Line of Doody
I think we know why Si stepped back from show..
Does anyone know whether Captain Jack Sparrow will be out on manoeuvres in the Caribbean at some point this Christmas?
I only ask because after sitting through a week of ITV’s new cash’n’karaoke show Walk The Line, several viewers may wish that Jack would sail to Barbados to intercept a 62-year-old jetskiing millionaire and force him to walk the plank.
I think we now know why on this project Simon Cowell suddenly decided to take a step back from the judging panel and lob a hospital pass to poor old, sweet-natured Gary Barlow.
It may be billed by its host Maya Jama as the ultimate game of winner stays on.
Unfortunately, the viewing figures would appear to suggest it’s more a case of “winner stays on, telly goes off ”.
It’s a shame really, because it does have the odd thing going for it.
Maya is clearly destined for bigger and better things.
Dawn French is in the middle of an almost faultless audition for a judging role on Britain’s Got Talent. And some of the singers have been awesome. Plus, Barlow – in full Colin Hunt at a Christmas party mode – seems to be engaged in a side battle to see whether he can get the viewers to talk about his outfits more than Maya’s.
Sadly, every bright spark has its luminosity dimmed by the same old Cowell tricks we’ve seen a thousand times before.
Countless sob stories, endless repetition, needless format twists and the nagging suspicion that Don Cowelleone decided who his real winners would be long before a note was even sung. I have other gripes. Craig David’s habit of calling all the guys “my man” and his obsession with energy and vibes.
Alesha Dixon telling everyone how nice it was to meet them like she’s interviewing them for a job in accounts.
And the fact that the format in general, and the end game in particular, do not appear to have been well thought out at the planning stage or worked through at the pilot stage.
The thing that annoyed me the most, however, was my failure to spot that on the very first night Jama issued a direct warning/plea straight down the lens, which I vaingloriously dismissed as a nervous ad lib:
“We’re here every night this week. Yeah. Every. Night.”
Sorry, Maya. Next time, blink twice and we’ll have someone there to rescue you just as fast as we can.
‘‘ Every spark of luminosity is dimmed by the same old Cowell tricks