I am not entirely sure whether to be pleased or depressed that the latest Britain's Got Talent sensation, Jonathan and Charlotte, are becoming such a phenomenon. On the one hand, it partially proves the theory that there is an enormous untapped appetite for opera (or operatic-like noises) in the UK.
The adorable Lauren Thalia got the show off to a cracking start with her unique version of Turn my swag on. At just 12 years old, Lauren played her guitar and sang like a seasoned pro. A bright future awaits her. Remember the name.
As tasks go, forcing this group of self-styled 'business brains' to come up with gym session ideas was a bit unfair. After all, these are people who can barely cope with flogging ironic vintage tat to hipsters, which as challenges go is approximately 110% easier than convincing a dog to eat a Winalot sandwich.
If you've been keeping track, you'll know that whoever wins this series will be the eighth apprentice Lord Sugar has taken on so far. But does he really need another? What happened to the others?
Shock of the week: Natalie Cassidy leaving the house, after the twins received a chorus of boos bigger than their own egos. Natalie hit the nail on the head by saying they are the most confident girls she has ever encountered...
When it comes to magazines, I always start from the back. Not only do they seem somehow weightier that way, but starting at the front you have to wade...
The fact that I missed the first 15 minutes doesn't really mean too much, as this series reminds me of my last relationship; full of excitement and false promise that it was actually going somewhere. But the snap, crackle and pop is slowly fading on the Big Brudda hoose, and not even the prospect of seeing Denise's sagging udders could save it from a slow and painful demise.
The days of TV gold are no more, as Andrew Stone pirouetted out of the house tonight in the campest fashion imaginable. Not only did he have to leave dressed as a pantomime beast, but the world's smallest carriage complete with pigmy pony was parked up in the garden ready to feed him to the hungry crowd.
When it comes to the X Factor, maybe the mantra that was drummed into us at school sports days is true after all - it's not the winning that counts, it really is the taking part...
So it's here, it's on our screens, get ready for Desperate Scousewives. I was ready alright - like the rest of the city - waiting in anticipation of how we were to be portrayed this time...
This weekend is the semi-final of the X-Factor, and while there's one contestant standing head and shoulders above the others, if I were a betting lady, I'd put money on Misha B being in the bottom two again. Britain, it seems, has a problem voting for the best act, and I'm calling it racist.
Judging by its opening gambit, Scousewives clings safely to the template laid down by its southern cousins in Essex and Chelsea, opening with a conformist series of oddly stunted conversational scenes resembling the awkward preliminary stages of a porn film, and concluding with some party or function to usher in the histrionics.
When he first sauntered into the jungle with his '80s counterpart, Sinitta, he seemed like this series' bland, middle-aged man. However, he has distinctly upped his game in the last few days, and for this I salute him.
It's like going to McDonald's and somehow, without expecting or ordering it, coming out with the finest haute cuisine meal of your life. I only hope we as an audience haven't had our aural taste buds numbed by too many years of fast food music to really appreciate Rebecca's talent.
The professional singers are skewered because they chose to work on their craft rather than whore themselves on reality TV, wiping away the tears after revealing how their grandmother got a paper cut in WW2 then proceed to butcher a Queen song to the slavish applause of the crowd.
The fact is, no one ever said this was going to be a talent show in its truest sense. If it was, we'd be so bored. Imagine sitting through a talent show resembling something like a Year 10 school production.