represent

Upstairs, my son is letting us know that he refuses to sleep. Then the food comes: two main course Indian ready meals, plus rice plus a side dish. All for eight quid as the imminent second dip into recession even has Waitrose frightened. It is alright, and beer helps. On television, a series of needy people get up to sing, trying to prove they have the X factor. One of the women is a large creature. A big slab of body. A long, masculine face. She belts it out. She has a voice. Lights are flashing and all that. The crowd like it. The judges feed back, all saying good things as she smears a mascara tear across the painted acres of her cheek. She's determined. She really wants it. She's going to work so hard. "I might joke around", she says, "but I'm serious about this competition". Tulisa speaks up. "You're doing it for all the real women out there," she opines. "You're keeping it real. You're representing all the ladies." The audience clap and cheer. The people are moved. All around the country, ten million hefty housewives swell with pride as their champion in fantasyland delivers giant blows from the deadly arsenal of vocal chord, lung and sass. "You're putting it DOWN, momma," encourages Kelly Rowland. I eat more curry, drink more beer, pass wind and climb the stairs to the study. My wife fast-forwards through the adverts.