Words cannot describe…

How much I hate Westlife. I’ll give it a go anyway.

They were on the tele the other night doing nothing more than singing other people’s songs, which is what they do best.

They’ve been doing the same thing for about 70 years now and it shows in the enthusiasm of their “performances”. I may get the names wrong here, so cut me some slack.

The one that resembles Pinnochio when he was turned into a donkey was at the end, I think he’s more commonly known as Mark. He actually looked as if he was about to beat the shite out of the next camera man that panned past him, take out a couple of floor managers and then turn his microphone stand on himself. That was in between glances of contempt he threw at his adoring audience.

The main lead singer one, Shane I think it might be, had a constant look that he was smuggling contraban and loving it. He also seemed not to care that he had hundreds of screaming fans who have all made him a multi millionaire.

I didn’t pay much attention to the other two, which surely means that they are the Adam and Larry of Westlife.

Now I really didn’t want to mention the fact that they were all dressed like Blacktie manaquins but I kind of have to. Only because they may have looked the part, but I fear that an actual manaquin would have put more effort into conveying emotion and movement in their performance.

I know their songs don’t call for much in the way of choreography but I’d love to land the job of their choreographer. What a handy gig that must be.

“Roight lads, so like just totally look nonchalant about the whole thing just kind of looking into space. Perfect, now occasionally glance at each other while wondering which one will leave the group next. You won’t though, look what happened to McFadden. Sure he got Delta Goodram but now he plays Australian bingo halls for spare change and left over spot prozes. Yeah? Excellent. Every now and again wink at a screaming girl in the front row to give her the illusion that there might be a chance she’ll get backstage and sniff your cravat. Finally, and this is crucial – do not move from your designer stools until the last chorus of the song which you’ll sing in a slightly higher key. This will drive the audience nuts as up to this point they will have thought that you were all lifeless marianettes bigging it up Milli Vinilli style to a track. Bingo. Now make my cheque out to cash, thanks.”

Boll and ocks.

Their complete portfolio of dance moves consists of a slow hokey pokey by putting their right hands in, clicking their fingers and taking them back out again. Repeat with left arm and loop this motion until the song finishes.

At one point they did actually do more than this in the form of cheesy caberet jazz hands pretending to bounce midgets on trampolines. Either that or they simultaneously had a seizure of some sorts and it happened to be to the beat of the song.

I think the only way that I couldn’t hate them any longer is if they were to spontaneously combust spectacularly in a fantastic explosion of a freak accident involving a stool, microphone and fitted suit delivery to the shitty unoriginal vomit pop factory.

That. Would. Be. Awesome.

I feel better now.