TV Review – Doctor fuckin’ Who, The X Factor

Well, This Is New

It’s been a long time coming, thanks to some nobs who used to produce it and are now rubbing foul-smelling unctions into tramps’ pustulating sores if I had anything to do with it, but Doctor fuckin’ Who (BBC1) is back. For just five episodes alas, once again thanks to those aforementioned nobs, suffering somewhere hopefully.

There’s nothing better on television than Doctor fuckin’ Who. This is a fact. Don’t even bother trying to argue with me. I’ll tear off your head and shit down your windpipe. And the first awesome episode was written by the awesome Steven Moffat (awesome) and featured lots of Daleks. Lots and lots of the angry little twats, most of whom are even more insane than usual, which is pretty insane seeing as they’re really into that genocide thing.

The opening scene sees the Doctor meeting a mysterious woman. Wait, this opening scene takes place in a cave which is actually in the eye bit of a giant Dalek statue on the actual fucking planet of Skaro (which the Doctor blew up in a previous story but, y’know, time travel). The Doctor figures out it’s a trap, but he can’t stop a cockblasting Dalek eye thing coming out of her forehead and a Dalek gun coming out of her hand. “The Doctor is acquired.” Holy shit.

Amy and Rory are similarly captured, “because it is known that the Doctor requires companions.” “Oh brilliant,” says Rory, just one more thing in his life he has to put up with. They all get transported into holy crappin’ space, aboard a shittingly big Dalek spaceship where there’s millions of the wankstaining things, all different shapes and colours. Amy asks how much trouble they’re in. The Doctor knows the answer because he knows everything. “Out of 10? 11”

The Daleks represent something called The Parliament of the Daleks – they even have a Prime Minister and presumably the recent reshuffle elevated the Culture Secretary even though he’s clearly working for the Cybermen. But the trouble they’re in is a lot less than 11 when the massed Daleks ask for the Doctor to, “save us.” They say it in a rising, grating shout but the sentiment is there. The Doctor looks surprised. “Well, this is new.” And this all takes place BEFORE THE OPENING FUCKING CREDITS.

The rest of the episode passes by in a blur of spectacle, action and witty lines. Tasked by the Daleks to go to their Asylum (“A planet where you lock up the ones who go wrong”) and turn off the force shield protecting it, the Doctor, Rory and Amy are more interested in a voice on the radio, claiming to be a crashed human (“Kind of keen to move on”). She turns out to be none other than Jenna-Louise Coleman, AKA the person who everybody knows is the next companion when Amy and Rory leave in a few episodes. What she’s doing turning up so early is anyone’s guess, but it’s best not to predict too much in Moffat-world.

Particularly as the final twist has her revealed as a figment of her own imagination; what she really is is a Dalek for whom the conversion didn’t quite take. The clue was there when she reveals she’s spent most of her time hiding out on a bonkers Dalek-riddled planet making souffles. Wouldn’t it be great if the next companion is actually a Dalek in some form or other? It’s so nuts it might just work.

But that sums up Doctor Who. An idea (“a madman in a box”) that has endured for almost 50 years. Okay, there are a few plot holes here and there (the force field off-switch is actually on the planet? How do they dump the Daleks there?) and Moffat is recycling a lot of his old ideas. But Doctor Who is simply fucking ace. Just don’t have bloody nobs messing it up next time.

Doctor Who is shown on Saturday night, as it has been for most of its history. But in many ways, Doctor Who survives and thrives because Saturday night television hasn’t changed as much as you would think. Saturday night television has long been about game shows and talent contests. Drama of any kind was barely hanging in there until Doctor Who came back (and inspired the likes of Primeval and Merlin), but for the most part, the old formula still adheres. Right after Doctor Who finishes, you can switch over and watch The X Factor (ITV1), a talent show no different from New Faces or Opportunity Knocks.

Currently in its early auditions phase, with a roadshow that this week is in Manchester, The X Factor is as subtle as someone screaming right in your ear whilst throwing spiked glitter in your face. The opening titles put the graphics of Doctor Who to shame, the music is O Fortuna from Carmina Burana and the voice-over could be warning about imminent nuclear apocalypse. Then we get The Lovin’ Spoonful’s lyrical Daydream over ordinary people gearing themselves up for the audition. Huh?

The X Factor doesn’t do subtle. It’s Simon Cowell telling a young girl she’s rubbish whilst a crowd bays for his blood. It’s wannabes wearing more makeup than clothes who think they’re one step away from becoming Lady Gaga. It’s ‘singing’ where every consonant and vowel has to be throttled out of all meaning. And it’s unnecessary sob story backgrounds to twang people’s heart strings.

But, at least in these early rounds, it seems someone has tried to apply at least some sense of tact and decorum on a show that normally has never heard of either. It lasts as long as it takes for the judges to seat their bottoms as we never see any of these people again.

Instead we meet a brash Northern lass in denim hotpants and boots. This is Nicola (35) and she’s incapable of shutting up or not laughing uproariously. “I want to be in the telly, now. Ha-ha-ha!” She’s like a character from one of Victoria Wood’s broader satires, except she seems to be real. The X Factor can fool you like that. Some people think that Simon Cowell is real, but he doesn’t show his weird face once this week. Maybe he’s just a myth invented by Steven Moffat to give the Daleks nightmares.

Instead it’s down to the incredible talents and sound judgements of Gary Barlow, Tulisa Verylongsecondnameos, Mel B and the perennial Louis Walsh to give their verdicts on Nicola. As usual, it takes an age to get to the singing as Nicola is interrogated on stage, something she’s perfectly happy with as she’d blurt out personal secrets to passing strangers. “I’m sorry if I’m sounding a bit of a div.” Mel B tells her to keep it quiet for a second. That’s Mel B. The loud one out of a group known for being loud. Eventually she sings “a dubstep version” of Taylor Dayne’s Tell It To My Heart, complete with splits that have Gary’s eyebrows hitting his hairline.

Mel “properly loved it”, recognising a kindred spirit. Louis, slowly slipping into senility, thinks Nicola looks like Davina McCall (she doesn’t). Tulisa and, especially, Gary think it’s more like “the opening to a magic act. It’s not current, it’s not now.” Gary, with his memory of things like magic acts, is down with the kids. But a genuinely young person like Tulisa (24) is unsure and is bullied by Mel into giving Nicola a pass. All this takes far longer than the actual song.

Alison (51) fares less well. She is the true spirit of X Factor’s auditions process, a gawk at a possibly mental self-delusionist who drags along her mortified teenage children to watch her doing a version of Gaga’s the Edge of Glory that’s on the edge of being in tune. Despite everyone laughing at her, she still gets a generous round of applause. In Spike Milligan’s war diaries, he recalls being visited by a terrible concert party and nevertheless giving them a huge round of applause after each act. He appreciated any attempt to entertain them, and the same goes for the seasoned X Factor viewer, who watches as much for the Alisons as for the Nicolas.

But the true cynicism of The X Factor floats by when a few obvious Brit School graduates are briefly seen getting handed passes. The stories of Taylor (Bieber hair), Jessica (Florence Welch hair) and Matt (doing an acoustic version of Seven Nation Army, a song I bet we hear a lot more of unless Jack White can put a stop to it) are clearly being saved for later rounds, ready-written contracts in their back pockets and rendering a nonsense of making us care for the likes of Nicola.

This year, Gotye’s Someone I Used To Know is the biggest selling song of the year and it’s as far removed from The X Factor as it’s possible to get. Despite the mythical Cowell’s best efforts to bend the pop world to his will, music remains immune to his efforts, as the likes of Matt Cardle, Joe McElderry and Little Mix will bitterly attest. No wonder it’s not about the music anymore. The X Factor is a talent show where the talent is the least important factor.