Cheryl dishes out X Factor advice like a canteen worker in charge of a tea urn, writes JAN MOIR

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Three years after Simon Cowell left The X Factor to launch and judge the American version of his talent show, he has returned.

The pop mogul is back to helm this year’s search for a star – and he is not the type to slip back into his judge’s chair without fanfare or pomp.

In the opening credits on Saturday night, Cowell flew across the London skies in a helicopter; nibbling on a bowl of strawberries like some pampered, evil fruitarian.

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Over promoted: Cheryl told artists she liked 'You are my cuppa tea' during the first episode of the new series which aired on Saturday night

His smirk was tinged with malice, his white shirt slashed so low it seemed more like a pair of curtains than a garment, framing a hairy slice of untamed moonscape.

Why is he even here? Not because, whisper it, The X Factor failed in America. He was, he said, a man on a mission, doing ‘a job so important I had to come back’.

That’s the good news. The bad is that he has dragged his No 1 public frenemy Cheryl Fernandez-Versini with him. Yes, they have kissed and made up since he sacked her from his American venture, on the not unreasonable grounds that she looked a fright and no one west of Penzance could understand her.

On the new X Factor, their relationship is like the one Minnie Mouse had with Walt Disney, except Minnie had a nicer singing voice and understood the fundamental truth about her position; which was that she was entirely made by artists and was not an artist herself.

No such luck with Cheryl, who loftily dispenses wisdom to pop star wannabes with the skill of a canteen worker in charge of the hot urn.

‘You are my cuppa tea,’ she tells artists whom she likes. ‘You are not my cuppa tea,’ she says to those she does not. For this, she gets paid millions?

Along with Louis Walsh and former Spice Girl Mel B, Simon and Cheryl are this year’s quartet of judges. Host Dermot O’Leary talked of ‘the most formidable panel ever’, but surely he was referring to the bit at the front of Louis’s truss? He couldn’t mean this lot.

For, oh dreary, dreary me. Already the 11th series of The X Factor is showing more signs of age than a medieval chamber pot – and it’s only week one!

Over the years, viewers have become used to the contrivances and set-ups that scaffold this shameless search for a star. The sob stories, the journeys, the granny back home who obligingly dies five minutes before little Johnny’s grief-choked audition.

Much of this was fabulous fun. It was a pantomime and we were in on the joke.

Yet this year, despite the thumping 9.5 million ratings on Saturday’s opening night, there have been moments when the cynicism has been overwhelming, even for a devoted fan like me.

Consider the evidence.

First, those contestants who pose as novices and hopefuls, but who are actually seasoned performers. Like Chloe Jasmine, who pretended to be upper class and sang a version of the jazz standard Black Coffee. The truth is that Chloe auditioned for the show in 2006, has since been on a modelling television programme and in reality is about as posh as a whelk-stall.

Jasmine, pretended to be upper class and sang a version of the jazz standard Black Coffee. The truth is that she auditioned for the show in 2006

Singer Jay James Picton had suspiciously white Hollywood-style teeth, but he was presented as an ordinary ex-Navy bloke giving it his first shot. In truth, he has had a record deal, released an album and supported former X Factor runner-up Rebecca Ferguson on her solo tour two years ago.

In the way she likes to imagine is no-nonsense, judge Mel B told Jay: ‘Yer pashun and yer emoshun wuz just ridokulsy good. I hate you because you made me cry.’

That’s the first time she cried since Geri left the Spice Girls, although to be fair, those were tears of joy.

It might not matter in the constructs of a talent show that these people are not quite what they seem, but the public are fed up of being manipulated and fooled like this.

Much of the gung-ho spirit and the inspired lunacy of the earlier series has gone. Ordinary contestants having a go have been replaced by hand-picked, knowing professionals and stage-school veterans.

They push the real amateurs into the margins – although there is still a sprinkling of fruit-cakery and delusion.

‘I sing literally 24 hours a day,’ said one. Two helium sucking singing sisters were like the new Jedward – Jedwina? Were they married? ‘No, we’re single Pringles,’ they said, which will probably be the name of their first hit.

Elsewhere, the hideous over-promotion of judge Cheryl particularly grated.

Her music was played repeatedly in the background, several people too many were filmed claiming they had only auditioned in the hope of meeting her.

This reverence even extended to allowing the broadcast of her hairspray commercials during the show’s ad breaks. Mel B also got in on the act by thundering about in adverts for Costa Bingo.

We know as far as they are all concerned it’s all about the money, not about the search for a star, but do they have to make it so obvious?

Host Dermot O’Leary talked of ‘the most formidable panel ever’, but surely he was referring to the bit at the front of Louis’s truss? He couldn’t mean this lot

Cowell wasted no time in establishing his Mr Nasty credentials. He smashed a guitar in exasperation at the number of Ed Sheeran-alike contestants and told others that they were as irritating as nails screeching down a blackboard. One homely looking performer was told: ‘To be honest, I wrote you off before you started signing.’

He told the truth about being chief judge because ‘it doesn’t really matter what the others say’.

That doesn’t stop them all from trying. Exactly 47 minutes into the first show, we had the first Cheryl Tear when she ‘recognised’ a contestant from a previous X Factor series. I say tears. It was more like those drops of fluid that ooze from a putrefying peach, inching down the once golden skin as the fruit rots from within.

The big problem with the show is the overbearing presence of Cheryl and Mel. For all their faults, at least Cowell and Walsh are music business executives, men who have made millions from their showbiz acuity. Their opinions mean something.

On the other hand, Cheryl and Mel are pop-constructs, part of talent-free acts put together by men such as Cowell and Co.

If we are going to be honest here, we must admit that neither of them could carry a tune in a bucket, nor recognise a star if Sirius suddenly imploded in the ether above their acrylic extensions.

Having them on a judging panel is like asking Pinky and Perky to judge applicants for a chipmunk chorus. Which, I suppose, in a way, is exactly what The X Factor has become.

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