The Winter Olympics brings a whole range of sports we’ve never heard of to our screens, and as the Olympic broadcaster the BBC then have the difficult task of assigning commentators to these events. There’s probably a logic to how the Beeb do it, but often the attrition seems tenuous. Hugh Porter gets speed-skating, presumably because like cycling they travel quickly round an oval track. Sue Barker gets figure skating, because they wear dresses like they do in tennis. And Steve Cram gets curling because, well, because he’s a bit dull.

The BBC often seem to be using these games as a kind of commentator apprenticeships, in which some of their newer commentators are paired with an expert and let loose in a commentary booth. I didn’t hear Steve Cram’s first day of commentary at these Games, but I like to imagine that like any apprenticeship it contained numerous instances of Rhona Martin stringing him along. Sending him off to ask Eve Muirhead for a ‘long stand… Convincing him that each stone actually ways three metric tonnes… insisting that the ‘House’ is actually a target for a vast overhead gun.

But now the Olympics are over, where will these commentators go? Presumably of course, after his Vancouver experience Steve Cram will next be seen in the cleaning aisle at Wilkinson’s going apoplectic with revenge at their selection of sweeping brushes. But what of the others? Where does the BBC store them for the two years in between Games? Well, actually they all return to other jobs. Hugh Porter will go back to managing the kitchen in the soul food cafe he runs with his wife Aretha Franklin. Paul Dickenson and Matt Chilton of course have their own lounge-band Matt and the Magictones to return to, whilst Bob Ballard will revert back to his position as maître d’ at an upmarket restaurant and that’s where they will reside happily until the next Olympics come round.

Then Hazel Irvine and Claire Balding will set out once again in identical trouser suits to round them up, telling them they’re putting the commentary team back together. Irvine and Balding can kick up a fuss you see, and they’ll make life uncomfortable for Ballard, harassing his diners until he commits to another year’s ice hockey commentary along side Brent “off the clanger, into the twanger” Pope. They may be relentless, but then they’ve every right to be. After all, its seventeen days ‘til the closing ceremony, they’ve got a full set of matching BBC gilets , half baked opinions on Winter sports, Its cold, and they’re wearing headphones. Hit it.

Who else would you expect to see in close up as you turn the television over to one of the biggest sporting events of the year than Queen Latifa? The singer is here to serenade the crowd with America the Beautiful, a patriotic moment in its self, but to seal the deal US broadcaster briefly cut to footage of US troops watching from a Naval Base bringing huge cheers inside the stadium.

The military theme continues as a plethora of military flag bearers enter the stage flanked by marching drummers to introduce Carrie Underwood. No, I haven’t heard of her either, but she’s here to perform the National Anthem, doing so whilst dressed as Evil Kinevil. As is expected she gives the Star Spangled Banner her own take with some note wavering freestyling. Personally I am always disappointed Bryn Terfyll never makes the effort to similarly jazz up Land of My Fathers. From here I get my first taste of the BBC’s UK studio as presenter Jake Humphrey helpfully reassures us and himself that “Carrie Underwood is big in American right guys?”

After a few words from Humphrey’s sidekicks, the UK’s premier (and only) American sports analyst Mike Carlson, and San Francisco 49ers Quarter Back Alex Smith, its back to Miami for the coin toss. It must be a bloody big coin as the camera zooms in toward more than two dozen men surrounding the centre point of the field. I am imagining it as less than a toss and more the sort of flip they perform on tractor tyres during the World’s Strongest Man. Amongst those on field for the toss are the 2010 Hall of Fame inductees including Reggie Yates who has the biggest hands ever seen. They’re so vast that as he points to the sky to acknowledge the crowd he looks like he’s wearing two of those big foam hands usually seen in the Gladiators audience.

The BBC’s countdown to kick-off timer in the corner of the screen reaches zero and the game is underway with the Saints receiving the ball. In between each of the opening plays the teams introduce themselves to us personally courtesy of some snazzy moving graphics. Whilst a number of players try and assert themselves with a bit of posturing and flexing in this graphic none of them manage to steal the show quite like Charlie Johnson’s impressive beard.

First points on the board belong to the Colts as 42 year-old Matt Stover kicks a 38 yard field goal and seems to be the only person particularly bothered by it. Whilst he points to the sky and jumps around in celebration his team-mates treat him like a hyperactive nephew at Christmas just smiling and nodding as Stover goes wild.

There cannot be many sporting events where the commentators gleefully advertise the interval, but then that’s the Superbowl as CBS pause between plays to proclaim “Coming up The Who will be performing”. I know the Superbowl Half Time Show is an event into itself but is anyone really watching this right now thinking, these guys running around in padding is all very well, but when can I see some pensioners with musical instruments trying to hang onto their youth?

Though many Brits are quick to condescend the sport as being too complicated, American Football is pretty straight forward to get to grips with. That is until CBS pundit Phil Simmons’ tactical breakdowns which are so jargon filled you begin to question everything you’ve ever previously understood in life, let alone football. In the final minute of the 1st quarter comes the game’s first touchdown. Colts Quarter Back Peyton Manning picks out Pierre Garcon in the corner of the end-zone and the only surprise is that anyone outside of a French textbook would actually be named Pierre Garcon. Hopefully the Saints bench contains a Juan Hombre to counter.

The BBC have two men in Miami, Matt Roberts who normally presents the BBC’s MotoGP coverage and NFL Hall of Famer Rod Woodson who come across as the sort of odd-couple who are normally only paired together in Cop-based buddy movies. The two are seated so far away from the action way below and behind them in the stadium they could be perched atop of the floodlights. Roberts appears absolutely petrified every time Jake Humphrey hands over to him; he has the look of a supply teacher who’s hoping the kids don’t clock that he knows nothing about the subject he’s been roped in to teach.

Into the second quarter and the Saints hit back to move from 10-0 down to 10-3 as kicker Garrett Hartley puts a field goal straight down the middle from forty-six yards out. As the US audience go to another ad break we’re treated to footage of Reggie Bush and David Beckham swapping sporting tips, which brings a peculiar childlike giggle from Jake Humphrey. The BBC’s motley crew of ‘soccer’ pundits could learn a lot from the much more enjoyable Superbowl studio panel. Humphrey engages well with the amiable lumberjack Alex Smith and Mike Carlson who continues to remind me of Mr Cunningham from Happy Days.

As we go back to Miami there’s a great close-up of Tracy Porter’s impressive hairstyle which has a ‘Superbowl 44’ design meticulously shaved into it. With the Colts having been forced to punt on their possession the Saints have steadily progressed downfield and at the two minute warning they’ve got themselves positioned at 3rd and goal. After Mike Bell slips on the third down the Saints try to run in a touchdown on the 4th down but are stopped short. Oddly the resulting celebrations from the Colts defence far exceed those performed by the offence after Stoker’s earlier field goal.

The Colts fail to see out the half with possession and the Saints just work themselves back into field goal range before half-time. With the last play before the interval Hartley puts over again from 44 yards to leave the half-time score at 10-6. As we go into the break the CBS pitch-side reporter is briefly confused as he has to hand over from his interview with Colts Coach Jim Campbell to another Jim back in the studio, but he’s nothing on the BBC’s Matt Roberts.

“The lights have gone out behind us because there is a stage being put together, its like ants taking apart a biscuit but in reverse,” is Roberts’ curious way of handing back to the studio ahead of The Who’s appearance in the half-time show. Unlike Janet Jackson’s notable performance of a few years ago there is no danger of a wardrobe malfunction here, though a colostomy malfunction could be an issue. The Who are appearing on an illuminated circular stage in the centre of the field which via a variety of lighting techniques seems to be running through the colour schemes of the various dartboards on Bullseye. The NFL kindly thanks us for watching The Who and then its back to the studio in time for a brilliant montage of the NFL’s past season, presumably whilst the ants set to work taking apart the biscuit the right way round.

The second half begins with a bang as the Saints opt to go for broke in the form of a surprise onside kick. This causes a pileup of fog-bound motorway proportions with players from both teams scrambling for the ball as if it was a lost winning lottery ticket. Despite loud claims from both sides that they have the football, the umpires eventually peel back enough bodies to decide that the Saints’ brave move has paid off and they have indeed retained it.

 Courtesy of a chain of successful throws from Quarter Back Drew Brees the Saints work the ball downfield and round off the half’s first drive with a touchdown. A fantastic weaving run from Pierre Thomas, aided by some impressive blocking sees him dive into the end-zone to put Saints ahead. I’m no authority on stats, but I would imagine that this is the first time in Superbowl history that both teams have had their opening touchdown scored by a man called Pierre. “Right after The Who performed at half-time, the Who Dat team take the lead” voices CBS’ anchor as we return to the studio.

The Saints lead doesn’t last any longer than a single Colts drive though as the arm of Peyton Manning draws Indianapolis to the Saints end of the field and a ten yard running touchdown from Joseph Addai, plus an extra-point from Stover puts the Colts back in control at 17-13. The ball returns to the Saints and they end their possessional drive with points as well, but it’s just a field goal from Hartley to bring them back within a point of the lead. The end to end scoring is briefly interrupted as Matt Roberts is noticeably distracted by a close-up of the Saints’ cheerleaders and returns us to the action with all the smoothness of Alan Partridge.

The Superbowl is a veritable advertising bonanza in the States; “If you can’t get enough of the Superbowl Ads you can see them all again” intones the man from CBS as we return to the action, teasing those BBC watching ad-lovers who didn’t get to see them the first time round.

The trade-off in scoring ends early in the final quarter as Stover pulls a long range field goal attempt wide on the Colts next drive and that puts the Saints in possession in a promising field position. New Orleans close in on the Colts line and eventually turn in a touchdown from close range as Jeremy Shockey catches just short of the goal-line but forces his way into the end-zone. Now five points in front the Saints look to cement their lead as they forego the conversion to go for the extra two points. The throw looks to have fallen just short sending the end zone line official, perhaps sensing this is his big moment on television, to dance star-jumps along the touchline as he elaborately rules no score. Back in the studio Carlson and Smith are convinced it was good, as are the Saints who challenge the call. Alas for the enthusiastic umpire his big moment is lost as from the play review his fellow officials deem it ‘good’ and the Saints lead 24-17 with just over five and a half minutes to play.

In the BBC studio Jake Humphrey remarks on how it’s been a relatively mistake-free game thus far, whilst Carlson and Smith both intone that Colts best hopes rest on getting the ball in Manning’s hands. The trio’s combined analysis seems to awaken the God of Mistaken Commentary as in the very next play Manning’s throw is picked off by Tracey Porter who runs seventy yards for another Saints touchdown. The extra point goes over as well and suddenly the Saints lead 31-17 with just over three minutes to go.

It is only at this late stage that the BBC finally let Mike Carlson loose on some electronic analysis technology. As its with these tools that Carlson always thrives we can only assume that he misbehaved in someway before the game and the BBC only allowed him to have his toys back if he was good for at least three quarters.

Inside the two minute warning and Manning’s accuracy has worked the Colts to within sight of the Saints line. They need to convert quickly to have any chance of getting back in the game but fail to make it count. On 3rd and goal Addai can’t reach the end-zone and then on the 4th down Manning’s pass to Reggie Wayne is incomplete, slipping through the receiver’s hands. With that the Superbowl belongs to the Saints.

On the field New Orleans run the clock is down and over on the sidelines Coach Sean Payton is ceremonially coated in Gatorade. Confetti rains down as heavily as the comparisons to Mardi Gras, with most of the ticker tape presumably sticking to a now orange coated Coach Payton. The team America was rooting for have won Superbowl XLIV.

Quarter Back Drew Brees gets the MVP nod and is shown in a firm embrace with NFL commissioner Roger Goodell. It’s hard to envisage Wayne Rooney and the Premier League’s Richard Scudamore enjoying such a tender moment should Manchester United lift the league title this year. Fans of the Saints also grace the screen, from those in the stadium waving flags and banners, or dancing on a plinth whilst dressed as Robocop, to those tearing it up on Bourbon Street, New Orleans.

Hall of Famer Len Dawson is charged with bringing in the Vince Lombardi Trophy for the presentation and his smile of pride slowly melts towards something approaching genuine fear as he is swamped by the victorious Saints en route, all trying to touch, stroke or kiss the trophy. Dawson eventually makes it out to the centre of the field where, atop of a giant kicking tee, the trophy is presented to aged Saints owner Tom Benson. “Not only the city but the whole state of Louisiana is back and this shows the whole world,” he proclaims before thrusting the trophy aloft with such force he almost topples over in the process.

Matt Roberts and Rod Woodson hand back to the studio, with the former making a joke about Woodson getting them into a post-match party that’s so weak their grins have worn off long before the pictures cut back to the studio. Jake Humphrey stops just short of throwing himself at the feet of Alex Smith in thanks before his puntastic sign-off; “Sean is the Peyton Saint of New Orleans”.

The Italian Prime Minister was in hospital last night with a broken nose and two broken teeth after an assault from a member of the public at a political rally in Milan. A terrible thing to happen to a great man, so its a good job this wasn’t a great man, but womanising, bumbling, racist Berlusconi. That said it was not the incident itself which brought me cheer but the way it was reported.

The BBC thrived in brilliant unnecessary detail. “Eyewitnesses say the Italian leader was signing autographs when he was attacked by a man wielding a souvenir model of the cathedral, which is famous for its gothic spires”. Though they later reworded this report the online story is still accompanied by a picture of Milan Cathedral. Presumably this is to demonstrate how such pointy gothic architecture would be more painful than say a more rounded Baroque Cathedral like St Paul’s.

This attention to detail continued with the not so startling revelation that “Video of the assault shows Mr Berlusconi suddenly grimacing in pain”. It was quite a blow, in fact Berlusconi was so dazed by the attack that when he came round he was under the belief that he was not a World leader, but a stuntman as he “…tried to climb on the car to show he was all right”.

My personal hope is that this assault will lead to copy-cat crimes of souvenir based attacks around the world.  I’m not one to promote violence, but who wouldn’t enjoy seeing Angela Merkel struck by a novelty Bavaria beer-mitt outside Munich’s Town Hall or Spanish Prime Minister Jose Luis Rodriguez Zapatero cut down by a well-aimed straw-donkey on the streets of Barcelona.

Just who will be the victim of the first assassination by souvenir? My money is on Nicolas Sarkozy… in Paris… with an Eiffel Tower snow-globe and a pencil sharpener in the shape of the Arc de Triomphe

Its thanks to these ‘creatives’ that we have one of my core irrational hatreds; right up there with overly jovial weathermen, people who can’t understand train timetables and tomatoes, it’s Electronic Pitchside Advertising. Some exec somewhere in a glass-walled box in Soho has decided that putting a company name on a wooden board facing the pitch isn’t ‘now’ enough and so captivate the attention of the watching public they’ve replaced it with a one hundred metre long flashing television.

A great idea, until you remember that nobody in the crowd, not a single one, cares about the sodding adverts round the outside of the pitch; it’s what’s in the middle that we’ve come for. All you’ve done is create an irritating distraction. If that’s your idea of advertising at football, next time there is a big game on television you may as well forgo the electronic board display and instead write your company name on the skin of half a million drums and then dispatch 500,000 one-man-bands to stand in the corner of the nation’s living rooms and start crashing through a tune for the duration of the game.

At my club Doncaster Rovers thankfully there are no pitchside electronics, just a ring of traditional advertisement hoardings facing the pitch, but also a small number facing the crowd as well. The ones facing the crowd are particularly enjoyable because they are usually for the smaller local companies and subsequently less brass and obtrusive, more like part of the furniture. As such, we have over recent weeks begun to take notice of them.

In front of our seats in the Stadium is an advert for one such local company featuring the helpful tagline “for all your steel fabrication needs.” I don’t have steel fabrication needs, but it’s useful to know where to turn for these things. Our particular favourite is one for SDL Joinery who pronounce themselves “Main contractor to the leisure industry”. The poor guys must be knackered as the leisure industry’s main source of carpentry. They must own a fleet of around 40,000 vehicles. Can you imagine calling them up for a small job? “Hi, can you knock me a shelf up?” “Oh no sorry we’re building the Olympic Stadium this week… it’ll have to be Thursday”.

So to sum up; Dear people in advertising, stop being such arseholes about everything, you’re only impressing yourselves, ie. other arseholes. That is all.

This particular trip sees me wedged against the window by a woman so large she has failed to notice that her bulk has consumed about two inches of my left elbow, nor that my pen has flown off the drop down table thing and is currently whizzing round in her orbit. OK, I made the second one up, but she’s a big lass and that means I’m crammed in here, a knee in each ear, with a degree of discomfort which is not about to be tempered by her choice in music.

Not only has she invaded my personal space but she continues to invade my sanity as her iPod plays Lady Gaga’s Poker Face ten consecutive times. And this is no exaggeration because I counted. And I did so because I had reasoned that if the number of plays reached a round dozen I would follow Gaga’s advice and poke her face. No matter that I would probably be knuckle deep in jowly flab before she noticed; I had committed myself to this act and it was only her decision to alight (or aheavy) at Retford that saved her. And my finger.

Once she’d gone, the personal triumph of a seat to myself cramp and Gaga free was short-lived when I realised that the big woman had actually been acting as an impressive sonic barrier between me and the girl in the seat opposite. The remainder of the journey lasted forty-five minutes and the girl talked incessantly for forty-two of those minutes. Two of the other three were spent breathing, or refuelling if you like, the equivalent of turning a sand-timer upside down to set it off again. Whilst the remaining sixty seconds were made up of her boyfriend’s one word replies and failed interjections of increasing desperation.

I can only assume that the reason the poor guy remains her boyfriends is due to the fact that he can’t get a bloody word in. That or her huge breasts. As he couldn’t speak its hard to tell how shallow he may be. Either way should he ever choose to leave her then he will have to do it with a note, whilst she sleeps. If that happens he’ll be unfortunately labelled as cruel by her and her friends, but anyone in this carriage would testify that the fact that he hasn’t bludgeoned her to death with her copy of Heat makes him a gentleman, nee a saint.

So monotonous was the noise of the girl’s inane chatter that after a while it dissolved from coherent speech into just a low hum. White noise so constant that ten minutes after arriving at Sheffield I could still hear her drone. It was like going about my day the morning after attending a particularly boisterous live gig. The only reason I am not still hearing it now as I type is because I was shocked back into normal audio by the surreal sight of a man wandering up and down the platform carrying a dining chair, flanked by a woman with a giant plastic axe.

Their differing accents, slight unease in each others country and wide ranging discussion gave the game away. In your first year of university you can invent your own back story. Finally free from those who, no matter what you achieve, will always know you as the kid who fell asleep in assembly then woke up yelling “Don’t Touch me you fucking cucumber” midway through the Lords Prayer much to the whole school’s amusement and subsequently spent the rest of their school days known as Fucking Cucumber John. Away from them you can be who you want.

And so these two lads talk to each other in sentences that include unnecessary details all of which are geared to making them seem better people. As a result their conversation meanders from point to point like a toddler with no arms attempting a dot to dot puzzle. That in itself is annoying, but then so is their naivety to their own surroundings, a factor which becomes apparent when they spot the UK Rail Network map on the wall of the carriage above me.

 “I hadn’t realised how big Scotland is… you know its pretty big. I thought it was like the size of Yorkshire or something.”

“Yeah I always thought all you guys up there you know Leeds, Manchester, Sunderland, Sheffield and the like were all really close together but they’re actually quite far apart aren’t they. I mean, some of them are on different sides of the country.”

By now this conversation is taking place directly above my head; both guys leaning over me to make idiotic geographical statements at one another whilst fingering the rail network map on the wall. And despite this neither has so much as paused to acknowledge my presence here, sat beneath them, my head level with their respective groins. Although such is their spatial awareness the two of them probably estimate my head to be somewhere nearer their ankles. Perhaps it’s no surprise that they had no comprehension of the size of Scotland given that they are currently falling a long way short in their estimation of what I would consider reasonable personal space.

Eventually they retreat a reasonable distance across to the other doorway and I can return to reading my book without the genuine fear that I may actually be invisible. The return to normality is broken by the woman with the refreshments trolley who clatters past us and into the front end of the train with all the subtlety of Brian Blessed pissing about with a loud hailer.

Once in there she leaves the door open as she begins restocking her trolley although seems where the rest of us would posess an inner monologue she seems to have swapped hers for the spirit of the Chuckle Brothers. And so me and the students are treated every few seconds to loud exclamations from the compartment beyond such as “Now what a daft place to leave a Kit Kat”, “Urrgh, who would order that?”, “Tonic tonic tonic, where would we keep the tonic?” and so forth.

Eventually, at Birmingham I finally escape into the night and to the solace of my own company. In my wake remain two students in the midst of an argument about the exact location of Scunthorpe and a trolley dolly in an unrequited conversation with the on train announcer; “No, I’m staying here, you  have a pleasant journey”. Next time, I’ll just get a seat.

First impression and first question; what the hell is with that set? This can be the only place on the planet where the number of light bulbs exceeds all other available surfaces. It looks like the room where they store Blackpool Illuminations during the summer months only this year they forgot to disconnect them first. Presumably the audience are part screaming in idiotic hyped up fervour but mostly due to the burning sensation on their retinas.

Judge Cheryl Cole is the x-Factor personified. Looks really impressive, really well put together and is on the whole pretty enticing, but the end sound produced is a disappointment. On the subject of things which don’t sound like they look contestant Stacey Soloman is first up.  An undeniably attractive girl, she has the misfortune to speak like Dagenham receptionist doing an impression of Frank Spencer. Simon Cowell gets booed for describing Stacey’s turn as a “typical talent show performance”  by the typical talent show audience and Dermot O’Leary’s spiel about the phone call regulations lasts longer than the song he’s asking people to vote on.

Advert break. I can safely say that I have not seen anybody bright-dancing. Why are TalkTalk trying to force their own ‘craze’ upon us? I think this is crossing the line from advertising to propaganda. Stop lying to us TalkTalk, the only people brightdancing are these folk you’ve paid to feature in your ads. Why not tell the truth and have a picture of some guy straining on a toilet with the caption ‘Shitting – everybody is doing it’. It might not be much of a craze but at least it would be true.

Back to the show. Why does Simon Cowell always act surprised when he’s called on to introduce an act? A frankly amateur performance. If they kicked off the judges week by week then he’d be first to go. And great, I’ll never be able to enjoy Ferris Bueller’s Day Off again knowing that Cowell loves it too. It’s like finding that a girl you love also slept with Mark Lawrenson. Olly sings, but surely no-one believes those people in the background are really playing those trumpets?

Why is Cowell orchestrating a standing ovation for an average version of Twist & Shout. I’m not getting it. Why all the adulation? Why does an average cover of a Beatles song get you hundreds of people chanting your name? People will cheer anything. Stop fucking cheering. Seriously, everyone, for two minutes just stop yelling out. Louis should wait for them all to be quiet before speaking and turn round to tell the audience that it’s their own time they’re wasting.

I presume Disney are paying a significant commission to ITV each time they are name checked. Will someone just call it A Christmas Carol and be done? Lloyd next and if he lasts another week I reckon Ashley Cole is going to turn up and lamp him one. The schoolboy clearly fancies his chances with Cheryl. There could be a spin-off series in this with the intro; “He was a schoolboy from the Valleys… She was a married woman… but one thing fused them together… looking more attractive than they sounded… Yes its time for… Seen But Not Heard”

So… Jamie, big hair, incapable of tying a tie. Undeniably talented but his would be rock credentials take a significant hit by being well, a contestant on X-Factor. Louis has criticised him for being unoriginal, and when it comes to unoriginality Louis ‘Boyzone’ Walsh is your man. Louis is incensed that Jamie has been allowed to sing a song from Gummo. “Who’s heard of that? What actors are in it?” A fitting summation of the judges’ failure to comprehend anything that isn’t high-grossing and mainstream.

And another break, are you brightdancing? Why aren’t you brightdancing? You should be brightdancing. Presumably TalkTalk’s aim is to get the nation to follow this craze with a final resolute shrug and a yell at the TV set of “Alright alright I’m fucking brightdancing, are you happy now? Are you? I’m doing it. I’m dancing fucking brightly.”

On to Lucie. She’s pretty, down to earth and likeable and also earns extra points for failing to toe the party line by referencing Disney. Ah, I spoke too soon, she just chucked it her post song ramble, whilst still basking in the glow of a Simon Cowell compliment so thin that even Callista Flockhardt felt it needed more weight to it. On the subject of Cowell is it just me or has he begun to style himself on John Culshaw’s impression of him?

Daniel is the next contestant up. Apparently one of his problems is that he can comes across as being a little arrogant. Now I’m no expert but if you’re trying to quash this perception it’s probably not a great move to get him to sing Purple Rain haunched in the middle of a raised Perspex stage upon a stage.  Apparently tonight though I got lucky as this is the night he launches his new image, or as it transpires, basically he’s had his haircut.

When Cheryl Cole says the word demeanour she makes it sound like the unfortunate name of a spoilt child. “Demeanour! Stop pulling that poor dog’s tail and get here this instant!” Ah spoilt children, here’s John and Edward. Given all the money thrown at this show the special effects team and choreographers must have been aiming for the look of a hastily pulled together end of school concert. Either that or the electricity bills have meant a significant budget cut.

Are John and Edward even real people? From what I can see they are basically Zig and Zag with the benefit of more technologically advanced animatronics. That would at least account for their emotion and expression free faces. For all the reaction emitted from the pair of grinning c*ntmuppets Cowell, Walsh and co could either be backing them to win or wishing their family dead.

Two bloody hours this thing goes on for. Which means Joe must be last. For some reason he reminds me of the young kid led astray in Queer as Folk, a perception not dissuaded by him singing musical theatre classic Circle of Life. Apparently he’s signing it because it reminds him of when he was a child, but then he’s so young, looking in a mirror would probably have the same effect. He should secure the pensioner vote though by being the first act tonight to be wearing a poppy in the right place.

Louis wraps up by reminding Dermot O’Leary how it all fits together; “You’re the host, I’m the judge”. And now its the opening of the phone-lines, signalled by a bigger opening ceremony than the Commonwealth Games. And that’s that. As to what the factor labelled X actually is, I can only assume its mass marketability. It doesn’t matter if you can sing, or provide anything of worth, just so long as people will consume you regardless. The musical equivalent of McDonalds basically.

The cock is in his late thirties. He has light brown hair fashioned into ill-thought out dreads and is dressed as if the Man From C&A had gone to a fancy dress party as a member of Nirvana. He joined the train at the first stop and spent the opening eight minutes of his journey giggling and guffawing cockishly through an incredibly funny anecdote he was failing to tell his inexplicably pretty companion. So overcome was the cock with laughter that throughout this period despite being sat just eight feet away I was able to pick out just three full words, the rest was completely unintelligible; it was like listening to Welsh. Really irritating Welsh.

The only time he ceased to laugh was when the conductor came by and the cock offered the tickets of himself and his friend with a loud “There you go Blood” before giving a self satisfied look around the carriage. Presumably he did this for acknowledgement of his cheek to ‘the man’. You have to be particularly cockish to gain no empathy whatsoever when challenging authority. In his entire railway career its doubtful that the conductor had ever been as popular as he was right now as he turned away from the cock, rolled his eyes and gave a shrug as he continued down the carriage.

Soon after this the cock delved into his bag to dig out an mp3 player to share with his companion. “You should listen to this, right, yeah, its a World Music album. Its so cool, its got like a different type of music to represent each country. It’s so eye-opening and different… Listen to this one, this is South Africa… and this one is India… and wait… listen to this, this is Iceland, I think, no, no I think its the Philippines. How cool is that?” His companion at this point delivered a fantastic cutting blow which the cock wasn’t expecting. “Erm, I think they’re all the same track, just with different drums.”

A little wounded and needing to get back in the game the cock took the conductor’s announcement of the penultimate stop as his cue for a frankly hilarious party piece. You’ll never guess what he did right. OK get this, he used his fingers to like pinch his nose or something and then he only went and repeated what the conductor had just said. But in a kind of muffled way, so it sounded all funny like and you know like hard to understand. I’m telling you, you should of been there, it was hilarious… Cock. A barely acceptable gag when you have toddlers travelling with you, but when you’re travelling with a member of the opposite sex your own age even Joe Pasquale would go “No hang on a second, this is probably a little immature”.

As the train reached Lincoln the cock went all out to secure his dubious title of undisputed cockend of the week in the manner of a gymnast trying to cram all their best moves into the final few seconds of their floor routine. He nailed it. Firstly by suddenly pulling a recorder from his bag and playing a few bars of Sloop John B, and then to seal the deal, as the train arrived at the station and the carriage made a little more hurridly than normal for the exits, he pulled out his big finish. No sooner could you say “Oh he fucking isn’t is he?” the cock had reached for the hanging arm supports and attempted a somersault midway down the carriage. If there was any justice this episode would end with a face-plant and a few broken teeth. Or a yell of “That’s it, I’m leaving you” from his companion. Alas there was neither. Just a cock.

My favourite is the guy who claims that with free texts for life he would “start a revolution”. Now I should make it clear that socio-political history is not one of stronger subjects. However, as I understand it most revolutions are the results of months and sometimes years of built up frustrations at the established order. They tend to come as the people have enough of the situation and make a radical move to overthrow the hegemony which has previously contained them.

Revolutions are not blasé. Revolutions are not done on a whim. Revolutions are often the last throw of the dice and can be bloody and violent. So with all this in mind I would suggest that if they only thing preventing you from Revolting is the cost of sending a text message then you are not the Revolting type. Should the Velvet and Orange Revolutions ever be followed by the 10p Revolution then we shall be moved to thank you and T-Mobile, but until then give up the faux political pretensions and join your smug mate’s Musical Supergroup instead.

On a busy Saturday morning train I was forced to stand in the aisle for the duration of the journey to Birmingham, placing me directly above a travelling double act; a guy in his late thirties and his mother, the straight man. Had it not been for the son’s habit of reading every station sign out loud I may never have noticed them, but once snared I couldn’t have stopped listening even if I wanted to.

“Droitwich Spa… I’ve never got off here, what’s it like? It’s a shit town isn’t it? It is a shit town. There’s nothing here at all.”

“Must you use that language?”

“But that’s what it is, it is a shit town, that’s what they call ‘em. Shit towns.”

Though quick to condemn Droitwich Spa it became apparent at the next stop that the son’s town quality spectrum was a pretty narrow one;

“Bromsgrove… No, Bromsgrove is a pretty cool town you know. Pretty cool indeed.”

However it wasn’t this which kept me aware of the couple, as much as the son’s conversational hints toward a much darker side. His tendency to repeat parts of his previous sentence coupled with an overuse of the word ‘indeed’ensured even general pleasantries had a hint of scheming super-villain about them.

“Lovely day Jim”

“Yes. Yes it is. It’s going to be a glorious day. A glorious day indeed”.

Out in the rolling north Worcestershire countryside it became apparent that no matter how hard he tried to focus on the sweeter side of life Jim just could not put his inner demons to rest;

“Look mam, look at that calf… Ooh… Put that in the fridge and that’s a nice bit of veal… Don’t look at me like that. I think that way. I used to work in the slaughterhouse didn’t I? I’ve a license to kill.”

“So you keep telling me.”

As the train rolled on, and with myself and others in earshot having edged as far away from the kill-licence holding Jim as the packed carriage allowed, I discovered that Jim’s dark side had previous form, though also came from a distinctly sketchy ethos.

“Kings Norton… I got away with a lot of breaking didn’t I, because I know the law. I’m very good at law I am.”

“Are you?”

“Well I’ve not been to prison yet have I?”

Eventually his poor mother tired of his incessant subtle hints at criminality and in the Birmingham suburbs she made a request to strike a chord with those in adjacent seats. Though the response of Jim suggested it wasn’t he that we should have been worried about.

“Give it a rest will you.”

“You gonna pick me up and throw me through the window? I’m not three years old anymore.”

Its always the quiet ones.