Last Saturday I found myself at a friend's house, sat in front of the television, in the early evening, being treated to yet another round of The X Factor.

To be honest I thought the show had ended weeks ago, or perhaps I was hoping it had. It's got to be at least six weeks since I last tuned in. I've tried to erase the memory like a seven year old who witnesses his parents being blown up in a freak boating accident.

I guess they must be dragging things out till Christmas. I liken my feelings on Saturday night to how the Allied soldiers must have felt in February 1945, as they sat poised to make the assault across the Rhine. The end was in sight, but everyone knew there was going to be a lot more unpleasantness to get through before the guns finally fell silent.

Will Self once described "Love Actually" as the most cynical manipulation of the emotions since "Triumph of the Will". I must say I felt pretty manipulated last Saturday and not in a good way.

The sight of Cowell mentally undressing Ruth, the buxom Spaniard nearly made me vomit. I'm sure I caught a glimpse of his hand disappearing under the judges' counter during her first song, his face contorted, or maybe it was just my fevered imagination.

The performance was very Bonnie Tyler circa 1983, A Total Eclipse of the Heart, except without the fifty a day, chesty smoker's cough. All big hair, back lighting and wind machines, crowned by the fireworks as the number neared its' crescendo. I was genuinely fearful when the pyrotechnics started that the whole front row was going to go up like a roman candle due to all the hairspray in the studio.

Then onto Eoghan. Cowell reclining, seemingly disinterested. You could almost see the pound signs running through Simon's head, as he did the mental arithmetic and calculated how much money he was going to make out of the young lad's debut album. As he ran through the choice of trim options on his latest Maybach. My mind began to wander. Fast forward five years, Cowell driving past a provincial branch of Tescos, enroute to the Gateshead X Factor auditions. Eoghan being led to the waiting panda car, having just nicked six jars of Nescafe, to feed his burgeoning crack habit. Nevermind lad, you had your fifteen minutes and just look at this Aston Martin I bought with the royalties...

Then on to Alexandra. All raw power and emotion. From the gallery, the producer speaks into Cheryl's covert earpiece. Somewhere off camera a raw onion is produced. Cue tight shot on Cheryl as the tears roll, "You've come so far pet, I diven't know how you've coped. I haven't felt like this since King Kev left St. James, ye nar."

It's the same old story. Bread and circuses. X Factor is the opiate of the masses. It's there to keep people from asking questions, to delight the eye and confound the senses.

I have a sneaking suspicion that this war is not going to be over by Christmas.

Bollocks to it. I'm turning over, it's nearly time for Strictly.