All X Factor acts annoy me a bit. I find it very unnerving when an act is voted out and they say “this isn’t the last you’ve seen of me!” I feel as though they are threatening me with their music longevity.
But no one annoys me more at the moment than James Arthur. Just to recap, here is his first audition:
He’s a good singer, there’s no denying that. But you can’t feel the pity for James Arthur that he feels for himself, just because he lives in a bedsit. That is not real struggle. All of us have problems like that. For example, did I feel sorry for myself when I lived in a room at university that had a mould problem? Well yes, I did actually, because my bathroom looked like the one from the first Saw film and my lungs now probably look like a moss garden.
But a bedsit? Oh GOD, I have to share a bathroom with the three other people on my floor. And sometimes when I go for a number two the person who’s supposed to change the toilet paper hasn’t, and I have to use kitchen roll. WOE IS ME.
That’s not real struggle. Here is a list of things that are actual struggles in life:
– Not buying the second pack of wine gums that are half price when you buy the first pack
– Watching Jennifer’s Body with your dad
– Trying to fit into your size ten jeans when you’re really a size fourteen (my head says fourteen but my heart says ten)
– Trying to show a middle aged technophobic woman how to attach a file in an email
– Trying to take any of Louis Walsh’s comments seriously*
THAT’S REAL STRUGGLE, JAMES ARTHUR.
Now, I’ve done a bit of research on James, and it turns out we both had a similar start to life. I too was born a ginger boy.
Just joshing! We actually both used to live in Bahrain. So I understand how hard it must have been to move from a hot country to a cold country. And going from having a house with a maid and a swimming pool, to having a house with NO maid, and NO swimming pool. Like most people in Britain. What a truly harrowing story.
And let’s be honest, all parents argue. My parents used to argue all the time about the most ridiculous things. Like who was going to load the top shelf of the dishwasher and who was going to load the bottom, or whose china pig ornaments were tackier. Games of Trivial Pursuit at Christmas would end in carnage. Besides, everyone knows it’s way more fun having divorced parents. You can get away with all sorts of shit! You get double the amount of presents at Christmas and birthdays, you’re allowed to eat nutella out of the jar, and you can cry whenever you want. Even if it’s just about how slow your internet is or how much you don’t like Terri Hatcher in Desperate Housewives.
Plus, who hasn’t asked to have different parents at one time or another? When I was little I asked plenty of adults to adopt me. It was mostly in the car park of Tesco when I could see they’d brought better food than my parents. In fact, one time I protested so hard to being taken home without some squeezy munch bunch yoghurts that the police turned up at our house that same night because my crying had caught the attention of the other shoppers, who reported it to the police as they thought my dad was trying to kidnap me.
Another thing that bothers me about James is that – as my sister pointed out – he has beautiful, Marilyn-esque eyes. It’s very confusing. If he happened to be peering through my letter box for any reason, I’d think Marilyn Monroe was alive and at my door. Straight up. And if you don’t believe me, look at this.
He needs to get other things to talk about other than his bedsit. And also how much he loves women. He’s like the human manifestation of this Calvin Harris song:
Every week he’s stumbling out of a club with a different bunch of girls. I bet he uses his voice to lure women into his taxi; he just sits in an eight-seater with the door open, singing as loud as possible until some drunk girls hear and stumble over. And then he uses those beautiful peepers to seal the deal. He’s like the lovechild of the demon headmaster and a siren.
I have the perfect topic for James Arthur to wean him off all of this “hard-up” bullshit. My sister and I often talk about how much Christopher Maloney looks like the chicken from Chicken Run:
Rocky the chicken
DISCUSS THAT, YOU DOE-EYED GIANT.
*seriously, how do they pretend that they’re listening to Louis? I’m surprised they’re not like “Yeah, okay Louis, we deserve a record deal! Roflololol.”