My latest television addiciton has been in the shape of ITV's X-factor. I concede from the off that this programme is designed with the lowest social denominator in mind and requires the cultural knowledge of a badly dressed amoeba, but nevertheless, much like heroin (one would imagine) "the only problem is that it is terribly moorish." Such is its popularity, it is easy to see why so many people in this country slow down to look at road accidents. This week was more of the terrible/wonderful same. Nicholas was the unlucky victim, for those unfamiliar with the show, he is the one who is like Lemar with all the talented bits removed. The poor lad, as vocally challenged as he he clearly is, must have been appalled to have witnessed the Conway sisters survive at his expense. A someone put it so eloquently they sound like a 'petshop on fire' - and this is being kind. The fact that they are fat, toothy, badly dressed and seemingly unaware of their own awfulness only swrves to make the agony of hearing their screeching murder another 80's ballad all the more painful. I wouldnt be surpsied to learn that they exist entriely on crisps. Relief was at hand in the form of Chico, who is to all intents and purposes Ricky Martin with severe mental health problems. I rather suspect his pre-performance routine consists of drinking about 5 litres of unduliuted orange cordial, such is his energy. He whirls arund like a needy pre-schooler and is as compelling as viewing a particularly ghoulish hotel fire on the news. He performed his own single 'Chico Time' and I am begininning to get won over by him, for his sheer gall. Cowell decribed him as 'horribly fantatstic' - very accurate. Aside from this, the other acts, Shane who looks like Justin Timberlake if he worked in Argos, and the worrying Journey South who remind me of having double vision at a Chensey Hawkes concert, except without the dignity and musicianship, all progressed. Roll on next week.