Oh Lord - the X-Factor season will soon be upon us again, as could be reasonably assumed by the three thousand morons who turned out to audition for the show in Manchester.
It's pretty much business as usual for Simon Cowell and co as they take their places to be entertained by tap-dancing giraffes, dogs that won't do as they're told, silly old women who still harbour secret fantasies about being the next Susan Boyle, toothless old blokes from homeless hostels trying to convince the world they're as good as Sinatra, and idiots who light their own farts.
Which is all well and good, but eccentric British film director, Buffty Ginslinger, holding court in a seedy Vauxhall pub, issued an appeal on behalf of legions of unpaid satirists the world over. Apparently, these people, all good men and true, are forced to watch hour after gruelling hour of X-Factor on TV in the hope that something will happen at some point, which will be worth lampooning in order to make others laugh.
Very little ever does. It's tough to lampoon a man who farts music, or a magician who can't do magic, or three fat lasses with corned beef legs from Middlesbrough who want to be the next Girls Aloud.
Buffty Ginslinger has promised to spare a thought for this poor unsung minority, who do a very difficult job under the most trying of circumstances - just to show his personal appreciation.
To this end, he has pledged to fart in a jam jar, quickly seal it up, and auction it on E-Bay. Proceeds to his bar tab fund.
More Buffty buzzcocks as we get them.
Oh, and apparently Dannii Minogue is back on board. Whoopy fucking doo.
