Twat Factor

What's that written on your face, Frankie?

Whoa! However hard I work at avoiding the X Factor, the slithering trails of its talentless mucus still manage to seep under the door of my life. And I've noticed one especially foul deposit: the barge-faced, fat-handed twat, Frankie Cocozza. Or F-Cock for short.
What the fuck is going on with this guy? Why are his plummeting depths of talentlessness even being given air-time? He sings like his biffin's bridge is is being grated, he shambles about like Stig of the Dump on peyote and his trousers display legs like elastic fucking bands. I'm at a complete and utter frigging loss as to how he even got past the audition stage, especially when you consider how often he must have been mistaken for a feral, inbred monkey.
And, please, someone explain to me what's going on with his fucking hair. How many diseased ferrets died to provide him with that barnett? Or did a Tribble escape the Star Trek set and burrow into his skull? Perhaps it's not him we should be voting for but the flea-circus that tumbles and trapezes it's way across his head every week. Who in the bollocks is voting for this guy? The entire staff at Head and Shoulders? The National Union of Nit Nurses? Itchy and fucking Scratchy? 
Seriously, F-Cock needs to go back to his day job, whatever the fuck that was: collecting the lice off gorillas, say, or letting medical students laugh at his legs. It sure as fuck can't be a job that involves singing. Can it? Oh fuck, I'm already wishing I hadn't asked.