Spinning Arseholes: The Voice UK, Episode Seven

After seven long weeks of auditions - that’s 10 and a half hours or enough time to play will.i.am’s rack-celebrating pop hit "My Humps" 153 times - The Voice has finally reached the end of round one. This is the time to delete the first round tapping app that allows you to be the “fifth judge” and mourn all the hours spent mindlessly watching Tubby Tina the Nando’s cashier from Crawley sing her cholesterol-clogged heart out.

The battle rounds come next, coupled with a handy reminder that you don’t actually remember a single contestant from the first stage of the show. After which it’s a steady ratings decline as the Voice looses all its original format points and become like a shit version of Pop Idol but without the comic relief of Pete Waterman’s third chin.

But before all that, let’s recap this weekend’s show featuring tears, tantrums and the death of indie forever.

GARY POOLE

Once famed for singing about getting baked all the time, yet now forever etched into the history books for getting all pissy about Rizzle Kicks on Never Mind the Buzzcocks and angrily breaking a mug in a move that rates alongside Sid Vicious cooking a risotto as the least punk action ever, Huey Morgan from the Fun Lovin’ Criminals is now attempting to mend his broken reputation by posing as “Gary Poole”, a “teacher” from “London”. You’re not fooling anyone Gary. Expect his cover to be broken in the second round when he staggers on stage drunk and starts attacking Lauren Laverne.

ANGIE BROWN

In a turn of logic akin to showing up at the Christmas party of the company that sacked you, just to climb on a table and tell your former colleagues that you could smash through a spreadsheet better than they any of these new young cunts ever will, Angie Brown – vocalist on 90s club hit “I’m Gonna Get You” – has come on the show to prove that she’s more than a one hit wonder by singing her one hit badly. To be fair, it’s pretty surprising that there haven’t been more Angie Browns on the show already as the fallout from the 90s club hit conveyor belt must have a higher “15 minutes of fame; 45 years on the dole” toll than anything else. Look out for the next series when Angie returns with Maya of “What’s she gonna look like with a chimney on her?” fame and the bald girl from T-Spoon in tow like a middle-aged MKS.

LUCIEE MARIE CLOSIER

Presumably someone accidentally added an extra couple of vowels onto Luciee’s Starbucks Frappuccino order one day and it stuck. After carping on about being an Essex girl, Luciee then puts on an accent that’s somewhere between American, Jamaican and a character from The Muppet Show and dribbles about how “emosh” she is as though Mark Wright’s two remaining brain cells have splintered off and found a new home.

JAMIE LOVATT

It’s one thing that Ricky From the Kaiser Chiefs, the singer of a commercial, radio-friendly band your Nan likes, is a judge on The Voice. It’s one thing that the singer from Cleopatra or the other one from East 17 have tried out for The Voice. But the moment that Jamie Lovatt, singer of East London post-punk band ROMANCE, whose fame peak was reached in 2008 when they were given a down-page 100 word slot in the NME Radar section, stepped onto the stage like Legolas auditioning for This Is Spinal Tap then the final nail in the coffin was hammered in. This isn’t just reality TV winning the war, but taking a watery shit on indie’s grave and drawing a knob in Tip-Ex on its tombstone.

LIZ OKI

Despite looking like the ghost of Andy Warhol has come and plonked one of his long lost wig collection on a fat Tina Turner, Liz manages to make will.i.am, the human robot of pop, openly weep because she reminds him of his much-missed aunt. If someone were to remind me of my aunt, then they’d have to come on the show with a daughter who would later fail to return from a holiday in Malaga because she’d married a waiter.

CHERRI PRINCE

And finally, it’s down to the last place on the last team to be filled. A situation surely up there with Election Day, the World Cup final and the Made in Chelsea end of season party in terms of palpable tension. It’s down to Scottish Vanessa Feltz, Erin and Cherri Prince, who in some kind of strange coincidence looks a bit like a scrawny, sparrow-like version of Prince press conference host Lianne La Havas. No-one does anything remotely memorable, Cherri goes through on merit of at least not singing a song by bloody Dido and thus the selections are complete. Fan-fucking-tastic. Join us next week when half the successful contestants are arbitrarily expensed with making the past seven weeks even more futile than they already seemed.

Follow Lisa on Twitter: @LisaAnneWright

Spinning Arseholes: The Voice UK, Episode Six