ever go spinning out of control, whisking the judge up to such a velocity that he’s propelled through the roof of the Helix, out of the stratosphere, never to be heard of again, hopefully. And could that judge please be Kian Egan?
Basically, you end up devoting a huge tranche of your life to a protracted, padded-out karaoke night. Musically, it’s the equivalent of someone pouring blancmange in your ears. But you hang in there to see what happens in the end. And what happens in the end is: you have a five-second ‘hurray’ for the winner, someone whose name you instantly forget. With all the time you’ve munching weak spot has always been the fact I’m a sucker for any show that involves people wanting to build a wacky house and deciding to go for it, with a smug presenter snooping around, e.g. Grand Designs. Gradually, over the aeons I invested in watched that telly-fest of bricks and mortar, I realised I couldn’t care less about joists, insulation and problems with site managers. I get the gist: self-builds are inevitably complicated and time-consuming, but they shouldn’t also be so for me, the viewer, watching from my sofa in my plain old home. I just want to see the plans, and then the final thing. The rest is wadding. Now what I do is tape it, watch the beginning, speed to the end, see the final house, go ‘oh right’ and Bob’s your uncle! An hour of telly time-waste condensed into 10 minutes. With the sound down so I don’t have to listen to Kevin McCloud: result.
And don’t talk to me about the multitude of series you’re told are ‘must see’, like Homeland, Breaking Bad, True Blood, The Wire. Yeah, yeah, I get the idea — it’s a golden age of American telly, but that doesn’t mean I’m going spend an age devoted to being ‘audience’. It’s a travesty, I know, but here’s how I engage with such telly, if at all: borrow the box-set off someone, watch the first few episodes, then revert to Wikipedia, read the rest as episode synopses, and whoop-de-doo — I’m keeping up and saving time, at the same time.
But you can’t do that with The Voice Of Ireland. It has to be watched fresh. How would a synopsis read? ‘Week 112: A bloke called Jim got knocked out; Kian called Bressie a doughnut, again; Sharon was lovely, and fierce thin, again; and Jamelia wondered how she’d juggle her two brothers. That hardly captures the ‘magic’ of it all. Meanwhile, I’ve leapt over the first two items on my resolution list straight to the third: learn to accept yourself as you are. It’s a great feckin’ excuse.