All Fur Coat and No Knickers

Astronauts, my arse

Shit on a shovel. Conjugal Kraken has the American version of the X Factor on the telly at the mo and I'm bring forced to blog thanks to the vile sight of a kid called Astro (What? The? Fuck?) arsing about on the stage. The first word that came to mind when I saw him was wanker. Then wanker became the second, third and fourth words that I thought of. Oh, and then twat.
OK, perhaps it's an evil, troll-like thing to lay into a kid but, well, the tit is indeed tough. The fact that he's 12 is outweighed by the fact that he swaggers about under the guise of some self-proclaimed brand, calls his fans his Astronauts, bangs on about Team Astronaut and has thrown a fucking enormous wobbly on stage because he was in the bottom two (or whatever meaningless twist the US version of the show foists upon unwitting wannabes). 
What a grim little shit. He's got all of the swagger before he's even got the pubes. Watching him makes me want to punch myself in the head repeatedly until I've lost the use of my frontal lobes.
I mean, if the kid's like this now what the fuck is he going to be like when he's old enough to buy his own pants? He's already labelled his fan base which, in reality, probably consists of his mother, father, sister and an imaginary friend who is this close to telling him to go fuck himself. 
Look, when you're Kanye, you can act like Kanye. When you're Jay-Z you can act like you're fucking Beyonce. When you're a prepubescent arsehole with the talent of a bad karaoke act you're acting like a bell-end. Just stop it, OK? Now go brush your teeth and get into bed.

Twat Factor 2
Reckon F-Cock left the X Factor because of what I wrote on my biog, like? No, neither do I, you nut, but it's one fuck of a joyous piece of news isn't it? Common sense has prevailed and you know that I'm busting at the seams with that stuff. Ha!

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.

The Shite Factor

Where the fuck's the off switch?

As I arse about on t'web my conjugal Kraken has The X Factor on the telly. Jesus. It's like a gaping wound that you can't stop staring at. I've just seen a 40 something man dressed in a kimono while whinnying a Kylie song. Worse (depths can always be further plumbed) he's had slanty eyes drawn onto his face to add to the faux-Oriental schtick. I feel as if I've been culturally assaulted and left for dead in the alleyway of taste. 
And as I was about to sign off this post I glimpsed four girls (I think that's what they were) sat on their arses on the stage while choking on their own false eyelashes/ notes. And then some bird came on dressed as the purple one from the Quality Street tin while balancing a tiger loaf on her head. 
I can't stop staring at it. This must be what it feels like to attend the death of a rapist in the electric chair. The whole thing makes you want to scrub your memory bank with caustic soda. Thank Christ I'm taking anti-psychotics. How the rest of the nation is getting through it is fucking well beyond me.