The beginning of my blogging experience coincides with the final of Britain’s Got Talent 2011. Whilst I originally advocated the concept of a nationwide talent contest, I maybe should have predicted the authenticity of this competition falling foul to the beneficiaries of cheap entertainment.
The judging panel are only surpassed in their inadequacy by the general public, or rather, those of the public who consider the result to have enough influence on their lives to merit picking up the phone.
One of the most impressive acts in the semi finals was Out of the Blue, the a capella group from Oxford, who didn’t even make the final 10, despite (rumour has it) enjoying the services of a professional choreographer. The judges seemed most surprised that a group of such students they no doubt consider “elitist” were so “accessible”, an acknowledgement based on categorically unfounded presumptions. The show is also guilty of praising any disciplined and obedient dog; cute, but invariably out of tune, 7 year olds; and of ignoring necessary caution when predicting stardom in the future of prepubescent boy bands.
However, due to my yearning for lunch, I will curtail my criticism of this monstrosity, and praise Simon Cowell for inventing what is essentially a fantastic business model. After Ant and Dec ensured the viewers that votes after the lines have closed only “may be charged”, as opposed to “most definitely will be charged”, I turn my attention to other news.
Why Wayne Rooney, idolised by millions, feels the need to have a hair transplant is beyond me, unless he feels it will improve his image rights. Funnier still, is his wife’s need to confirm on Twitter that she hadn’t forced him to have the surgery, a suggestion I hadn’t even considered until she denied it.
As A-Levels await (and I still want lunch), I leave you to mull over how my interest in Wayne Rooney’s hairstyle increases remarkably in conjunction with the increasing proximity of my exams. Goodbye.
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