The problems with The Voice have not been rectified. It doesn’t matter that Fanny from The Crypt has been ditched or that Pielie Minogue has been added. A tedium as black and hard as coal runs through the format infecting everything it touches. The banter between judges is forced. Not a gram of tension exists at any stage. As long as you live nothing will ever matter less. The presenters are so anonymous they could plan a bullion heist on-air and not one viewer would remember a word of it.
We meet Mairead Conlon, 31, from County Dublin, a ridiculous Jack who looks like one of Nidge‘s side pieces who they kill off in the first few episodes of a Love/Hate series. She does a fucking awful Purple Rain with that oversinging Cher warbling but still three of the judges turn around (bright eyes). She goes with Tom because he reminds her of his dad providing the most exciting moment of the series so far – someone under 70 going with Tom. Mairead was going to college if she didn’t get through so the music industry’s loss is further education in Dublin’s gain.
The next two acts are a couple of way-too-old-for-this-shit pub rockers. Lewis Clay, 31, phones in his take on Cryin’. It bombs. “There was a consistent flatness – were you aware of it?” asks Will.i.am. Lewis totes was but it never seemed to hold anyone else back. After him is Jimmy Weston, 39, a painter and decorator from Coventry and he does a completely predictable version of Desperado. Ricky Wilson turns as does Kylie. The intelligent thing would be to go with Ricky so he naturally goes for Kylie who quite literally can believe her luck.
The intelligent thing would be to go with Ricky so he naturally goes for Kylie who quite literally can believe her luck.
They keep coming. Someone off Emmerdale, a 17-year-old retro piece of pie, some sob story spouting R&B skunk who stinks the place out, misses the drop and gets told to GTFO – all human life is here just stripped of anything interesting. The Voice is anaemic, busted and nobody will ever care about anything that happens on it. Perform on it, you’re a dimwit; judge on it, you’re a halfwit; enjoy it, you’re a fuckwit.
The verdict: You, you make me feel brand poo.
Marks out of 10: 3