Spare us from The Voice

I'm not surprised that The Voice UK is mentioned in despatches on Tripe Advisor. It is quite toe curlingly awful.

The first week or two it seemed a novelty to have the judges turning round in their chairs when an act tickled their fancy.

Now we're into the screech-offs, where two of the stables compete against each other each week in order to be "saved" by the public.

My mum has got the right idea, hitting the mute button as soon as the screeching starts.

Two of the judges appear to have the right credentials, gravitas and name dropping : Tom Jones and will.i.am. The other two are there to appeal to the BBC's holy grail, the yoof audience. Jessie J and what's-his-name from Ireland.

The Sunday night results show, which it transpires is recorded immediately after the Saturday show, is a real waste of time. Endless repetition from the Saturday show and nuggets like this: Jessie J, supposedly offering an insight into her fellow judge, the Irish one - "he's a singer and song writer."  You don't say!

Holly Willoughby has a really irritating way of grabbing the contestants  (has she been watching Big Fat Gipsy Weddings?) and hurling them off the stage. One of her cringeworthy moments was grabbing an Irish girl who had just been eliminated by posey old will.i.am and saying "Will really needs a hug."

I'm sure the poor girl, whose dreams of escaping a backwater and finding fame were now in the dust, really needed the hug more.

Every week the judges weep and wail about how difficult their task is, choosing one contestant over another. "It's the hardest thing I've ever done," they despair. I wish one of them would man up and say "well tonight your voice let you down so I'm going to choose xxx." Quite a few of the contestants would look more at home singing along to pub karaoke or screeching on a cruise ship than going for gold on national TV.

Then there's Wardrobe. As soon as they're confronted with what Grazia likes to call "a curvy girl," they immediately reach for the wrap dress and Spanx. These poor women immediately look staid, boring and interchangeable. Where's the imagination? A size 16 girl doesn't have to wear a wrap dress.

The only good thing about it is that it's knocked the even-more-deplorable Britain's Got Talent off the top ratings slot. Good to see a dent in the massive ego of emotionally dysfunctional Simon Cowell.

X Factor: Victorian bear baiting at its worst

I shudder at the hype surrounding the return of the X Factor.

In Victorian times, crowds gathered for freak shows, to marvel at "special people". The X Factor doesn't bother to sanitise it thus. Its researchers tirely comb the mile long queues of hopefuls to find The Stories: young man trying to send Grandma to Lourdes; white daughter of black parents sobbing about wanting to make them proud; very large girl wanting to become Barbra Streisand.

And then the deluded who don't realise they can't sing, but will now have their flat, brave voices subjected to ridicule.

As for the talent, well, a handful of average youngsters are pushed through for the public's delectation, brutally groomed, styled and made to sing old standards. Simon Cowell reckons he can probably turn anyone into a star, Dustin the turkey or Paul the octopus. But he can't. Remember Steve Brookstein?

Meanwhile the two vacuous, averagely talented clothes horses sitting beside Cowell weep on cue and compete to see who can wear the most attention grabbing outfits. Quite what their credentials are for judging a talent competition it's hard to say, but then this is not a talent show.

The winners are ruthlessly milked, paraded with new albums every time a new series airs (Alexandrea Burke, currently appearing everywhere) and equally ruthlessly dropped when the public tires of them, unless, like one or two rare exceptions, they tire of Cowell and make it on their own.

I stopped watching it in 2007 when Emma Chawner (very large girl wanting to be Barbara Streisand) appeared. Camera panned slowly to her family, all very large, glaring at Cowell in the wings. His expression, disgust, superiority, you name it - but no pity - said it all.

Alesha judged to be a bad move

I can't wait to hear the insights of the new judge on Strictly Come Dancing, the "washes and brushes" singer and one-time winner of SCD, Alesha Dixon.

Renowned choreographer and former dancer Arlene Phillips, whose ascerbic comments and ability to stand up to the other male judges were part of the show's success, has been elbowed aside to allow the show to appeal to a younger demographic.

Oh yes, the young people who no doubt sit around watching TV on Saturday evenings when by rights they should be out getting bladdered or watching the yoof channel, BBC 3.

I'd love to have been a fly on the wall when the other judges Len Goodman, Bruno Tonioli and Craig Revel-Horwood were told that Ms Dixon was going to join them. If Len specialises in dance technicalities, Bruno in the overall performance and Craig in the choreography, what's left for Alesha? Dresses, served up with her trademark Muttley laugh.

If the BBC seriously thinks that Alesha is their weapon to win the ratings war against the latest old rubbish from Simon Cowell (Popstars the Rivals, Britain's got Talent, The X Factor - who knows, they all blur into one hackneyed formula), they're mistaken. Alesha may be cool but only among the under-7s. She doesn't cut it against Queen Wag Cheryl Cole, or even Dannii Minogue and her amazing frozen face.

If the BBC had really wanted to jazz up SCD they should have got rid of Bruce Forsyth. Yes I know, national treasure and all that; I am after all a member of the "Why the hell hasn't Bruce Forsyth got a knighthood" group on Facebook. I was always a great admirer of this all-round entertainer, and saw his one man show when I was just 15.

But enough's enough: he's way past the retirement age and every year his chants of "doddery I am not" get less convincing. A really sharp male presenter (and not the ghastly Vernon Kay either) would do far more for the ratings than Muttley Dixon and her brushes.

Life will never be the same for poor Susan

As Slumdog Millionaire drew to its close and we sat in a fairly stunned silence, as you do at the end of a marvellous film, I realised we might catch the last 15 minutes of Britain's Got No Talent.

We hardly watched any of it except for 30 mins earlier in the week when we wanted to see what all the fuss was about with Susan Boyle. She must have been very nervous because her voice was tremulous and lacked control for half of the song but then she pulled it together.

Anyway, I hadn't seen Diversity in that brief 30 min snatch, so I was amazed to see a group of dancers had beaten Susan. The boys were thrilled about their win and how it will change their lives, but I think, sadly, their moment of fame will be the Royal Variety Performance and then guest appearances in summer shows on various piers. I can't imagine Simon Cowell will be rubbing his hands with glee at the prospect of a group of male dancers.

Of course he will be rubbing his hands at the prospect of Susan Boyle. His work is already half done because she is already a global phenomenon. I expect he and his people have already mapped out what they expect to do with her, and the planned duration of her career. Maybe an album, a live tour? Then dropped like a hot brick.

Susan seems a confident jolly person on TV but the reality, as presented in various tabloids last week, is that she is vulnerable and coping badly with this sudden fame. Four letter outbursts and the police being called was one lurid story. I hope she has good people guiding her because fame the Cowell way is often fleeting and contracts are probably very unfair to the naive performer.