I called my friend Julie on an evening last week. I can’t remember what it was about, but it wasn’t vitally important… which is what made my crime all the more heinous.
“I can’t believe you’re calling me right now,” she said, laughing (but meaning it a little).
Was she out at dinner? Were medical appointments a thing at 8pm? Was her house on fire and my ESP hadn’t kicked in?
No, no – ‘The Voice’ was on TV, and I was disturbing her in the middle of it. As I don’t watch the show, I was clueless as to its schedule, but I knew to just say “sorry” and get off the phone as quickly as possible. After all, Ariana Grande is the new judge this season.
I’m not a huge reality show fan. I quite like ‘The Amazing Race’ and a couple of the others are pretty good. However, when we get into the weeds with the likes of ‘The Bachelorette’, where apparently the path to true love is paved with snogging lots of different people in a short period of time and withholding roses as the ultimate sign of rejection, I’d rather eat a rose – thorns, dirt and all.
Just to show you the level of research I’m willing to embark upon for the good of this column, I looked up the aforementioned show on Wikipedia. Shockingly, out of 16 couples created by it between 2003 and 2020, only four are still together. Honestly, I’m surprised the odds are that high.
Still, despite my general aversion to reality programmes, I have to admit that I, too, fell prey to the siren song of a televised talent competition many years ago, even when auditioning meant flying thousands of miles from Cayman.
I knew that there was a fairly new show called ‘The X Factor’ in the UK, created by Simon Cowell, which focussed on singers. ‘American Idol’ had started in 2002, but you had to be a) American; and b) Young, in order to be eligible. I was c) Neither of those. However, ‘The X Factor’ had no age limit and as I had a British passport, I could compete.
For ages, friends had asked me why I hadn’t signed up to try out for one of these opportunities. “You’re so good – you’d easily be chosen,” and “Vicki, if you don’t audition, you’ll regret it – you could be a star.”
I was very happy to see myself through their supportive eyes, so when I found the way to apply online for ‘The X Factor’ in 2005, I took the plunge.
For some reason, my best friend Lynne was unable to accompany me to England, but my other friend, Carol (who subsequently moved up in the ranks of my estimation after this), said she would fly over with me if I had the chance to go.
The email came through from the organisation soon after. I was scheduled for an audition at some golly-o’clock time in the morning – a few weeks’ hence – to be held in the National Exhibition Centre, Birmingham.
As soon as it was confirmed, I started doing research. I’d never seen the show, so I had to base all my experience on what I could find in chat rooms online. You had to prepare a song to sing a cappella; wearing something that made you stand out could be a good thing; and a universally-held sentiment was that if you got interviewed on-camera while waiting in line at your audition, you were a shoe-in for moving on to the next round.
We booked our airline tickets, which gave us only four days in the country. We would fly in; I would sing; the producers would commence unbridled weeping and cancel the rest of the competition because the clear winner had just appeared in their midst; I would quit my job back home and be booked on the ‘Parkinson’ chat show within a week or so. Sorted.
When we landed in the UK, we only had a day before the auditions. My chosen song was ‘Proud Mary’, and like a stuck record, I was singing it over and over in preparation for my big moment. By the time we woke up at 6am, Carol could have stepped into my place if I’d had to drop out for whatever reason. She knew all the words.
I had chosen to wear a black velvet dress with medieval-style sleeves and a black lace neckline with corset strings. The outfit was flattering on me and would definitely make me stand out, but in the early light of day, I looked like a fortune teller who didn’t know morning from night.
We got to the NEC, and it was packed outside. We got in line, grateful for the portable, collapsible chairs I’d chosen to bring with me, as it was a long wait. But, before the process to be sectioned off for the auditions began inside, we were all asked to assemble outdoors in front of the film cameras.
They said we had to jump up and down and be enthusiastic, as this could be the opener for the show once it aired later in the year.
At 6:30am, the last thing I wanted to do was jumping jacks in the cold, but Carol and I dutifully followed the rest of the crowd. We were then instructed to yell, as loudly as possible, “I’VE GOT THE X FACTOR!” in response to some crew member’s question, “Who’s got the X Factor?”, while crossing our arms in front of our chests like a shield. We had to do it over and over again.
“I can’t hear you!” the crew yelled, egging us on. It was like training camp for some dystopian X-army.
Give me a break, mate. I need to save my voice for the audition.
After that, everyone was asked to sing a popular song presently in the charts, en masse. Suggestions were taken from the group. They settled on ‘(Is This the Way to) Amarillo’ – a remake of the Tony Christie song, released by Peter Kay in March 2005.
With neither of us living in the UK, Carol and I had never heard of it before, so we tried to keep up with everyone else as best we could, miming and gesturing like rank amateurs in ‘A Chorus Line’.
Finally, slightly hoarse and tired, we were all corralled indoors. We started chatting with others in line near us, and got their back stories – it helped to pass the time. Then, in the distance, I saw the UK presenter of the show heading in my direction with a videographer. Gasp!
She’d heard I’d travelled all the way from the Cayman Islands, and asked me questions about why I’d wanted to audition. I was asked if I thought I had the ‘X Factor’, and although my yelling outdoors for the last half-hour should have assured them of my confidence, I reiterated – almost smugly – that, yes, of course I had.
They asked me to sing a few bars of ‘Proud Mary’ and with the amazing acoustics of the NEC, my voice echoed around the auditorium beautifully. I almost teared up at my own magnificence.
“Fabulous! Best of luck!” the presenter said approvingly, as our new friends swarmed around me, full of compliments, telling me I couldn’t lose.
At that stage, I decided to call a great friend of mine, Saj, who lived near the NEC and was trying to get there after dropping her kids at school. She had messaged to say she was stuck in traffic, but was on her way. I figured I’d save her a trip – after all, we’d be seeing a lot of each other when I inevitably moved to England to continue with the competition.
“Hey! Saj?” I yelled into the phone. “You don’t need to come, it’s okay. It’s in the bag!”
A few minutes later, the large crowd of hopefuls was split into small groups of 10, and sent to stand outside different rooms through the NEC. One by one, they went in, performed, and came out again. Some looked pretty dejected on exit.
Then, it was my turn.
I strode in, sleeves at full sail, announced my name and sang ‘Proud Mary’ as though trying to reach the heavens themselves. I hung onto the last note to show strength and agility, then closed my mouth with a smile and awaited the accolades.
“Thank you, Victoria; we won’t be asking you back,” one of the production judges said.
Well, that put me in my place… and in that outfit, too. I was one Macbeth short of a Shakespearean tragedy.
My only regret since then is that I didn’t ask them why. I was so sure I was through, what with the compliments, and the cameras and everything, that all I said was, “Okaythankyouverymuchhaveagoodday,” and I skedaddled.
Carol was there to pick up the pieces afterwards, as I sniffed at my rejection. Maybe they’d already greenlit a sorceress with big hair, and if only I’d been there earlier, I would have got the slot. A guy in a nun’s habit was confirmed to advance, for crying out loud.
Two days later, we flew back to Cayman, older and wiser. Despite my lack of success, it had been a fascinating trip. We know what we see on screen is never how it actually happens, but experiencing that show behind the scenes really opened my eyes.
Maybe if I’d gone back another time, I would have made it through. Perhaps a neon ‘80s getup and a bit of Whitney Houston was the key that unlocked the door. Either way, there are two things I do know for certain: I don’t have the ‘X Factor’ and Simon Cowell doesn’t know what he’s missing.
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