Olly v. Joe

Tonight was great.

A very fit George Michael sang a duet with sweet Joe McElderry.
The unbelievable Michael Buble smoothed and cuddled with Dagenham girl Stacey Solomon.
And a 'I've-missed-my-cue' Robbie Williams slid about the stage with a fizzing-out-of-his-head Olly Murs.
Live telly at its very slickest.

The awesome swirling Dermot O'Leary hugged and smacked a lot of shoulders.
Mr Cowell hammed it up as usual. A cold Mrs Cole acted dreadfully, hope they ditch her next year. Miss Minogue looked and acted better. And Mr Walsh said the same thing over and over again.
And I sucked it all in.

And the fabulous news is that Olly Murs, who I've loved ever since he slid to 'Superstition' in the auditions, has made it to the final 2.
His opponent is the Geordie lad with the West End voice, Master Joe McElderry.

My money and heart are on Olly because he's real. He makes mistakes and laughs himself out of them. He looks like an amateur and acts like one. He's wonderful.
Whereas dapper Joe is too good, he's never given a bad or even offish performance. He's too handsome, too vocally on the money and too damn perfect. He's a bore.

I like a little imperfection in my men so giddy, eager, give-me-fame Olly is the man for me.
I like 'em silly and raw.