Xplaining the love of reality TV
It is a Saturday night in the northernmost fringes of London, a place where the streets are lined with Golden Nugget Chicken outlets.
Outside an anonymous building with blanked-out windows, a discarded plastic bag swirls in the breeze and in the distance the arch of Wembley Stadium soars against the darkening sky.
At first glance, it seems a doleful place. But this is where dreams are made and broken. Inside that reinforced-concrete building, men in black T-shirts with headsets are swarming around like worker bees, ushering a constant stream of shrieking teenage girls to their seats,raybansunglasses testing the sound levels and the autocue, ensuring that the audience is primed to clap and scream as loudly as possible once the lights go up -- because this is where, every weekend, The X Factor goes live.
As the theme music is pumped through the studio speakers, it is as though the entire crowd has been electrified by a giant cattle prod. We leap out of our seats as one,cctv ccd camera arms waving maniacally in the air as each contestant takes to the stage in a blaze of strobe lighting and sequinned backing dancers. When the judges deliver their verdicts, we boo as soon as Simon Cowell says anything remotely negative and cheer wildly when Cheryl Cole gives a twinkling, encouraging smile.
We are indiscriminately supportive of all the contestants. We empathise with them in a way we never normally engage with actors or celebrities precisely because they are real and because -- at the touch of an interactive red button or the dialling of a phone number -- we can have a say in their future.
When Mary Byrne comes on stage, swathed in a black evening gown, we cheer loudly because we do not want her to go back to her till at Tesco. When Rebecca Ferguson takes the floor, all sparkly eye-shadow and pretty smile, we clap until our hands sting. When One Direction perform an upbeat love song in matching suit jackets, those of us who are not teenagers regress shamelessly to our adolescence. If the security guards had allowed us our cigarette lighters, we would be brandishing them now. At the back of the auditorium,covert spy camera several schoolgirls become breathless with excitement. "We love you Harry," they shout in unison.lacosteshoes123
This is The X Factor, brainchild of Cowell and the most popular programme on Saturday night. Each week, hundreds make the pilgrimage to the Fountain Television Studios in Wembley to be part of the live audience and millions of us tune in at home to watch. Each week,apparel the front pages of the tabloid newspapers will be emblazoned with headlines about Cher Lloyd's supposedly diva-ish antics or Louis Walsh's backstage meltdown.
It is a Saturday night in the northernmost fringes of London, a place where the streets are lined with Golden Nugget Chicken outlets.
Outside an anonymous building with blanked-out windows, a discarded plastic bag swirls in the breeze and in the distance the arch of Wembley Stadium soars against the darkening sky.
At first glance, it seems a doleful place. But this is where dreams are made and broken. Inside that reinforced-concrete building, men in black T-shirts with headsets are swarming around like worker bees, ushering a constant stream of shrieking teenage girls to their seats,raybansunglasses testing the sound levels and the autocue, ensuring that the audience is primed to clap and scream as loudly as possible once the lights go up -- because this is where, every weekend, The X Factor goes live.
As the theme music is pumped through the studio speakers, it is as though the entire crowd has been electrified by a giant cattle prod. We leap out of our seats as one,cctv ccd camera arms waving maniacally in the air as each contestant takes to the stage in a blaze of strobe lighting and sequinned backing dancers. When the judges deliver their verdicts, we boo as soon as Simon Cowell says anything remotely negative and cheer wildly when Cheryl Cole gives a twinkling, encouraging smile.
We are indiscriminately supportive of all the contestants. We empathise with them in a way we never normally engage with actors or celebrities precisely because they are real and because -- at the touch of an interactive red button or the dialling of a phone number -- we can have a say in their future.
When Mary Byrne comes on stage, swathed in a black evening gown, we cheer loudly because we do not want her to go back to her till at Tesco. When Rebecca Ferguson takes the floor, all sparkly eye-shadow and pretty smile, we clap until our hands sting. When One Direction perform an upbeat love song in matching suit jackets, those of us who are not teenagers regress shamelessly to our adolescence. If the security guards had allowed us our cigarette lighters, we would be brandishing them now. At the back of the auditorium,covert spy camera several schoolgirls become breathless with excitement. "We love you Harry," they shout in unison.lacosteshoes123
This is The X Factor, brainchild of Cowell and the most popular programme on Saturday night. Each week, hundreds make the pilgrimage to the Fountain Television Studios in Wembley to be part of the live audience and millions of us tune in at home to watch. Each week,apparel the front pages of the tabloid newspapers will be emblazoned with headlines about Cher Lloyd's supposedly diva-ish antics or Louis Walsh's backstage meltdown.
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