I thought, for a bit of variety, I would live blog La Nouvelle Star last night. Why do I love thee Nouvelle Star, let me count the ways.
Actually, let me not. I think it's Sinclair's eyes, that, tel un Paul McKenna français, hypnotise me into me into thinking I am watching a moment of quality programming. He's like the snake in the Jungle Book but with way better hair. Also, I think Plug TV diffuses some kind of pheromone spray through the tv when it's on, because I find them all inexplicably attractive. Even Andre Manoukian.
It's a little how I imagine taking ecstasy must feel. The whole programme fills me with overwhelming love and wellbeing and a desire to stroke them all and clasp them to my bosom and squeeze them until their pips squeak.
Except Philippe Manoeuvre.
No drug could accomplish that.
Anyway, where was I, oh yes, pheromones. Must have been overcome. So, I was going to live blog the whole thing and tell you all about Cedric the sailor and Jules and Thomas the matching shemales and the compellingly wonderful Benjamin, and how fricking amazing Lio looks for a woman with thirty thousand children, but I think I looked a little too deeply into Sinclair's eyes and suddenly it was half ten and past the CFO's bedtime, so for the moment I'm going to confine myself to telling you about Cedric.
Do you need a picture? OF COURSE YOU DO.
Cedric is 34 and a sailor. The mature woman's choice. Marvel at his intense shoutily intense 'singing' style. Thrill to the gratuitous scenes of semi-nudity during the backstage segments. Note his uncanny resemblance to Pierce Brosnan. Approve his classic black turtleneck. Lio - a maturer lady herself, I am sure she would not mind me saying (let's hope not because she could totally pulp me in hand to hand combat) - finds him irresistible. I have to say that despite initially find him wholly repugnant, I am now coming round (those damn pheromones again). He still sings like some kind of animal in pain (yesterday he gave a particularly comic rendition of Serge Gainsbourg's Bonny and Clyde - so many shades of awful I can't begin to describe - to universal disapproval). His wardrobe choices are ill-advised. I have to watch through my fingers when he dances. But you know, he's a grower. I'm always intrigued to see what chanson française dirge he'll be droning his way through each week, how flushed and sweaty he will look at the end. And that, messieur dames, is star quality for you.
Next week: Sinclair