La Nouvelle Star. Again.

I know, it's Thursday and I haven't updated you on Nouvelle Star. Fear not reader, your handy guide to the quarter finals is but a gratuitous photo away...

Cedric Watch: Cedric survived! Again. Despite grinding his way through a woeful, whiny Chris Martin - alikey version of 'Joe le Taxi'. Thank goodness, otherwise there would only be talented people left, and that would be much less fun. In and of itself this is something of a miracle and no thanks to the wardrobe department who tortured him variously in a giant black see-through cowl neck jumper (looked itchy), possibly stolen from Robert Smith, and a tight star motif sweater with holes for surreptitiously viewing his chest through. Those dirty ladies really want to see him sweat, don't they? Bad girls! His mother is watching you know.








André's philosophical nonsense corner (and I am delighted to note there is a forum dedicated to his gnomic utterings and have signed up): as ever, André appeared to have been at the tabac breton. God, I love André. There was an intriguing comparison of Benjamin's performance of Prince's Kiss to some kind of brutalist sculpture. It was all about compression, and lightness and the release of (possibly sexual) tension. Apparently. There was also a rambling discussion of etymology at one point, but I was too busy trying to speak to Sinclair through my tv to follow it closely.




Though, fatally, Sinclair made the mistake of standing up this week. No no no. It transpires he is disproportionately attractive from the waist up and rather dumpy and pudding-like on the bottom (ahem, pot, kettle. the bottom half rather than the top I should emphasise). Another Belgian Bottom Syndrome victim!Even though, as it was revealed recently, he did not seem to know that Belgium was a country. The magic has all gone, and for this I should probably be grateful.




Terrifying appearance by a disturbing creature called Steeve Estatof, apparently a previous winner, with a disturbing brand of shouty "'ard rocque". Through a megaphone. I am guessing he was aiming for The Strokes, but he looked and sounded more like the bastard love child of Iggy Pop and a lobotomised polecat. Hair straightener and substance abuse suspected. Why, sweet lord. I will be seeing him in my nightmares, I just know it. More adverts would have been preferable. Even that surreally long one on TF1 with the long bouffant haired violinist playing the lite classics interminably while people waltz around him. Or did I dream that.

Not worth telling you about the good ones. Boring.... Votez Cedric!