THE X Factor is my secret guilty pleasure. Or, perhaps, not so much a secret any more.

I have even stolen the expression ‘guilty pleasure’ from one of the show’s judges, Kelly Rowland, who insisted on an almost weekly basis that falsetto diva Johnny Robinson was hers.

Among my friends I stand alone as they are Strictly fans – the thinking person’s choice of Saturday evening television.

There’s something quite polarising about the two shows. The X Factor is somehow – and I’ll have to whisper this – a bit low life.

Strictly Come Dancing, because there is only cruelty to celebrities (who may even deserve it), somehow manages to gain the moral and cultural upper hand.

But, let’s be honest, the X Factor is always going to be a richer seam of gossip, scandal and newspaper column inches.

I’d like to say you couldn’t make it up but of course many of the stories originating from the show get more than a helping hand from the busy team of publicists beavering away backstage.

Such people understand that any kind of publicity is good news for the show’s ratings. And with a commercial show on a commercial station this is really the prime concern.

It’s why the X Factor is peppered with an irritating number of advertising breaks (which matter not a jot to me as we record the show and fast-forward through them all).

Is all this an insult to the intelligence quotient of the viewers? Of course it is, but we don’t care.

I first started watching the X Factor three seasons ago with Secondborn, who, since leaving to go to university, is now forced to use catch-up television on her laptop to get her weekly fix.

The series was, I always felt, a pleasant enough way for the family to spend an hour on a Saturday evening while tucking into a take-away curry. It was our joint secret guilty pleasure. Everyone needs one.

Over the years we have followed the fortunes of the people who find themselves transformed into instant fodder for the tabloids and multitude of magazines dependent on B listers to fill their pages.

Psychologists and sociologists have had much to say about the phenomenon, which has been likened to the decadence of the Roman Empire when the plebs bayed for the blood of gladiators and wild beasts.

In the 21st century, however, only characters are assassinated and murky pasts unearthed.

Anyone with a grievance about any of the contestants can seek vengeance while earning their own 15 minutes of fame and a tip-off payment.

It’s an antidote to the non-competitive, non-judgemental ‘you tried your best’ culture. The X Factor is a microcosm of real life – unfair, harsh at times and highly competitive.

This week Frankie ‘coconut-head’ Cocozza ( or should that be ‘coke-head’ following all the allegations in national newspapers) got his comeuppance for behaving like a real rock star on a show designed to find a real rock star.

Despite the fact that he appeared to become increasingly tone deaf as the series wore on and always looked as if he’d just got out of bed, we didn’t necessarily want to see him go.

He had become this year’s bad boy – the contestant we all loved to hate.

We’d had high hopes for the Oriental dancing queen Goldie to fill this important role, but she had the sense to see what was in store for her and quit early on.

“Who is voting for him?” said The Man last week when Frankie escaped eviction yet again.

“Are they all tone deaf as well.”

But the X Factor has never been about just the ability to sing – there are plenty of people who can do a cracking karaoke turn or could get a job on a cruise ship.

What we want is entertainment on all fronts and behind the scenes.

It’s why Misha B may go the distance, despite revelations that she’d bullied other contestants and why Frankie lasted as long as he did. Although, to be fair, Misha can actually sing.

But by the time we get to the finals I’m hoping that only talent will count.

I’ll be waiting, curry and poppadoms on hand, to find out.