X-Factor Auditions (Irish Independent)

 It’s 7.38am on a Saturday morning in Croke Park and I am waiting to audition for a part on ITV’s hit series The X Factor. I’m not alone; there are thousands around me waiting patiently to sing their hearts out to a complete stranger in the quest for fame and fortune. What separates me from everyone else is the fact that I’m the only one here who doesn’t actually want to be on The X Factor.

I’ve got into this ridiculous situation after a fight I had about six months ago. I was at home watching the show and Lloyd Daniels was making a dog’s dinner of ‘A Million Love Songs’ by Take That.

Having spent the evening sneering at the programme and belittling contestants, my girlfriend had had enough. “If you think you can do better, prove it, otherwise please shut up.”

Like most men, I have an ill-placed confidence in my own abilities. “Alright then, I will,” I replied.

Well, somewhere between then and now this stupid idea became an actual “thing”, and as soon as the auditions were announced I was signed up. For the past two months my confirmation slip has been stuck on the door with today’s date circled in red.

So, out of sheer stubbornness, here I am. I’m the 2,386th person through the gates. By 9am, that figure will pass 6,000.

The first session of queuing begins outside the ticket stalls on the Cusack side of the stadium in a zig-zag of steel barriers. The crowd is predictably young, ranging in age from 17 to about 26, for the most part. At the front, there is a large LCD screen and at the sides, large speakers are hoisted by scaffolding.

We appear to be in a holding pattern and we wait. I look at my watch and ask the girl next to me how long she reckons we’ll be here “About 12 hours,” she says, deadpan.

Once the area has filled up, the giant speakers that have been looming above come to life. The X Factor theme music is blasted out as the screen plays a trailer for the new series.

A balding man with a radio mic appears on a stage to our left. He’s flanked by two unlikely helpers dressed in cheap shiny leprechaun suits, their ginger beards held on with elastic string.

They’re here to warm up the crowd. “X Factor Dublin . . . MAKE SOME NOISE!” the MC yells in a Cockney geezer sort of voice.

The crowd goes bonkers as HD cameras on giant jibs swoop overhead to capture footage of the choreographed mania below. “Everybody SCREAM! Come on, we could be focusing in on you right now!”

But if fame is what this lot are looking for, none of them will admit it. When I ask why they are here, almost everyone has the same response, as if they’ve learned it from a cue card: ‘I’ve always wanted to be a singer’.

I strike up a conversation with a fellow hopeful, a 21-year-old girl from Leixlip called Monica. “Can you sing?” I ask. “Well, I’ve done a few shows and sung for the RTE choir, I’m a soprano,” she says with a measure of confidence.

She’s singing ‘You’ll Never Walk Alone’, which sounds odd until I’m told that the Liverpool FC anthem originally came from a Rodgers and Hammerstein musical.

“You’d have to be a castrato to hit the high note in it,” Monica’s friend chips in.

After an hour or so, the presenter and anchor of the show, Dermot O’Leary, appears. He’s as charming in real life as he is on the screen.

Again, the enthusiasm of the collective is demanded, but this time silently, so Dermot can do his links to camera.

We’re told that they’ll add the applause in later. It’s one of the little cheats that makes the final production so slick, but it’s an odd sight; thousands of people furiously pretending to scream.

A lady in a pink feather boa is standing behind me waving and hopping along with the rest. She’s wearing a leopard-print lycra catsuit, diamante belt, a nose-ring, heart-shaped glasses and is probably about 50.

Wendy, having left Donegal at three o’clock this morning, is clearly keen to get noticed by the producers. “I love X Factor, I’m going to go all the way,” she says with a touch of bravado. The strange thing is, we both know with absolute certainty that she won’t.

Anyone over the age of 16 can audition for X Factor, but in six years, you can count on one hand the number of contestants over 40 that made it to the finals. All, bar one, were men.

It seems redundant to point this out to Wendy, so instead I motion towards her luminous leggings and ask about the judges. Is she not afraid they’ll make fun of her?

“I’m not afraid of anyone, I’ll give Simon as good as I get.” I turn to her nephew, Daniel. “Can she sing?” He peered back at me over the top of his glasses. No, came the reply, blunt and obvious, and we all laugh. If this is the level of my competition, I think to myself, I’ll be just fine.

Eventually, we’re herded into the Cusack stand where every contestant takes a seat. There are 12 full rows of people ahead of us in the queue.

At the bottom of each section is a black booth, 19 of them in total, where the preliminary judges (producers from the show and staff from Simon’s music label Syco) await the next performer.

There’s a buzz about the place as everyone watches the activity below. For some, it’s the end of the road. There are hugs and shrugs but few actual tears. For others, it’s one step closer to success.

Every few minutes, a loud scream will pierce the air as competitors emerge clutching a ‘golden ticket’: a pass into the next round.

I try, but it’s genuinely impossible to guess who’ll get through just by looking at them. One moment a stunning Sade lookalike comes out shaking her head and moments later a gigantic ginger teenager pumps the air with his fist in triumph.

It’s cold. My feet are freezing. I need to pee. Still, we wait. There’s a constant hum as each contestant sings to themselves quietly, music as diverse as you could imagine: The theme from The Addams Family, The Monkees, something by Kajagoogoo, Bjork or Noel Coward.

Suddenly, a woman in her thirties leaps over the barriers and invades the hallowed pitch, rolling around on the pristine grass with giddiness. It is a short-lived joy.

Seconds later, security storm in and unceremoniously hoof her out of the stadium. A camera crew frantically chases after them.

At last, at 5.32pm, after almost 10 whole hours, our row is called to the booth and the waiting is over.

The judge, a guy 10 years younger than me wearing a black hoodie and unnecessary sunglasses, shakes my hand and asks why I’m here.

I explain about the bet, and then immediately regret it. I should have told him I’ve always wanted to be a singer. He writes something down and then says: “In your own time”.

I sing the first verse and chorus of John Denver‘s ‘Leaving on a Jet Plane’ quite well, I think, although I may have missed a note or two.

He writes something else on his sheet for a while and then looks up.

“I’m sorry,” he says eventually, “Maybe next time”.

He puts a black X through the number on my sticker and I leave the booth, slightly stunned and surprisingly upset. It’s 5.35pm.

On my way out, as I imagine the inevitable and endless ribbing from my girlfriend that surely awaits me, I bump into an excited Wendy embracing her nephew.

She has a little yellow slip scrunched in her hand.

“Congratulations Wendy, I’m delighted for you,” I say. I mean it, too. “I hope you go all the way.”

– Jonathan McCrea