Eight is enough

A Letter From Her Majesty, Queen Elizabeth II, To Her Antipodean Subjects.

My dear Australians,

One was terribly pleased to hear that One’s Colonies Idol was this week paying homage to the Mother Country by performing numbers referred to as belonging to the genre of ‘The Britpop’. One has taken One’s grandsons aside and had ‘The Britpop’ explained to One, however One’s grandsons then scoffed rather inappropriately at the concept that the melange of songs performed on this particular night were in fact anything resembling ‘The Britpop’. Wills and Harry are frankly too chuffed by Our Boy’s defeat of Your Wallabies to really care and have said that you all were mostly ‘close enough’. In the meantime, One is thoroughly thrilled to be given the opportunity to ‘blog’ for Mistress TallulahBelle, who has graciously stepped aside. (Tallulah: You say stepped aside, I say pushed aside by burly men in black suits from MI:5 who threatened my cat until I forked over my password. Your Majesty.)

A rather attractive fellow, the Marquess of Scorch, Carl Risely puports to be singing ‘Can’t Buy Me Love’, penned by some of One’s favourite subjects, The Beatles. One has knighted Paul McCartney. One shall not extend this courtesy to Carl. His swing version is attributed to a Gentleman called Michael Buble. Well. One shall certainly set the corgi’s on that blighter should he set foot on the palace grounds. One finds this arrangement vaguely offending. His singing is quite adequate, One supposes, but One would appreciate it if he would stop butchering The Beatles. Thank you.

Knave Mark Holden calls it a great start and compliments his higher range. He notes that Carl insists on singing swing but that this may be his Achilles heel and longs for a ballad. The corgis like a good ballad. Our right royal British subject Dicko (O.B.E.) rightly dubs it ‘snuff jazz’ and says that he stamped all over the melody. Really, until One has heard Princess Anne warbling in the shower of a morn, to the Greatest Hits of Ronan Keating, One does not know true pain. Is the Dowager Marcia Hines perhaps a faith healer of some kind? Her tent like garment would suggest so. Daddy used to have faith healers and their ilk run towards the English Channel and drowned. She neglects to lay her hands on the boy, instead telling him to stay who he is. One thinks she may be delusional. The portly gent at the end believes Carl should stick to his guns but that tonight was a little bland.

Lady in waiting, Little Miss Tarasai Vushe is showing little respect for One’s Union Jack and has plastered said symbol of One’s greatness across her chest. She caterwauls a song called ‘Somebody To Love’ by a Band Named For Oneself. One believes she may be singing to God. At one point it rather sounds as if she is singing ‘The Way We Were’ by that delightful Barbra Streisand and she tells us it is a story about herself. One believes her singing improves dramatically by the middle of her song, producing a powerful glory note and blasting out a rather brilliant ending. (Tallulah: Word, Queeny.)

Dicko (O.B.E.) tries to get Tarasai to confess who she was singing to/about but she declines to name names. One’s Beefeaters could wring the truth from her. He likens her to a preacher woman and promises her ‘the collection plate is groaning’. The Dowager Hines knows how she feels and is also feeling her. One does not think this woman makes much sense. Camilla talks similar rubbish at breakfast about her horses. The portly gent has been telling The People for weeks that she is a star. The Knave hoots and hollers like Phillip after he has bagged a fox. He tells her she ripped the roof off and then gives her something One has been advised is called a ‘touchdown’. Is this perchance a communicable disease one can catch in the Colonies?

Lord Ben McKenzie is also disrespecting Our Jack. One is perennially unamused. Young sir has mixed the Oasis and Ryan Adams versions of ‘Wonderwall’ and is spinnin’ it his own way. One adores his arrangement and smoky husky voice. One will happily include him on One’s list of performers for this years Royal Gala Performance at Christmas. (Tallulah: Sorry, your Maj but just had to break in to say – amen, this is fucking great, he’s infused this song with all the usual Moppet vulnerability and when he gets off the stool and approaches the audience, he shines.)

The Dowager Hines loves his voice, the light and shade and power, and calls it a job well done. The portly gent backhands him a compliment that appears to push young sir’s buttons, but then tells him he was extremely believeable and it was really well done. The Knave asks him if it was freaky to come out after Tiramisu and One could have sworn her name was Tarasai? (Tallulah: yeah. You’ll get used to him, Liz, I promise, but you still won’t like it.) He then continues, noting that Benjamin needs to extend his vocal range. Ben has proved to Dicko (O.B.E.) that he is a real contender, but he wishes he hadn’t done that song. There is much to-ing and fro-ing about song choice and turning a Gallagher brothers song into something that would roll over the credits of a Disney film. Then Mr James Mathieson notes to The Knave that should he refer to Tarasai as ‘Tiramisu’ again, he will utilise the rules set up by Queensbury and plant him a facer. One has no choice but to twitter girlishly and have him knighted on the spot.

The Duke of He’s Not Very Good, Is He (tis a small hamlet in the county of Shropshire) Marty Simpson, is next. Is The Kooks ‘Naïve’ often thusly performed with a variety of faces pulled and notes missed? One does not approve of such tuneless drivel. One’s ears are thoroughly offended at this persons inability to stay in tune or on time. Off with his head. That will solve the problem.

The portly gent remarks that young Marty has one of the most interesting voices in the competition. Hmm. As a gel, in One’s days at school singing in the choir, that sort of ‘singing’ would earn you a sharp rap over the knuckes from the Mother Superior and it didn’t matter a jot if your Daddy was the King. The Knave berates his lack of timing and tells him his performance and vocal chops need to be brought up to speed, post haste. Dicko (O.B.E.) believes he has a distinct voice but would like One’s Australian subjects to not vote him any further into the competition. One heartily concurs and has penned a Royal Decree ordering Telstra to not pass on any text messages received for him. The Dowager Hines once again prattles about comfort and being oneself. This woman is ridiculous. Sir James and Mr Andrew G question Marty about why he is on the show – he seems to believe he does not handle performing covers very well and One wonders if he has ever seen this show before? Even One knows that Idol involves cover versions of songs and One has decided that should One ever decide to audition, One would perform ‘I’m Too Sexy’ by Right Said Fred. One does a most excellent rendition every New Years on the local pubs karaoke machine.

Viscount Jacob Butler’s girlfriend insists he has been waiting for The Britpop night for weeks. One wonders then why he didn’t choose an actual The Britpop song instead of The Beatles ‘Let It Be’? He is trying terribly terribly hard to impress One, but his voice is showing strain, cracking in his higher register and even when he ‘rocks it out’, he doesn’t really make it work. (Tallulah: Fosse noted that he sings like he’s forcing out a poo. Sigh. I just wish he’d frigging relax, we can still see him trying. Take a Zanax, dude.)

The Knave calls it a tough song to sing, that it shows the strengths and weaknesses of his voice. Dicko (O.B.E.) says he is reining it in but why choose this song? It is widely regarded as a ‘dog’ and is a faux gospel song and that even Sir Paul didn’t do it justice. One has contacted Sir Paul who had this retort: Bollocks. The Dowager also refutes that The Beatles wrote any ‘dogs’ but also that she thought Jacob might have started a touch lower in his register. The portly gent thinks he would have scored a few votes - with the old person’s vote (One disagrees, One shall not be voting) and to those who appreciate well groomed Gentlemen and those who know how to perform.

Mistress Belle has insisted One refer to this next young pup as The Dud. One was fully prepared to do as One pleased and call him by his real name as is sanctioned by Polite Society. But then One heard his version of The Police’s ‘Message In A Bottle’. One has since contacted Gordon and the boys who have agreed to never allow any of their songs to be utilised on such a show again. The Dud (indeed) has ludicrous hair. One would never allow One’s grandsons to wear it at such a length. The cost of mousse and gel would be scandalously high. This churl smiles altogether too much. One finds it disturbing. (Tallulah: and his singing sucked too. Let’s ditch Marty this week, people and next week The Dud.)

Dicko (O.B.E.) claims this song means a lot to him and calls it another case of over arranging a song to within an inch of its life. Just because you can, doesn’t mean you should. Indeed. One doesn’t simply send One’s soldiers out to reclaim One’s Empire by force, does One? But One could, if One wanted to. Oh, yes. The Dowager is confused about what the show is about. She argues with Dicko (O.B.E.) about crescendos and levels and then tells The Dud that he is damned if he does and damned if he doesn’t. He certainly is. The portly one says The Dud ticks every box but there is something that he just doesn’t like. The Knave says he is developing really well and has worked on his mid range, complimenting his falsetto and the arrangement. One is concerned for Mr Holden’s sanity and has authorised a stay at Bedlam Asylum for the duration of his madness. (Tallulah: God, he’ll never get out. Actually . . .)

One is currently quite concerned regarding the health of popstress Amy Winehouse and believe a stint in ‘Rehab’ would be most beneficial. Failing that a turn around the rooms at Bath works wonders. The Right Honourable Lady Natalie Gauci is without a doubt one of the most - what was the word Mistress Belle? (Tallulah: Foxy.) Aaah yes, - foxy young women One has ever seen. She is delightful to behold. One is not as impressed with her rendition of Ms Winehouse’s tune. It is exceedingly well sung and performed (Tallulah: especially the dancing, yowzah!) but One feels she lacks a little something, grittiness perhaps? (Tallulah: sadly, yes.)

The Dowager compliments her appearance and says she was sexy and sassy. The portly gent enquires after her health but then says she did too good a job and needed to be more ‘junky slag’. He did appreciate her ‘crazy eyes’. The Knave wants her to do well but thinks he’d gone to The Planet Disney – is that like The Planet Hollywood? One rather enjoyed their milkshakes with oreo’s. Dicko (O.B.E.) is also terribly concerned for Ms Winehouse’s current condition and believes that there was no need for Lady Gauci to be so jolly whilst singing that song. Lady Gauci defends her performance by debating the meaning of the song. She is admirable in her defence and One finds her delightful but she is wrong and One would like her to stop talking.

Our final performer of the night is a deliciously pretty young girl with rather magnificent eyes and ripe lips (Tallulah: Uh, your majesty? That’s a boy.) No. It can’t be. (Tallulah: no, it is, his name’s Matt Corby.) Really? What are you people doing allowing your sons to wear their hair so long and unkempt? (Tallulah: I know, I KNOW, but apparently all the kids are doing it. What are you gonna do, right?) What is One going to do? Never allow you to leave One’s Commonwealth for one thing, honestly you obviously can not be allowed to govern yourselves freely. Also, what is he singing? Is this perchance the dullest song released by One’s subjects? (Tallulah: The Verve’s ‘Bittersweet Symphony’? Fuck yeah. Matt has an undeniable knack of picking songs that annoy me but he’ll get a td from Holden for it, regardless of how monotonous and dull we might find it. And by The Clooney, he has made a dull song even duller.) Yes. One believes One shall ignore The Knave’s judgment on this one.

The portly gent truly believes this girl, sorry, boy is a sensational, ready made star and thinks he can do amazing things internationally. Well, he certainly shan’t get past customs at Heathrow with that hair if One has anything to say about it. The Knave spoke and did that ridiculous thing again. Dicko (O.B.E.) wants to push him farther but believes there is one thing missing for him – personality and edge. Quite. Before she passed, Mummy in her nineties had more edge than this young child. The Dowager says Matt shows us who he is with every pore of his being – the young chit does have most excellent skin, One wonders what exfoliant he uses.

Well. One would assume that the Bottom Three would consist of Marty, Jacob and The Dud but One presumes that it is not that simple? Mistress Belle? (Tallulah: yeah. Who knows at this point. It’s a total crap shoot – I mean, pissweak rendition of Coldplay song aside, who really thought RunMdC would go last week? So while it should by all rights be Marty who sings at us again, I wouldn’t be surprised if it was Jacob either.) One shall watch with interest. But fair warning, Australia, One shall not relinquish sovereignty if Natalie or Ben are removed. In fact, One shall send Fergie as One’s ambassador – the Duchess, not the singer – if either of them is sent home. (Tallulah: You tell ‘em, Lizzy!)

Yours etc
Her Royal Highness
Elizabeth The Second