The X-Factory

Tracey was a waitress

With two kids, a heroin habit, a husband who frequented prostitutes, so

She tried out for the talent show

Queued up alongside the hopeless and hopeful

Each of them desperate to dig themselves out of a hole

Tell the whole damned world where they can go

It’s all lapped up

By a bored, boring and indolent populace

Fill their cups, up

With lager, their papers with breasts

Won’t you give it a rest?

Interviewed half in tears by a presenter

Fresh from children’s telly, with fetishes for older men

And a good spanking now and then

Tracey tells stories ‘bout singing with hairbrushes

Plays Cinderella waiting for a ball to attend

Then she breaks down and cries again

Offering crumbs

Of a dream translated from the American

To those numb, from

Bankruptcy proceedings and pregnancy tests

Won’t you give it a rest?

And your fabled 15 minutes

Will be cut down for adverts, you’ll see

Rock ‘N’ Roll stardom in easy instalments

Musical instrument sold separately

Sandwiched between the beleaguered and bitter

‘Tween has beens and harridans,

Belt buckle under his chin, Quentin ushers our Tracey in

She throws her head back, lets loose a vibrato

That rattles his molars and notifies his next of kin

His tongue sharpens behind a grin

And we all get off

Though the punishment’s cruel and unusual

Turn and softly, cough

For the man that we love to detest

Won’t you give it a rest?

Tracey’s hysterical, as they berate her

Begs for another chance, to take her place in The Sun

And prove her worth to everyone

Quentin sees something he’ll maintain is moxie

Has more to do with the zipper he’s slyly undone

Let’s take a look at what she’s won

It’s been fun,

But within a year she’s descending the alphabet

Number one, spun

Into chances to watch her undress

Won’t you give it a rest?