'X Factor' couldn't carry a tune in a bucket
That X Factor -- aren't you just sick of it again?
Jesus, Mary Byrne and Jedward. The wife had that televised pig swill on the box the other night.
That cretinous muzack was so woeful that I almost threw a wobbly, and switched over to the Winning Streak on Teilifís Éireann.
I tell you one thing for free, sunshine.
I haven't heard such hopeless caterwauling since my Aunt Hilda had too many sherries, tripped over the ironing board and fell on the cat.
Half of those overhyped nobodies couldn't carry a tune in a bucket with a two-foot lid for thruppence. They're as flat as a Frenchman's pancake after it was run over by two Renaults and a steamroller during a rainstorm in Rennes.
And then you have all the boneheaded palaver over what Louis said to Gary, what Gary said to Louis, and what Gary said to some unmelodious simpleton.
I'd sooner lie upside down in a puddle with a pitchfork in my backside listening to Barry Manilow's B-Sides.
It's enough to drive a five-year-old Mormon to cut-price Lidl lager.
They call that a talent show. I saw more talent at the Miss Termonfeckin beauty pageant in 1993.
Listen here, Bud. I've heard better tunes out of a tipsy stationmaster's whistle.
Down with Downton Abbey -- that's what I say.
I wouldn't watch that costume codology for all the tea in the civil service.
So the butler is having it off with the parlour maid. And the master has run off with the second footman, and they're both sailing off on the Titanic, after strutting their stuff at the Battle of the Somme.
Well big swingin' Micky, Ma'am. Do you think I care?
If you ask me, that flippin' series has had more dodgy plots than the back end of the cemetery in Ballygobackwards.
Here's my stop now, your ladyship.
MICK THE MAVERICK