The good news. Bum note Ottavio shoved tone deaf Bradley into the swimming pool and he could have drowned. The bad news. He didn’t.

With a dreary inevitability, ludicrous Louis Walsh told the tuneless twosome they were through to the finals. A corporate decision that was clearly reached weeks ago the moment our fancy dress heroes tottered into the audition room. Carry On Cowell thinks OTT gay men are hilarious. No one knows why.

Meanwhile, over in Los Angeles, after due consideration, OAP of many faces Sharon Osbourne concluded that crap rap disaster Honey G was a superstar in the making. She’s fat, she’s middle class and – although Simon and his gang haven’t noticed – she’s not very entertaining.

But according to Ma Osbourne and her glamorous assistant Robbie Williams, Ms G is the cream of the crop. A rare talent. A remarkable discovery. As opposed to a complete load of risible rubbish who’d struggle to land a gig in a rural pub.

After the badly-dressed street girl slaughtered Gangsta’s Paradise, Robbie insisted: “I’ll remember Honey G for the rest of my life.” Yeah, she’s that brilliant. “I’m eclectic, I’m diverse,” boasted Honey, neglecting to add: “I’m hopeless.”

Welcome to The X Factor’s circus of cruelty Judges’ Houses. The weeping wannabes’ pathetic desperation laid bare. But here’s to mentor Sharon for actually being in her own house. The rest of them were pretending in rented accommodation.

What a shame grandad Louis pitched up in a villa in Ibiza. One of the most enjoyable spectacles of past series was seeing the unlucky contestants’ faces fall when they discovered that instead of Hollywood or the Riviera… they were off to Walsh’s home country Ireland, sunshine capital of the world. Wow.

Anyway, after announcing “I’ve made my decision”, Louis made three wrong decisions and left the distraught rejects in floods of tears. Especially, self-regarding trio Skarl3t, who really rate themselves. Guess someone has to.

It’s hard to work out what’s more irritating. The histrionics of the delusional idiots who get their marching orders… or the histrionics of the delusional idiots who are doomed to stick around for the next three torturous months before returning to their high flying careers in the shelf-stacking sector.

Down in the South of France, Nicole Scherzinger hooked up with Calvin Harris to narrow down the boys. You had to feel for theatrically bereaved Christian Burrows. He threw everything at the sob story-saturated competition, including his dead brother. And then he got kicked out. Farewell Cap Ferrat… hello Bolton.

Still droning on about that girlfriend who wisely dumped him, Bromley bore Matt Terry turned to Harris and said: “Happens to all of us, right?” Particularly, if your girlfriend happens to be here-today -gone-tomorrow Taylor Swift. Right, Mr Harris? Right, Mr Hiddleston?

But we mustn’t forget the main non-event by the sea in Malibu where the Dark Lord was putting the unutterably tedious girls through their paces. Who did ringmaster Cowell pick? Who cares?

Predictably, following the traditional final-choice fiasco, furious viewers were up in arms over the losers who made the grade… and the losers who didn’t. Pipped to the post by the amazing Honey G, pub landlady Sam Atkinson was devastated. She too really rates herself. No one knows why.

But why do the punters always rise to the bait? Year after stage-managed year we trudge through the farce of acting like the whole thing hasn’t been worked out in advance. But make no mistake… it seriously has been.

Think Jedward, think Wagner, think Rylan and so many other novelty numbskulls. All totally talentless. All dispatched to be interviewed by obedient ITV servants Lorraine, Phil and Holly in a shameless campaign to turn them into the talked-about stars of the shabby show. Don’t fall for it. Just say no.

But here we go again with another carefully choreographed pantomime. And the joke’s not only on us but also on the string-pulling producers who are convinced they’re concocting the perfect recipe for ratings supremacy. But never do.

Anyway, a mere 13 marathon episodes into an epic series that we won’t be free of until Christmas, we’re at long last heading into the live finals.

Too early to predict who will triumph. But I’ll tell you two acts who don’t stand even a scintilla of a chance… Ottavio and Bradley (AKA Brattavio) and Honey G. Musically useless but they’re supposed to make us laugh. Which is awkward. Because they’re not funny.