Once you’ve been slated on national TV by a self-imposed treasure, you know you’ll survive anything. And you’ll survive anything. Except, maybe, the final, because no-one survives that; the winners are multipack bags of generic flavour crisps, not infinite, but eaten by Gary Lineker in adverts which last less time than music videos.
They say steel. But I want to know what’s thicker, and could convince the questionable amongst you. Nelly Furtado says she knew she’d be famous, enviaged it, had premonitions of it, but how many is that true for? She’s just lucky it worked out, and every sad fucker with the same dream is a crisis-broadcast, plastic-wrapper, sweating their insides out, sure that breaks are lottery wins whose odds are as easy as adverts make it.
I saw my future, but I’ll never say what I saw in it.
Your throat swells; you cry more than when Ben chose Jane, or Matt chose no-one in particular just somebody who wasn’t you and did it specifically on New Year’s Eve when you had to sleep at his house because some things must absolutely finish before you ring a new year in. Most people give up smoking or crack. But I’ve been the necessary drop, disposable time segment, and I could never figure that habit out, of starting January with less than I started, because pre-Easter was give-up time, Lent time, and I visited each Station of the Cross like a gallery stop seeing Van Gogh or Holzer. Sundays were a day off, and if you count that up, you could easily have a week in a year-time of the thing you quit. Me.
This, the best feeling in the world, is capturable on TV, luckily, or we’d forget it like the specificity of every proposal, linger, finger, fuck or purchase. Checking bank statements is a past dwelling waste-time, and this might be the only existentialist quest there is.
If every decision is fatalist and we’re extending towards a short play heaven scenario then firing Cheryl Cole was a dick move intent on skewering publicity like stick sausages, pineapple and cheese blocks, party foods on paper plates sweating in three o’ clock air.
I tan my hand in the meat grill as Tulisa’s book quotes become the unintentional comedy I day seek, she dictated 308 pages and I filled an ice cream tub with street vomit sure my society dent was evolutionary like Britney, who could repatch ships on the brink of ice berg bearing and I wouldn’t kiss somebody comfortable with injecting a face unnecessarily but I’d fuck any Tom Cruise incarnation, even a Vanilla Sky one, because I know what the potential of god is and I sticker steal him.
An okay voice and personal rap and soap storyline, backwards cap and a simmering shout, a pattering scream from every audience woman almost of age, and we all wish we were her, the girl you do this for, who we assume is hopeless, fucking your best friend by now since you moved. She’s got every kind of need you never knew she had; you had only kissed her.
I was only ever serenaded with god songs and those songs weren’t about me and I’d will, “write something, write something else,” but Jack was a trickless pony, a clean-split egg, half-content not to contain anything, not a miniature toy or sweet or a yolk.
If you back yourself, I’ll back you, stand next to the yet to resurrect version of you which makes for super good television. Because my words aren’t criticism, they’re nigh on gospel, and if you savour each syllable, let my sentences set like hand print cement or jello or Botox you’ll find higher levels and I don’t mean Mario, although I don’t sleep much either.
If I tell you your fatness is cured, I’ve cured it, because I never told a lie in my life, but when I did, I found it unswallowable, and time is a series of do and not do, of back-track mistakes and dreaming you look like a Clooney, fuck like a Pitt.
The long contract’s an easy sign and even your story, you agree to it being sellable and don’t care what kind of package it is they put you in as long as it’s not taffeta or green, and someone prepared what you’d say and each judge purposefully willed failure, willing you to win, encouraged TV confidence which you had in the mirror when you were 13, but the millennia’s an estimation which never worked mathematically, because the impact factors are complex, and potential’s stayed the same level since 2004 and it’s easy for millionaires to say, “You need a little confidence,” and, “We all want you to win,” with no actual comprehension, and I promise you, scene-stealer, there are movies about the skin on your ribs, elasticine is, and if I could contort I’d understand the flatness of each eyeball and straighten your toes out and tell you this once-a-year charade is a sickness and people coming twice are a zombie start-up and you’re better than that. You’ve bested it.
Something will move you more than the movie Titanic and you’ll be unprepared as you were then: only hoodie sleeves and the cheapest mascara, pocket money bought, smudged like cartridge pen ink.
Now, you’ve a between takes make-up artist fixing marks left by an emotional on camera quell, and you explain a resonate, a simple get, but any resonance owes a month’s before performer who only knows what the thing was first place about. And Adele is anyone’s guess.
I’m sure, at home, you’re the nicest of men, and you meet responsibilities straight on in the stickiest of fashions, like jammed bread on a linoleum floor. I could bet that you do. I lose almost all bets though, betting which characters die or who wins singing competitions, like I have impeccable tact, could pick a girl by her shampoo out of a crowd and make her Blake Lively. Actually, my knowledge base makes for a mediocre CV and I could blame Isle of Wight careers’ advisers or the religious persuasion of schools I went to when I didn’t know who George Clooney was, but I made each decision, and the only problem was impressing, in the people I tried to impress with each application.
So, against you, in a bathroom, or close the way contestants are, lit un-make-upped, in your category, houses or on tour, I wouldn’t want approval, because I have fathers for that and ex-boyfriends who keep in touch with up-to-date moral codes and thin disguises, but I know when a book’s not a book but a prerogative. And you, you nice home man, are diabolic.
And when you find yourself saying, “Confidence is your only problem,” wonder if you ever knew how not to be confident, if you ever felt how it is to hold convictions lighter than plastic bags in movies which won awards but actually, commented on time as it passed, and now, its trademarked stars are good for reunions and sequels and album titles, but not quite the singularity once anticipated of them. And you, also, stand example of a time in which we wanted only the forgiveness of a person completely inept at giving it, in public.
I’m going to teach my daughter, if I’m one of those women who has daughters and not just cutlery on which to polish and dote, not to get hair extensions. I won’t be a dictator but some things are important to pass on, like who not to fuck, and who to fuck, and who to really consider fucking, but don’t feel bad if it’s like a no.
I’m going to teach her about the word no and all the uses of it and that a panel of people saying no to her might be a distinct career point which changes minds and makes weight loss crucial and haircuts climacteric, but it could be a verge of has-beens, a gene pool distilling of four. I don’t know who’ll judge those shows, which rely on minimum-wage desperation, which is plentiful here, in 2016, and I don’t know who’ll live then, or if an apocalypse comes ready to gut-fuck us, and in wait of a prevention/cure, we sip-blow Lemsip which will scorch but not quite wash down. If we don’t die, and she doesn’t, I’ll say, “Kid. I embarrassed myself on television. It’s a passage rite so rehearse your fucking lines. Go impress Gary Barlow. Kiss Tulisa Contosatvlos.”