I’VE always enjoyed X Factor because I love talent competitions. As a child my gran used to put my sister and I on the stage in matching crocheted dresses.

She’d play guitar and I’d sing – Mary Hopkins-style – or not, if I’m being honest.

We once came second in a contest in Blackpool and got a stick of rock each. My gran wanted to cosh the compere with her handbag because she thought we deserved a recording contract.

Simon Cowell could have learned a few tricks from my gran.

We also took part in Lewis’s talent competition, a more glamorous affair held annually at the former high street store in Manchester. This was in another league – a proper stage with lighting and velvet curtains.

I was so terrified by the bright lights and pitch black void that I forgot the words and we had to start over twice. I could feel the audience’s disappointment and my gran’s because she’d been up all night working on our glittery dresses.

But that trauma was only surpassed when we were invited to audition for Junior Showtime.

That was a 70s TV show....the big time. Gran had high expectations, so did my sister, who decided to show the judges our range by changing the harmonies to “Oh, Sinner Man”, minutes before we went in. And...you guessed it....I messed up again. She’s never forgiven me.

The legacy of such abject failure was that I was left with a body-shaking fear of public performance which I tackled a couple of years ago. I signed up for a public speaking course during which I was treated to a session of EFT (Emotional Freedom Technique) which involves tapping various points of your body to release your fear. And it actually worked, now I can’t shut up!

Which is a very round about way of explaining why I’m so disappointed by X Factor. Having felt the fear, pain and disillusion of competing on stage, I really get into the show and look forward to my weekly fix.

But this latest series is leaving me cold. For one, Sch-amazing Nicole with all her glamour, wit and positivity has been replaced by the plastic Top Shop model that is Cheryl Wotsit-Wotsit. Simon - I wouldn’t change a nappy for £10,000 - Cowell is back, primarily, it seems, to wind up Cheryl who he sacked for wearing purple trousers.

The rest of the show is formulaic. From the putting together of individual singers to form a boy-band - now there’s innovation. To the dad with the baby - Simon’s got one too, awww - who will be moulded into a poor man’s Robin Thicke. He was crying, but no tears appeared. His wife was crying, but no tears. For crying out loud, even Mel B, who tells us she never cries, was crying dry tears.

We’ve been there and done this. It’s tired, fake and I’m switching off.