IF I walked in the house tomorrow and announced that I was off to London, dressed as a porn star, to sing my very own version of I Will Survive in the hope of bagging a record deal, my old man would assume that: a) I was joking; or b) I'd gone mad.

But even if I was deadly serious, he and my other loved ones would surely be able to gently dissuade me, mainly by pointing out that I'm a really rubbish singer.

So why has this not happened to the people on the The X Factor (Sat, 7.35pm, ITV1)? Have they no friends or family to tell them that their dreams of becoming a successful singer are as likely to come true as Elvis winning the lottery and marrying Shergar, on a spaceship parked on Bournemouth Square?

I blame karaoke.

After a few port and lemons down the Duck & Trumpet, girls think they're Whitney or Britney and blokes think they're Robbie (who is just as rubbish a singer as I am, but somehow gets away with it) or a thing from Blue.

In The X Factor, the latest talent/reality must-see from ITV, an endless stream of spectacularly untalented but seriously deluded performers paraded past the judges - Sharon @**!@ Osbourne, Louis Walsh and the obligatory Simon Cowell - murdered even the simplest cabaret standards and then looked utterly amazed when told they were crap.

Which was obviously great television.

All of these find-a-pop-star shows are at their very best in the early weeks, because that's when we get to see all the wannabes being whittled down via the auditions; and because The X Factor has three categories - 16 to 25-year-old solo artists, over-25-year-old solo artists and vocal groups - there are more freaks than ever.

There was the gruesome double act of Nancy and Jenny, stage name Sweet Harmony (wonderfully inappropriate in every way).

One looked like Pamela Anderson's granny, the other like an inflated boy in drag and, as was the way of most of the female contestants, both displayed unnecessary amounts of suet-puddingy flesh.

When told by Simon they were utterly lousy, Pammy's granny looked genuinely shocked and asked him: "So what exactly are you looking for?"

"The absolute opposite of you," says Si. Beautiful.

Then there was 67-year-old Mario, who sang like a budgie with a laryngitis.

A fifty-stone woman who appeared to have lost her voice - and her bra, judging by the cut of her stage outfit, ergo a woolly jumper.

Then came Sharon Hornsby, a lady of certain age and Simon Cowell's biggest fan. Swathed in Lurex leopard print and a satin skirt so tight, I found myself crossing MY legs so it wouldn't burst, she sang something like You Are The Wind Beneath My Bingo Wings in the style of Les Dawson playing the piano.

Then a very bad rapper, who sadly thought he was a little bit The Streets/a little bit Eminem, went off on one when Simon told him he was actually more like George Formby. Cue a stream of hilariously bad rap insults and much giving of the finger.

Best of all was Gemini.

Yes, you've guessed it, a sister act dressed in identikit outfits in the style of The Cheeky Girls (originality is not welcome here, folks).

But there the similarity to the Transylvanian two ends, for there was no humour, no gimmick, no good looks, and of course, no talent whatsoever. But they declared themselves the best talent in the country and went on to kill The Boys of Summer while dancing like demented baboons.

Again, looks of total disbelief as Simon told them to go back to what they do best - packing envelopes. Cue lots of angry tears, snatching up of carrier bags and storming out. Tee hee.

Some were good though, particularly a few of the Boyz To Men style vocal groups, if you like that sort of thing; you could easily see them knocking Rachel Stevens off the top of the charts one wet Sunday.

And a bloke called Steve, who was 35 and a bit past it, but having sung for years in pubs and clubs actually had quite a good voice. He failed the audition by a whisker and we all thought, 'shame'.

But then he got called back - hurray! - because Simon thought he might just have something... which is what makes it such good fun.

Next week, more on 81-year-old Irene from East Sussex, who promises a quivery rendition of Ain't Misbehavin'. Can't wait.

Quite Ugly One Morning (ITV1, Sunday, 9pm) was another pleasantly silly distraction, though hardcore fans of author Christopher Brookmyre might disagree.

Adapted from his black comedy novel, it took artistic license all over the shop, including changing the very nationality of the lead character, haggard hack, Jack Parlabane from Scottish to Irish, by casting super hammy James Nesbitt in the role.

For some inexplicable reason, they also renamed PC Jenny Dalziel, Jenny Dunlop and changed her from Parlabane's lesbian mate, to the bird he fancies!

Still, Nesbitt's droopy-eyed overacting and Jenny's name and sexual persuasion changes aside, it was perfectly watchable couple of hours.

Daniela Nardini (ex This Life) was grumpily good as Parlabane's ex and the bloke who played the Brummie with the mullet in Vic Reeve's brilliant Catterick was funny as the thick thug.

But Annette Crosbie (One

Foot in the Grave) stole the show. She was a revelation as the barmy B&B landlady, who long with a wee cup of tea, also

offered one guest death by garden gnome!