BBC 1’s The Voice has taught me so much. It’s taught me that Jessie J’s talent is somewhat founded on the fact that she knows the words to EVERY SONG EVER WRITTEN and she wants you to know about it. It has taught me that will.i.am is to be added to my mental list of secret gays in the music business. It has taught me that Tom Jones is a classic narcissist and it has taught me that mullets do still exist (Danny O’Donoghue of The Script).
But most tellingly, it has taught me that my perverse preoccupation with awkward situations can be captured in a prime time Saturday night slot.
My flatmate has dubbed The Voice ‘the Sphincter Olympics’. What began as a curious give-it-5-minutes flick-over on the first Saturday, has evolved into full-house participation, descending into utter hysteria.
Let me explain why we now refer to The Voice in competitive arse-clenching terms.
The Voice is so excruciating in the participation of the judges, as to be utterly thrilling. So thrillingly excrutiatingly awkward, that it makes your bumhole go a bit funny. Actually, not a bit funny, Olympic-level funny. Don’t pretend that’s never happened to you.
The singing might as well, for my flatmates and I, not take place at all. To have Jessie J, Tom Jones, will.i.am and Danny O’Donoghue (?) in giant spinny chairs adorned with ‘I WANT YOU’ in neon lights, their hands (and feet if you’re WACKSTER Jessie) gleefully hovering over a big red button, shouting down the side of a hill, would be just as entertaining.
The key to this success is in their total incongruity as a panel, which totally works and makes for a smashing game of Sphincter Olympics. will.i.am spends the show looking so utterly bored, it’s almost as though if there were ad breaks he’d be straight on the phone to his agent trying to back out of the whole enterprise. But the beauty is, if you follow closely you know he’s totally invested so WHAT IS GOING THROUGH HIS HEAD? IS HE MAD? IS HE A GENIUS? Oh it’s too much.
Tom Jones will only pick a singer who ‘does a Tom Jones’. Watch him quietly and gracefully wait it out…until…they hit…the TOM JONES NOTE and boom, he’s in. And then he’ll tell them he knew Elvis.
Danny looks like all he’s thinking about is how to get the 17 year old blonde girl he’s buzzed for because he was SURE she sounded hot, to pick another judge so that he can fuck her before she leaves.
And Jessie. Oh Jessie. The gold medallist in the Sphincter Olympics. The Jessica Ennis of awkward. What she doesn’t know about the industry ain’t worth knowing. She has been around the block, love. She’s running the whole game, while saying things like “fantabaluso” and doing impressions of a cockney Cilla Black.
On Saturday, we all thought our bumholes couldn’t retract into our bodies any more. We thought it couldn’t be possible. But then. THEN.
And that was when we all died.