The X-Factor is a good reason not to get married

Once you're married, you have to watch X-Factor. Every Saturday night. There's no getting out of it. You're not even allowed to sit in another room and read the paper.

Because that's not being supportive. Besides, wifey will want to discuss every woeful warbler who struts on the stage, then decides to swallow the microphone whole; something known in the trade as 'smashing it'. (Why would you want to smash a song, anyway? Songs should be petted like kittens; wooed and cooed into supine submission, like a Valentine's date. You smash tennis balls and earwigs that stampede into your kitchen. Not songs. Never songs.)

The best thing about being a single man is that when someone asks him for his opinion of Simon Cowell, he merely shrug dismissively, then says: "Wasn't he the guy that used to play the ship doctor in Love Boat?"

Ignorance truly is bliss.

Well, maybe not always. Remember, the single guy will be out on the pull every week-end. To bag his prey, he must persuade the girl in his sights that he is good breeding stock.

Not so simple.

Because as he talks nonsense to her in one ear, she'll be making the sort of rapid calculations that only NASA computers can equal, when they blast rockets into orbit.

Calculation number 1: Are his shoulder nice and broad, so I can balance on them when he takes me to watch Take That Live?

Calculation number 2: Is his spine nice and flexible, so I can bend it to my will?

Calculation number 3: Is he already losing his hair, meaning his confidence to chat-up other birds will vanish, along with his comb?

Calculation number 4: Can he read, and is he interested in current affairs? If so, will he use these attributes as an excuse to swagger off and peruse the paper in another room, when X-Factor is on?

Yup, guys. Even single girls want to know whether you're willing to at least pretend to be interested in X-Factor.

So, in the spirit of camaraderie with my single brethren, I offer a few educational tidbits regarding the contestants on the current show, to be sprinkled into all club night conversations.

Jamie Archer
The most selfish bloke on the planet. Sitting behind him in the cinema would be more than frustrating. Though not if you remembered to bring along a handy pair of garden sheers, or a grazing Shetland Pony.

Stacey Solomon
That voice, that face... At last we know what happened to Roland Rat after his contract with breakfast TV was terminated.

Danyl Johnson.
I call him the snake. Not because of any trouser or hip action. It's just that in order to belt out the big notes, Danyl regularly dislocates his jaw, like a snake would do if it was trying to swallow a pregnant hippo. Don't knock it. It's more impressive than his singing.

Lucie Jones
Lucie is from a small village in Wales. But what ever you do, don't mention the small village in Wales! Lucie mentioned it once, but I think she got away with it.

Rachel Adedeji
Grace Jones? More like Grace Drones. (Then when she's up for the chop, Grace Moans. And moans. And moans...)

Olly Murs
Are there enough Dermot O'Learys in the world? Simon Cowell doesn't think there is. So he's added a second one to the X-Factor mix.

Miss Frank
When shall we three meet again? In thunder, lightning or in rain? When the hurlyburly's done, when X-Factor's lost and won. (Actually, just lost. Miss Frank are rank.)

Lloyd Daniels & Joe McElderry
Two for the price of one, here. One is blonde, one is dark. Both so dull you could wrap them round your head and wear 'em as sunglasses. But which is better at singing and simpering? Who cares? It's the bland leading the bland.

John and Edward
Must win. At all costs. So splendidly sinister, they make Hannibal Lecter look like a tofu-chewing vegan.