I don't really watch the X Factor; that time on a Saturday night is usually a signal for me to put my earphones in my phone and catch up on something on Youtube whilst my wife and daughter experience the warblings and strangulated tones of those folks who think they can sing. Car crash television is not something I would call entertainment. However, this year it's different for us yokels in deepest, darkest Wiltshire. One of Swindon's sons is in the final and he used to work in Asda just down the road. Jahmene Douglas has a very real chance of winning and setting himself up for a life-changing career. Good luck to him; I said he would win when they showed his audition, so I wish I'd put money on it! He was back in town yesterday and visited his old place of work. You could tell he was due to arrive, because, as my wife was trying to pay for her groceries at the self serve till, none of the Asda "Colleagues" was available to help her when the automated till refused to take her £20 note; they were all staring out of the window cooing over the imminent arrival of their ex-colleague. Apparently the crowds were 4 or 5 deep outside and there was quite a smattering of males amongst the throng. Somehow, I don't think they were there to see the petite warbling sensation from the home of the Great Western Railway. 
The presence of a certain Pussycat Doll in the guise of Nicole Scherzinger was most probably the draw for these members of the Jahmene Posse stood
outside Asda, shivering in the cold December afternoon.
Footnote: Is it just me and my teenage son who, when saying the name Jahmene, can't help saying it a la Michael Jackson in "Bo Selecta", with the obligatory epithet on the end...Google it and you'll see what I mean.
