his ear to cut her short so they could go to the stupid news.

Or, better still, someone who’d have waded in and cut her just as short as Corden did, but who wouldn’t have been so apologetic and wussy about it. (“Yeah, yeah, you want to thank the world and its bleeding wife, we get the picture, dear. Look, nobody cares, OK? Off you pop, there’s a love. We want to hear Damon Albarn doing some of his nice shouting . . .”)

Me, I’d suggest either Jeremy Paxman (“Come on, come on, we haven’t got all day . . .”) or Ann Robinson (“And people actually like your music, do they . . ?)

Either of those would do a spectacularly brilliant, blisteringly rude job – turning what’s become a blandly predictable corporate ceremony into something way more watchable.

Really, though, the fuss about Adele’s curtailed speech has kind of missed the point. Whatever she was planning to say, let’s be honest, it would have been pretty blinking dull. All acceptance speeches are.

So the biggest shake-up I’d suggest would be to hack down every winner’s allotted thank-you time to a Twitter-inspired minimum. If you happen to have won one of those tacky fairground skittles that passes for a BRIT award these days, you’re allowed the equivalent of 140 characters – and no more – to say what you feel you need to say. Exceed this by so much as a single character and your microphone immediately cuts out.

And a trap door sends you plunging into the Thames.

And a shark eats you (optional).

Come on, 140 characters is plenty. It’s enough to say: “Thanks to everyone who’s bought my perfectly OK album and made me famous for a bit, plus various dull record company bods, all called Simon.”

In fact, better still, scrap the speeches altogether. If they really want to thank the dull record company bods, thank them in person, one by one, in the weeks and months ahead. It’s not as if your average pop star doesn’t have enough time. They’re recording, what, one album every couple of years? That takes about an hour. Or maybe 75 minutes, tops. And don’t say, ooh, but they have to do retakes, overdubs, etc. Course they don’t. If they’re so talented that we’re swamping them with awards, they ought to be able to stroll into the studio late one morning, record this magnificent album of theirs, and be out of there well before lunchtime. By my calculations, this leaves them with one year, 364 days, and 22 and three-quarter hours spare to go around saying thank you to the Simons.

(Oh, minus the gigging time, I suppose. And promotional nonsense, Knock off maybe 60 days for all that guff. But still. What a doddle.)

And thanking us, the fans? Seriously, don’t bother, there’s no need. I’m sure it’s meant well, and I’m sure you’re awfully grateful to people for buying your lovely tunes, but even if you dismissed us a bunch of gullible planks with zero taste, it really wouldn’t influence my attitude to you music. Not a bit.

I don’t expect your thanks, any more than I expect Mr Heinz to pop round and thank me every time I eat his beans. I’m not that needy.

If I happen to like some pop person’s noise, I’ll spend my money it. And when I grow bored with it, which I can guarantee I will, I’ll stop playing it. If it’s on a CD, I’ll hang it in the garden, along with the complete works of Dido, Craig David and Toploader, to scare off the birds.

* Mike Ward is the TV Critic of the Daily Star and the TV Editor of the Daily Express Saturday magazine. You can hear him on talkSPORT every Monday at 3.15pm with Hawksbee & Jacobs and every Thursday at midnight with Andy Goldstein.

Why Cowell has missed the point with his space mission promise

SKIMMING through the latest interviews with Simon Cowell – the ones for which he took time out of his gruelling schedule to kindly remind us that the new series of Britain’s Got Talent is only months away, just in case we were stupidly planning to go on holiday, or something – you could be forgiven for thinking at first that he’d learnt a few things.

He talks in comparatively humble terms (by Cowell standards, I mean – don’t let’s get carried away). He suggests he’d become too cocky, recognises that his shows need a boot up the backside etc. All in all, I’m reasonably impressed.

And then he goes and spoils it all by saying something stupid like “space mission”.

Yep, a trip on board Richard Branson’s inaugural Virgin Galactic flight (Branson’s lot are sponsoring this latest Britain’s Got Talent series) is something Simon says he hopes to offer the next winner – or possibly the one after that, it’s still kind of vague – as an added reward, on top of the increased prize money and the traditional embarrassing spot at the Royal Variety do.

“I’m being serious,” he assured reporters at the launch. “You could be the first singer, or dog act, whatever, performing in space.”

As it happens, you actually couldn’t. A full 40 years ago, a couple of long forgotten Apollo astronauts broke into an impromptu duet (“I was strolling on the moon one day / in the merry, merry month of May…”) while bouncing across the lunar surface, while the Russians blasted a canine cosmonaut called Laika into space as long ago as 1957, although admittedly she didn’t dance around a broom to Lady Gaga. Or survive, for that matter.

But that’s not my point. My point is, even if Simon can genuinely deliver on this promise of his (and a cynic might suggest it’s more a case of getting the show’s sponsors some nice publicity, and to hell with the actual viability), he’s totally misjudged how it could benefit the programme itself.

He’s selling it as an exciting bonus for the next BGT champion, should they happen to want it. “It can’t be compulsory,” he adds. Whereas what he should be doing is recognising it for what it would actually amount to – a wretched, miserable, gut-churningly uncomfortable, zero-gravity experience, likely to leave you feeling violently ill – and then insisting that it will be compulsory.

Because otherwise this programme is all too easy, isn’t it? You show up at an audition, sing or dance sufficiently impressively to get through the live shows and, hey presto, before you know it you’re several hundred grand the richer and doing a three-minute turn for Princess Anne, or whichever poor royal happens to have drawn that year’s short straw.

Whereas if Simon were to warn, from day one, that the eventual winner will have to suffer the misery of a compulsory space flight, this would immediately sort a lot of the wheat from the chaff, act-wise, would it not? It would be the perfect way to discourage the time-wasters, attention-seekers and blatant fruitcakes. It would be the modern-day equivalent of that famous old line from Fame: “You want fame? Well, fame costs. And right here is where you start paying – in sweat!”

Here it would effectively be: “You want fame? Well, fine, have it. Plus some money and the ropey royal gig. But be warned, we’re also going to catapult you to the outer reaches of the solar system, where there’s every chance you’ll be captured by hostile creatures made of jelly and twigs and subjected to gruesome medical experimentation.

All that, plus Richard Branson and Simon Cowell will  be on board with you. So think on…”

Still, as I say, I suspect the whole thing may be rather less viable than Simon is suggesting, particularly if the contest ends up being won by another of those shockingly overstaffed dance troupes.

Simon has actually hinted, mind you, that this is unlikely to be the case. Admitting that he’ll have to consider the practical details of the winning act performing in space, he quipped: “If you’re a juggler, then we’ll need to make heavier balls.”

So there, in a single semi-throwaway sentence, we have the chilling remark that puts this whole thing into context. Amid all the talk of space travel, bigger-than-ever prize money and an exciting new-look panel – to which Simon returns, alongside Amanda Holden, David Walliams and Alesha Dixon (lured away from Strictly, remember, at vast expense), we’re actually talking about the show being won by . . . a juggler.

Great. And after that? Probably some bloke who makes balloon dachshunds.

I bet the BBC are quaking in their boots.

* Read Mike every day in the Daily Star and every weekend in the Daily Express Saturday magazine.

Will Dancing On Ice please stop Twittering on?

LISTEN, I get it, OK? I get the fact that millions of us are watching TV and tweeting at the same time these days, generously sharing our pithy observations, witticisms, knee-jerk reactions and spite. I do it myself sometimes, although usually I can’t be bothered, given that it’s fundamentally pointless and, freak that I am, I’d rather talk to my family, sitting in the same room. What I’m saying is I don’t have a problem with those who do. Honestly, I don’t.

What I do have a problem with is TV shows that have leapt on the Twitter bandwagon in a manner that reeks of desperation.

Take, for example, ITV1’s Dancing On Ice, which has been going to enormous lengths, since this latest series got underway, to draw our attention to its tweet-ability.

At one point the other night, new co-host Christine Bleakley excitedly informed the soon-to-be-eliminated Laila Morse, best known (in fact, only known) as Big Mo from EastEnders, that at that very moment she was “globally trending” (essentially meaning that a lot of people were remarking upon how rubbish Laila was at skating). This revelation clearly wasn’t for the benefit of Laila herself, who looked as if she didn’t have a clue what Christine was banging on about, nor care that much, but for the benefit of us lot at home.

“Hey, look, everybody!” was essentially the message Christine wanted to send us. “We’re the show everyone’s talking about. How cutting-edge are we, eh?”

Well, yes, I’m sure you are, chaps. Jolly well done, you. But seriously, give it a rest, will you? Stop trying so hard. Stop ramming the Twitter thing down our throats. And if you must read out tweets live on air, please at least exercise some kind of quality control. Don’t just read them out for the sake of it, just because people happen to have tweeted a few random remarks about your programme, however banal (let’s be honest, the really caustic, witty ones won’t get a look-in). It just comes across as a bit desperate, as if you’re frantically trying to convince us, or possibly yourselves, that you matter, that you’re relevant, that you’re “of the moment”. Just get on with the show (God knows, it drags on for long enough already) and leave the Twitter community to do its own thing.

Finally, bear in mind that the vast majority of your 7.7 million viewers aren’t even on Twitter. Many will have no desire to be. Some won’t even have a clue what it is. And that, don’t forget, is fine as well. So the more you go on about it, the more you alienate these people, still the bulk of your core audience. You’re effectively making them feel as if they’re not fully engaged, that they’re excluded and out of touch, that there’s a party going on elsewhere, metaphorically speaking, to which they’ve not been invited, where the smart, witty people are having all the fun.

For a major show on a populist TV channel, that’s unforgivable.

So please, just stop it, all right? Make a show that respects and engages every viewer equally, rather than one that looks as if it’s desperate to be friends with the cool crowd.

Right now, you’re just making yourself look needy. And that’s about as uncool as it gets.

* Read Mike every day in the Daily Star and every weekend in the Daily Express Saturday magazine.

Red Or Black: go on, guys – chuck in the towel and give us all a giggle

WOULDN’T it have been lovely if, half way through the latest edition of Red Or Black (sorry, I can’t be doing with the question mark in the title), presenters Ant & Dec had suddenly turned to one another and gone: “D’you know what, this is just getting worse, isn’t it? Shall we go home?”

What a brilliant, career-defining moment that would have been. Throwing in the towel, live on air, less than halfway through this ridiculous, over-hyped, ratings-shedding gameshow, they’d have sent their credibility soaring. They’d have returned to their dressing rooms to find their mobiles buzzing with a billion offers of work, although maybe not that many from Simon Cowell…

I have to confess, I only caught the final stages of the latest show. This may have had something to do with my wife going: “I know it’s your job, but if you force me to sit through so much as a millisecond of that crap ever again, my darling, I shall *** off your ***** with a rusty ******.”

I saw enough, however, to be able to predict what was going to happen at the end. I knew the guy was going to lose the million. Or, rather, fail to win it, which I appreciate isn’t exactly the same thing.

Which proves what exactly? It proves that we can all make wild 50-50 guesses, based on nothing but a hunch, and then tell ourselves how jolly clever we are when they happen to prove correct. Big deal.

One or two people have suggested I was a bit too harsh in my scathing criticism of the opening night’s programme. Only a bit, mind you. They agreed with almost everything I wrote (be honest, for once it was hard not to) but suggested that the climax – where it’s down to just one punter against the pointlessly huge roulette wheel, and where correctly predicting the colour of the slot into which the giant ball will come to rest will secure them one million – was actually quite exciting.

I can’t say I share the sentiment. For me, the only excitement by then is knowing that this nonsense is nearly over for another night. Not so much a question of excitement, then, as one of sheer relief.

And before you point out what one guy on Twitter rather bluntly suggested to me the other night, namely that I’m perfectly capable of switching over to another channel if this programme offends me so much, let me just say this:

I’m not. As a generally rather laid-back kind of bloke, it’s been ages since I’ve got myself quite so cross about a television programme and I have to say I’m throughly enjoying it. Besides, Mrs Ward, although she did stick to her threat last night, was kind enough to use a local anesthetic.

Finally, one thing I’d suggest to the producers, just as a gag for the final night’s contest, would be to introduce a funny twist to the closing moment. As the big ball comes to rest for the last time, ideally with the punter missing out on the million, the cameras should pan down to show a grinning Simon Cowell lying beneath the roulette wheel, clutching a giant magnet.

Go on, guys, I dare you.

We’d all know it was just a joke.

Well, I would. And let’s face it, I’ll probably be the only one still watching by then.

* Read Mike Ward every day in the Daily Star and every weekend in the Daily Express Saturday magazine.

Red Or Black? Simon Cowell’s biggest prank of all

WOW, isn’t Red Or Black jaw-droppingly, gobsmackingly bad?! You’ve got to hand it to Simon Cowell, haven’t you? After years of success with talent contests, he’s now turned his hand to prank shows. And by selling ITV bosses the idea of Red Or Black, he’s pulled off the biggest, most spectacular prank in TV history. The man is an absolute genius.

I mean, obviously the basic idea is rubbish. Only a clueless ninny, or possibly an ITV commissioner, would argue with that. Take a ropey, blatantly flawed concept for a gameshow, chuck a shedload of money at it, hire the most popular pair of presenters on British telly, book the most colossal venues, set up the most spectacular stunts, sign up a whole bunch of high-profile guests, offer a massive prize, then top it all off, production-wise, with all the bells and whistles money can buy – and what do you ultimately end up with?

Yep, exactly: a ropey, blatantly flawed concept for a gameshow.

Because there’s no getting over the basic problem here. Namely, that beneath all the hype and the pyrotechnics, it’s just a silly, uninspiring little guessing game.

It’s not that I resent all these people competing for the chance to win a million pounds. Jolly good luck to them. But don’t expect me, as a viewer, to seriously care. Because ultimately – and here’s the big snag – they’re not earning it.

They may well be deeply deserving individuals, but as far as the show is concerned we’re given no serous reason to engage or empathise with them.

On other shows, competitors are at least seen to give something of themselves. And we respond to that. It may be a powerful X Factor performance, such as Fife lass Jade Richards delivered on the latest show; it may be two minutes of utter humiliation on Britain’s Got Talent; it may be correctly naming the capital of France on Millionaire. It still amounts to some degree of effort and input.

Here it’s just a bunch of strangers hoping to get rich quick through pure fluke – tied in with a handful of the sort of sob stories The X Factor has largely abandoned these days as old hat.

Ant & Dec try their damnedest, bless them, like the reliable pros they are. But even they must surely acknowledge that Red Or Black is the biggest waste of ITV airtime since Celebrity Wrestling.

* Read Mike every day in the Daily Star and every weekend in the Daily Express Saturday magazine.

How Tulisa has developed the perfect look for The X Factor

I’VE been busy perfecting my Tulisa look. You should try it yourself, it’s jolly easy.

Just stand in front of your bathroom mirror – or even a mirror in a public place, such as Primark, if you prefer working to an audience – and open your mouth as wide as you can, as if preparing to insert a giant baguette or something ruder. Then do likewise with your eyes (in this case, probably without visualising the baguette-insertion) and, well, that’s pretty much it.

With minimal effort, you will have perfected the X Factor judge’s “astonished” look. You can now deploy this whenever one of the show’s auditioning acts surprises you. In a single gesture, you’ll be able to convey your thoughts to millions. Or at least to the other people in your living room.

From the X Factor judges’ perspective, don’t let’s underestimate the importance of this and other facial expressions (disappointed, sad, embarrassed, elated, bored etc). Appearance has always been an essential part of the job, but while their clothes and hair can be arranged fairly easily by a multi-tasking expert backstage (“multi-tasking” in the sense that, thanks to years of experience, the stylist will simultaneously be able to ask the judge if they’ve been anywhere nice for their holidays), those facial expressions are something each judge must perfect in their own time.

It’s a lesson Andrew Lloyd Webber sadly failed to heed before his various BBC1 talent shows such as Find Me A Dorothy and, before that, Pick Us A Nancy, No For God’s Sake Not That One, Oh Blimey, All Right, If We Must. Whenever the camera focused on Andrew during a performance, he’d be sitting there looking as if his face had gone into some kind of spasm. It was most unfortunate.

So, yes, judges on The X Factor are way more clued-up about this sort of stuff. Mark my words, they’ll have practised for hours in front of their mirror at home, learning how to make their faces convey the full range of obligatory emotions in an entertainingly exaggerated fashion. Even though, in the case of Dannii Minogue, it was rather hard to tell any of those expressions apart…

Also, I’ve noticed that the producers seem to have eased off on the sob stories in this latest X Factor series. Either that, or maybe the people who turn up just happen to be a lot less miserable and wretched these days. Or maybe, aware of the criticism levelled at the show in recent years, the programme-makers have altered the application form, so that it now reads:

“Do you have a desperately sick relative? Has a beloved pet recently been run over? Are you basically dying?

“If you have answered ‘yes’ to any of the above, please do NOT apply for this year’s contest. Frankly, we’ve had our fill of people like you. Do us all a favour and get over yourself…”

What we’re getting instead is a lot more of the Subo factor. By this, I mean people who look kind of weird / freaky / scary but turn out to have jolly nice voices. These are the people for whom Tulisa’s Astonished Look™ is tailor-made (although the rest of the judges, to be fair, usually mange to offer something pretty similar, facial reaction-wise, indicating their own personal levels of astonishment).

It’s a look that effectively says: “Golly, whoever would have thought you could sing so beautifully, bearing in mind you look so weird / freaky / scary / just plain fat? People like you normally sing like wounded mooses.”

What the judges neglect to mention at this point, because they don’t want to upset these people too early in the process, is that the weird / freaky / scary / just plan fat person will still eventually get kicked off the show, on the basis that, although their story makes good television for a few weeks, they’re ultimately still too weird / freaky / scary / just plain fat to sell records.

“Ah, but surely,” I hear you cry, “Susan ‘Subo’ Boyle is not your classic beauty – and she’s gone on to do fine, Mike.”

And you’re right to point that out. Even though you actually didn’t point it out, and I just put those words in your mouth. But Susan Boyle’s case was slightly different. For one thing, she appeared on Britain’s Got Talent – which is technically a different show on the basis that it’s got dogs on it – and for another, she instantly captured the entire global market in mega-selling ex-talent show weirdness, leaving nothing for anyone else to cash in on.

Her true legacy has been what we’re witnessing in this latest series: the somewhat odder individuals enjoying a lot more of the spotlight, the morale-crushing reality check of Boot Camp still some way off for them.

As for the rest of us, watching at home, there’s a lesson to be learned if we plan on entering this contest ourselves next year. Namely, forget the sob stories and cultivate the image instead: get hold of some ugly, ill-fitting clothes, pile on a few pounds, avoid sunlight, ask a blind person to cut your hair and generally develop the kind of aura that will guarantee you a double seat whenever you use public transport.

Then learn to sing in tune.

It’ll be worth it just for the look on Tulisa’s face.

* Read Mike Ward every day in the Daily Star and every weekend in the Daily Express Saturday magazine.

Fri Aug 26: Why, thanks to my Diana Vickers experience, I’m no longer an X Factor voter

I HAVEN’T voted for anyone on a reality show since my Diana Vickers experience. It’s left me scarred.

Diana, you may recall, was an X Factor finalist in 2008, and I must admit I liked her. I liked her unusual voice. I liked how she was understated. I liked the fact she looked as if she had a permanent cold.

So I picked up the phone and voted for her. Several times, in fact. I don’t know if you’re an X Factor voter yourself, but what happens is a recorded voice goes: “Thanks for calling. You have voted for…(insert name of act you’ll have forgotten about within six months). You do realise this has cost you actual money? Are you mad? Oh, well – cheers, sucker.”

Gradually, however, I became aware that not everyone was a Diana fan. Specifically, someone said she sounded like a duck.

Now, a critic is meant to have rock-solid faith in their opinions. They’re not meant to be easily swayed. Unfortunately, I don’t, and I am. So now I faced a problem, Diana-wise. I couldn’t just abandon her – and yet I couldn’t help thinking: “Actually, yeah, she does sound kind of ducky. I hope they don’t make her sing I Wish I Could Fly (Right Up To The Sky), by Keith Harris and Orville, or she’ll be in real trouble.”

So I kept voting, just to save face – then quietly breathed a sigh of relief when she got eliminated.

Of course, Diana’s done OK since then, including a hit album and a starring role in one of those rare stage musicals that I could probably sit through for as long as 20 minutes before wanting to shoot myself. But she’s not the Diana Vickers I voted for. Not really. She guested on last year’s X Factor and she’d completely changed. She looked as if she wanted to be a Pussycat Doll. They’d surrounded her with 427 million dancers. Some were juggling fire. One was on stilts. It was rubbish, especially as the stilt guy didn’t trip up and land on Louis Walsh.

Worse, plugging her tour, she did that thing where people refer to themselves in the third person. “Come and see the Vickers!” she cried.

Unless, of course, she was saying: “Come and see the vicars,” in which case I’ve got entirely the wrong end of the stick and wish I’d bought tickets.

* Mike Ward is the TV Critic of the Daily Star, Daily Express Saturday, talkSPORT’s Hawksbee & Jacobs Show and Brighton’s Juice 107.2 FM. Read his blog at www.mikeward.tv and follow him on Twitter @mikewardontv

Mon Aug 22: Why I’m So Relieved The X Factor Is Back

AS Britain’s fourth best TV critic, I’m thrilled The X Factor is back. I love commenting on the big reality shows – this one, plus Big Brother, Strictly, Maiming Yourself On Ice etc. – because I don’t feel under pressure to pontificate.
With reality TV, I can just say things like: “Hey, did you see that guy singing Valerie the other night? What a twonk! Ha ha!” – and millions of readers / listeners will immediately nod in agreement, amazed both by my insight and my articulacy.
When the big reality shows aren’t on air, I often find myself writing about dramas, which is jolly hard work.
Serious critics manage to get themselves SO cross when a drama doesn’t appeal to them. Then they write very angry things about it, in achingly earnest terms. It’s awfully impressive.
Me, I tend to think, what the heck, it’s only make-believe. What’s the big deal?
My problem is, I struggle to get worked up about anything on TV that I know is just pretend – which, somewhat unfortunately, tends to include any kind of drama, other than the soaps. I appreciate that The X Factor is kind of pretend as well, but it does at least pretend that it’s not pretend, if you follow me.
While it’s on air, I somehow convince myself it’s working towards a truly significant goal: namely, creating a potential superstar – which means it’s fine for me to get upset if, for example, Simon Cowell eliminates my favourite act or Jedward fail to get electrocuted.
Not that Simon’s there anymore, of course. His seat – where he’d sit and tell stupid people who can’t sing that they’re stupid and can’t sing – is now occupied by Gary Barlow, who’s not stupid and can sing, even if I’d rather eat my own toenail clippings than buy one of his records.
The X Factor isn’t as good without Simon, but it’s good enough.
As for the other new judges, well, speaking as a respected music expert, I’m obviously a huge admirer of Tulisa thingy-wotsit’s work with groovy beat combo N-Dubz.
I’m less convinced, however, by the credibility of Kelly Rowland, who’s not released anything decent since Dexys Midnight Runners.

* Mike Ward is the TV Critic of the Daily Star, Daily Express Saturday, talkSPORT’s Hawksbee & Jacobs Show and Brighton’s Juice 107.2 FM. Follow him on Twitter @mikewardontv