After 17 weeks and half a billion contestants, we’re down to the live finals of The X Factor. 12 of them left – plus any that may or may not be brought back as a shocking surprise twist – broken down into four categories. The Boys, The Girls, and the other two that don’t really stand a chance.

The lovely Cheryl Cole, the quite lovely Dannii Minogue, plus Cowell and Walsh make up the panel of judges, whose role really is just to introduce the acts and then get booed for saying anything negative. Dermot O’Leary is on hand to provide hugs, smiles and shortness.

And they’re off! It’s a typical understated opening – there’s all flashing lights, that irritating one-word-at-a-time delivery from Voice Over Man, and O Fortuna blasting out.

This week, there’ll be a big twist, but what could it be? Luckily, Dermot is here to tell us straight away, instead of stringing it out like everything else they’ve done all bloody series. Why could that be? Oh – the papers have printed both the news and photos of the acts coming back.

He tells us that “talking is over”, which is ironic on a show with more padding than a self-conscious teenage girl’s bra.

The judges get straight to slumming it in the scummy suburbs, to tell the acts in person that they’ll be on the shows. Simon can barely hide his disdain over a house that’s not even got its own private pool, gates or waiter. Saying that, his choice – the annoyingly heterosexual “Diva Fever” – live in a house with a plasma telly on the wall, but hardly any furniture. You can imagine the conversation Dannii had with her doctor before going out – all tetanus shots and radiation suits.

Finally, 20 minutes in, the talking really is over, and we have our first singer. Or “singers” as they say when talking about more than one, because it’s a band: FYD, singing Travie McCoy’s recent UK number one, Billionaire. I should point out here, that for me, music ended in 1996, and it’s only my ultra-cool girlfriend that’s helping me out with the names.

One of FYD (like Fine Young Cannibals but one better) wears a Mohican, unironically, while another has a bow tie on a chain. These guys are Cool. And actually, they can sing. They’d be believable on Top of the Pops, if that still existed. Annoyingly accomplished, actually – they’re already ready.

Cheryl is dressed in orange paint for some reason, and rolls her eyes as any constructive criticism is booed by the braying morons that have turned up.

You’ll be able to download all of these performances, by the way, so there’ll be misery in the charts in a couple of weeks, when the Radio 1 chart is just a re-run of this show.

Second up is Matt Cardle and his stinky hat. After being bollocked for closing his eyes during performances, he forces his eyes wide open with the air of someone who’ll be shot for blinking. His version of David Guetta’s When Love Takes Over (no, it wasn’t Clocks by Coldplay) is well performed, but drowned out by the music. Louis remembers his commercial obligations: “If I was at home, I’d download that.”

Up third is John Adeleye, a name that feels like it’s missing a syllable. Louis tells us that he picked John for his voice, which was a smart move in a singing competition. He starts out very quietly, but comes back with confidence. His performance is brushed over in favour of Simon nitpicking Louis’ song choice. Turns out that One Sweet Day was number one in New Zealand, which doesn’t count because it’s obscure or weird or something.

Next, Rebecca Ferguson. She has a great voice, and Louis really gets into the “boogie”, as he believes the kids say. She’s not learned to subtly take her cues yet, and you can almost see her mouthing “now pick up the mic… now walk down the steps.”

Storm Lee sings Starship’s We Built This City, but he’s not worried – he’s more nervous about having to fall backwards off a 15ft plank. He doesn’t have to be, as the camera almost misses it. His version is like one of those “…as made famous by” covers that turn up on Spotify. He’s not helped by the presence of a handful of dancing gimps, freshly escaped from Louis’ dressing room.

Belle Amie (nickname David or Craig) are in weird get-up, one in a silk romper-suit, and another as a sexy Ghostbuster. Unfortunately, looking slightly less sexy than Bill Murray in the same outfit. I’ve been reliably informed that there was a misguided key change in the middle, but the whole performance is flat and forgettable. Cheryl just thinks they need time tah simmah.

Cher Lloyd – you may have heard a bit about her – is on next. She is a cross between an extra from a harrowing Channel 4 documentary about teenage prostitution and a Child’s Play version of Cheryl Cole. There’s something unidentifiably unnerving about her, there’s possibly pure evil inside. She sings reasonably well, but she’s not there to sing, she’s there to be gawped at and be fragile whilst retaining an air of street-coolness.

First of the Wild Cards, Diva Fever come out. They’re wearing garish, sequinned suits. There’s a distinct disco theme. All their dancers are muscly chaps in their vest and pants (presumably they forgot their real outfits and didn’t want to dig through Lost Property in case they got one of Rhydian’s suits.) We can’t help but wonder if these two are gay.

Next Wild Card, Paije bowls on stage. Paije looks like he has bloaty head syndrome from Theme Hospital, and Simon worryingly describes him as “infectious.” He’ll be a “which one was he, again?” when all the eliminated contestants are brought back for the final.

Katie Waissel turns up to ruin Queen’s We Are the Champions. She’s self-consciously weird, desperately wanting to be Sarah Jessica Parker and Lady Gaga’s lovechild. She doesn’t have enough charisma or commitment: You can’t go from wandering around in mental make-up to talking about your part-time job in a hairdresser. Live the gimmick, Waissel.

Mary Byrne, the improbable hero of the series, hollers out A Man’s World, in what is genuinely the performance of the night. She is actually phenomenal. Any comparisons to Tony Soprano in a dress are completely unfair. For all the times that “Brilliant” and “Genius” are bandied around by the judges, she’s another person who doesn’t deserve them either. She’s bloody good, though.

Nicolo is another weird one, but at least his excuse is that he’s Italian. He sings Gaga’s Just Dance, and manages to get the balancing act of weird just right: He doesn’t try to out-weird her, and he doesn’t go for completely normal, which would be unfaithful to his auditions and gimmick so far. One of Nicolo’s dancers is this big black muscly dude, who keeps turning up throughout the night. Keep an eye out for him. He’s learning eight or nine dance routines a week. What a guy.

One Direction. Five little sods of the ilk that wander round town on a Saturday afternoon in Ralph Lauren shirts. Two of them brood, while another two are happy. Such is life as a teenager. Their version of Viva La Vida was actually better than Coldplay’s whiney original.

Wagner. Now here’s the star of the show. Wagner resembles an 80s WWF wrestler that’s come out of retirement for one last match against Hulk Hogan. He’s older than all of his dancers combined. The songs – She Bangs, into Love Shack, is absolutely bloody wonderful. He plays the bongos for God’s sake! He is absolutely phenomenal; thoroughly, thoroughly entertaining. Plus, at the end, all the dancers grope their tits FOR NO REASON. But who needs a reason when there’s people like Wagner reminding you that the world is actually pretty bloody good.

Just to kill the buzz and excitement of Wagner’s masterpiece, Aiden’s out to sit under a spotlight, in a frilly straitjacket, singing the plinky plonky tappy version of Mad World. More like Wank World. He appears ever so slightly psychotic, and bears more than a passing resemblance to an anorexic Buzz from Home Alone. After being so good with the gay jokes all night, please allow us to point out Louis saying “I see something big in you”.

Treyc rounds off the show after what seems like weeks, but was actually two and a half hours. She has, not to put too fine a point on it, an enormous arse. Even bigger than Mary’s. She’s a little bit boring, a bit like Beverly Knight – the sort of singer you recognise and appreciate has a brilliant voice, but can’t really remember her doing anything amazing. Also, let’s take a moment to discuss her name. It’s like her mother said “let’s call her Tracy”, sent dad down to the registry office, and the daft twat had no idea how to spell it.

The lines open, as the whole country descend on their phones. Tomorrow night (bloody hell, more of this tomorrow), there’ll be a double elimination! Joe McElderry! Usher! Tears and drama!

Tonight’s top four, in no particular order: Wagner, One Direction, Mary, FYD.
And the bottom four: Katie, Storm, John and Diva Fever.

And if that hasn’t put the kiss of death on Wagner, nothing will.

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