I had an idea over the weekend. An idea how to spice up Saturday night TV, more specifically, the inane, mind numbing drivel that is X-Factor/Britain's Got Talent.
Those of you over a certain age, say, 30, will remember a great film from the 1980's called 'The Running Man.' Based on Stephen King novel, and set in a futuristic totalitarian police state, the premise of the story centres around convicted criminals fighting for their lives in a twisted game show involving their attempts to evade ruthless killers, or 'stalkers' for a chance to be pardoned and set free. Now, if this idea wouldn't be a welcome edition to the glorified karaoke contests that has become the scourge of the weekend's television schedule, then I don’t know what would.
Picture the scene. The X Factor tour rolls into one of this country’s great cities; we'll say London, for arguments sake. Lining the streets are thousands upon thousands of fake-tanned chavs and middle-aged imbeciles, all with a sob story of broken homes, drug problems or growing up without a brain, and all deluded to the fact that they, for one of the reasons just stated, have (said while annoyingly crossing their arms in an Adam Ant 'Prince Charming' way) the 'X Factor' and deserve to be 'the next big thing.'
Ok, admittedly, and it pains me to say, some of them, a very small percentage, mind, can actually hold a tune and bash out a mildly enjoyable cover version.
However, the majority of these idiots, who, if singing were the only way to a good meal, would waste away to the sound of a Whitney Houston or Boyzone backing track, and die, hideously, in the gutter, wouldn't even be missed by their own families, hence, saving them from any future embarrassment. It's for these people that the new premise will be brought in.
Like John Hurt, riding in from the horizon in Lawrence of Arabia, and, amidst a cloud of dry ice and the clash of loud, dramatic, drums, appears the burly, rough-hewn figures of five crazed killers, all brandishing weapons of torture, and all ready to slay any of the wannabies that stand in their way. Cue the carnage.
Those deemed not good enough, of which there will be more than a few, and, after their unsuccessful stint on stage in front of hundreds of disgruntled people baying for their blood, will be thrown, like a piece of meat to a wild animal, into a grueling assault course, in which they will be pursued, hopefully, to their death by the aforementioned psychopaths.
Those lucky enough, or, unlucky, depending on which side of the fence you fall on, to escape the maniacs claws will be successfully, and sickeningly, al-la 'Surprise Surprise' but minus old mattress face herself, Cilla Black, re-united with their loved ones, and, hopefully, and for the good of mankind and their remaining limbs, be put off from ever applying for the contest in future, or sullying anyone with their awful voices again.
The penalty for those, sadly (I'm in tears just typing this) failing in their bid for freedom, of which every second will be televised in glorious HD, will be to have their mauled carcasses strung up onto the side of ITV headquarters as a gentle reminder of the consequences to any other talentless degenerate thinking of applying in the future, and hopefully spelling the death, not only to themselves, but to the sad sham of X Factor.
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