It is a rule of thumb almost universally acknowledged that everything Cheryl Cole likes must be crap. Look at the evidence: Ashley Cole, the dancer ‘boyfriend’, malaria, almost every item of clothing she goes near (obviously, the ‘readers’ of Grazia, who worship at her very knee, won’t agree with that, but hey…).
But we think with Cher, which ironically means ‘expensive’ in French, she has put the cherry on the cherry bakewell. The most godawful rapping-cum-r’n’b nonsense, she’s already got a counsellor because she is so self-obsessed it’s actually interfering with her breathing.
But we are enjoying the language – ‘I’m buzzin’ for it!… I’m gonna bring it!’ (What?) – the eyebrows, which look like they are made of Fuzzy Felt and the costumes: the one on Saturday seemed to be made from a wire coathanger (NO WIRE COATHANGERS! EVER!) and some tights. And we do love the, ‘I’m done now’ with broken voice against sad music… You’d have to be mad to want to spend until Christmas dealing with this massive fuck up every week.
But don’t take our work for it. See it for yourself.