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The Day The Music Died (Again) And How This Time There Might Be No Coming Back

According to legend and the legendary Don McLean, music ceased to exist on February 3, 1959, when the plane carrying Buddy Holly, Ritchie Valens and The Big Bopper tragically crashed.

Needless to say, it didn't really die and it somehow managed to survive. With or without a little help from Gloria Gaynor. Admittedly, there have been several close calls that could have easily seen it shuffle off this mortal coil.

Google the 100 most derided songs and among their number are Michael Jackson's Earth Song, Nick Berry's Every Loser Wins, Black Lace's Agadoo and Bob the Builder's Can We Fix It?, which has apparently been pinched by the Trump campaign as their unofficial election theme tune.

Despite its ups and downs though, music has remained a force for good, peace and social change - as evidenced by the recipient of this year's Nobel Prize in Literature - not forgetting creativity and entertainment.

Since that fateful flight over half a century ago, many other celebrated performers have unfortunately gone to that great recording studio in the sky. Luminaries such as Elvis, Jim Morrison, Karen Carpenter, Kurt Cobain, Janis Joplin and Frank Sinatra. Any of their earthly ends might have contributed to music's ultimate demise, yet they didn't. But one woman may eventually eclipse them all and go down in history as the person who finally signalled its death knell.

Step forward Miss (forget any notion of a hit, she's undoubtably a miss) Honey G.

"At first I was afraid, I was petrified". You and me both Gloria, but I too had no idea that she'd make it much beyond the first televised round of auditions that are always designed to hook us in with their awfulness.

However, the programme's producers obviously saw and heard something in her that those of us with perfect eyesight and hearing clearly didn't. What exactly was that?

The viewing figures and the cha-ching, cha-ching of advertising revenue cash registers, of course. Sorry Jessie, but it most definitely is about the money, money, money and it's impossible to forget about the price tag, especially where a prime time Saturday evening 30 second spot is concerned.

Simon Cowell might have thought that bringing back a couple of old waxworks and a yogurt sales girl (no one puts Nicole Schwarzenegger into a Muller Corner) would help to relight the fire that Gary Barlow so spectacularly put out.

Quickly realising this wasn't going to be the case, the rug-chested impresario must have come to the conclusion that his increasingly beleaguered show needed another attention grabber. Although even he probably had no idea that they'd turn out to be a middle class, muffin-topped, crotch-grabber, who with her IT recruitment background is about as gangsta as the granny featured in the children's book by his Britain's Got Talent co-star.

Here was someone who unbelievably had the potential to not only generate renewed interest in the X Factor, but to become its lifeblood. How ironic that she has ended up being mentored by a woman who looks and behaves as if she has had the lifeblood sucked out of her.

In a complete about-face, akin to Bill Clinton supporting Donald, Cowell is presently singing Anna Georgette Gilford's praises at every opportunity, giving her standing ovations and wearing identical glasses in her honour.

Having made it past Motown week, which a few commentators had wrongly prophesied could be her downfall, no genre appears to be beyond her rapping inabilities

She'll naturally go on to fight another day and as for music, well, as long as she remains a part of the competition, it will sadly limp on to die another day. Wasn't that the title of the worst Bond song ever recorded? Yes, it was.

Mind you, that might change when...They wouldn't dare, would they? I can already see the lyrics. 'When I say James, you say B. When I say Honey, you say G".

Whether she is for real or not, and frankly it's still debatable, a large contingent of the British public don't seem to mind if they're being taken for a ride and they're perfectly happy to play along for the duration. Maybe they think there's an inherent honesty in the dishonesty, which after all is more than can be said for the misinformation they were and and continue to be fed about Brexit.

For others, me included, the joke has already worn very thin indeed.

When she's referencing Chico (not Marx, alas), it is, as Ms Gaynor would say, most definitely time to: Go on now, go, walk out the door. Just turn around now. 'Cause you're not welcome anymore.

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