WELL, I tried, but I didn't quite make it. I promised myself that this year I wouldn't get sucked in; wouldn't be doomed week after week to spend hours watching that permatanned creep Simon Cowell trousering unjustified millions for stamping on people's dreams.

Not even the undeniable pleasure of watching Sharon Osbourne, Gawd bless 'er, was going to lure me back into the X Factor trap - and as for getting started with that Strictly Come Dancing nonsense? Not a chance.

And it was all going so well. My evenings and weekends were my own to enjoy; Shayne, Andy and Journey South meant nothing to me, and my soul was spared the corrosive urge to alter Simon's smug mug radically for all time.

When they bring in the new murder laws, will they create a mercy killing category for those who eliminate the Cowells of this world?

But I digress. My X Factor aversion therapy went horribly wrong at a Christmas disco the week before last, when I witnessed a tidal wave of texts and mobile calls crashing in to tell my fellow partygoers that someone called Brenda had been kicked off ITV's star-making show.

This was evidently a shock; there were gasps and open-mouthed stares all round, and then, of course, it was too late. I realised it had got under my guard, and I was going to have to watch the final.

I know I wasn't the only one - there were apparently more than ten million votes, probably more than we Brits notch up at the average local elections. Maybe we'd vote more if Shayne stood for mayor.

Apparently, Christmas parties up and down the land had to run the gauntlet of the X Factor/Strictly Come Dancing effect last Saturday.

In some homes, there were three gatherings; one where people talked, danced and had some social interaction; and two darkened rooms in which addicts gathered to get their last fix, watching as Shayne and the Dazzler triumphed in their respective contests.

Cricketer Darren Gough is apparently going to open a dance school in Barnsley on the strength of his performance. Shayne is aiming slightly higher - at international stardom, in fact.

Who knows? If he ditches the dodgy chest tat and keeps the still dodgier relatives firmly under wraps, he might survive that tricky third single. After all, he really can sing, and looking a bit like Justin Timberlake isn't going to hurt his chances.

So I shouldn't really hope he fails to secure the Christmas number one; but I'm already allergic to That's My Goal, a synthetic song straight out of the Eurovision stable, and typical of the plastic fare served up to X Factor winners.

I can't help but hope it gets pipped at the post by the JCB Song, riding high at the top of the charts.

It's not that I particularly like the JCB song; I've never even heard it and someone at work reckons it makes the Crazy Frog sound like Sinatra.

But it is at least a real song, written and performed by Nizlopi, a real-life, relatively unknown folk duo from Warwickshire, written about a real-life situation and released on the real music market without the manufactured pomp of a TV celebrity concert.

People have bought it because they heard about it and liked the sound of it, and it's already given that manufactured boy band Westlife a run for their money. Nizlopi don't even have a recording contract - they spread the word direct to buyers through live performances and word of mouth. Who ever heard of such a thing?

Updated: 08:38 Wednesday, December 21, 2005