Matt Cardle's Official Private Diary: January

It's been a crazy month and a bit since an audience of 19 million people watched me win 'X Factor'. If you were one of those who either watched me or voted for me, I wanna say "Thank you. Thank you for making ALL my dreams come true." I've gone from fronting a band going nowhere and painting and decorating to hanging out with celebrities, going to parties, appearing at HMVs nationwide, snogging fit birds with bangin' ba-donka-donks and covering songs by my idol Chen Pacino. Nice, yeah? I want to personally thank Basil who's given me this dead high profile outlet for my thoughts so I can let you know exactly what's been going on. He's a top bloke.

January 15th 2011

I was out with the totally hawt Stacey McClean last night and we saw Cheryl Cole who came over to the VIP section and threatened to kick Stacey's head in cos she thought she'd spilled her pint. Gotta love Cheryl. She keeps it realer than real. Hardcore.

January 19th 2011

So, like, I've got my tongue deep inside this girl's arse, yeah? My stubble all over her creamy cheeks and she turns around and she's all indignant:

"Excuse me! Do I know you?"

And I'm like, "Duuuuh!" and show her my special Simon Cowell approved 'Platinum Pussy Pass', which is really just a badge that says "Matt Cardle: 'X Factor' Winner 2010" and she goes MEN-TAL. "Ohmygod!Ohmygod!Ohmygod!" Paddling like a toddler with new Marks and Sparks wellies in a puddle of her own sex wee-wee. And I can't blame her, cos I'm kind of a big deal now and if I could get my tongue up my own arse I'd never get out of bed. Ya get me? Sweet.

So it's all awesome, yeah? But now, right, cos she's made such a scene, EVERYONE in the Post Office wants an autograph. Yawny, yawn, yawn! So I make my excuses and I'm out of there like Prince William's hairline. Ass ta la vista, baby!!!

January 22nd 2011

Dannii Minogue gives me a bell this morning. We've both got the same special ringtone for each other on our iPhones; 'Boom Boom Pow' by The Black Eyed Peas. It's sooooo hardcore, but it makes us laugh. Good times. Anyway, literally as soon as I won 'X Factor' she whispered that she had an idea for a duet. When I'd completed the rough demo (a cover of Chen Pacino's 'H-H-Humpin' Ya') and we were listening to the playback, she looked at me with tears in her eyes. I knew exactly how she felt. It was deep. Titanic deep.

She says she wants to hook up later 'cos there's some coving in her lounge that needs sorting. So it's off to the Wickes in Hanworth. I know what you're thinking: why not B&Q? Well, with Wickes there's a far wider range of products at everyday prices, so, y'know, that's why I go there... PLUS I have some of my best song ideas wandering around the aisles looking for their greased felching grips. With this particular job I reckon the Wickes duopolymer coving will be perfect cos it's really light to handle and the Wickes cove adhesive is easy to use and fills in the gaps proper well.

Got to Dannii's place around 2ish and after a cup of tea she asks me if I want to get started. "Sure," I said, "the lounge is through here, isn't it?"

"Cripes, you're dim, mate. I meant me mut, Matt!" In her Aussie accent she flattened the vowels so that the last bit sounded like "...me mat, Mett!" I looked at her funny cos I didn't really understand. Ms Minogue heaving her Asda floral gusset to one side, fixing me with an intense stare and intoning "You. Owe. Me." soon made the message clear.

Yeah. She's right. I do owe her.

I suppose if I had to liken Dannii Minogue to a bar snack it would be a twiglet. Or pork scratchings. A salty, piquant taste that takes a little getting used to. I don't really like either of them, but, y'know if I'm pressed and there's a lack of any other savoury snacks...

January 25th 2011

Spend the morning jamming with the band I was in before I went on 'X Factor'. I've told them I haven't really left and that once the hysteria dies down and Simon's 'Platinum Pussy Pass' has expired we'll get back together. I'm not sure though. I see myself more as a Darius Danesh or John Lennon solo artist, y'know, a social commentator. We'll see.

My Manager rings to tell me that HMV in Sudbury is closing down, so my appearance there this afternoon is cancelled. That's weird. "I thought HMV weren't going to be closing their shops for a while?" I said.

"They must have heard about your recent appearance at the Bayswater HMV* where you played that stuff from your second album," he laughed. He's always kidding me like that.

"So, Jeff, what time am I getting there?"

"No, seriously. It's cancelled. They said they might as well close down today if you turn up."

"Right, so what am I doing this afternoon instead?"

"Have you got any of those greased felching grips left? Louis Walsh says he wants you to pop 'round. He's got a little project for you in his spare room. Hold on. No, wait." I hear Jeff rustling some papers.

"Sorry. Not spare room. Dungeon. He says you owe him."

Fair enough.

January 27th 2011

'Loose Women' this lunchtime. The hospitality room here is amazing. They've mimicked nature’s colour scheme by painting the room in colours found outside the window. Not sure if they went with Wickes' own or luxurious Dulux, but they've painted both the walls and ceiling in an unobtrusive caribbean pale blue, which is tastefully offset with a palm green throw rug on the hardwood floor. I'm on after Kerry Katona who looks like she's back on the medication she was taking when she made that famous appearance on 'This Morning'. She asks if I want to try some of her special 'diet powder'. I tell her I'm cool.

When the four 'Loose Women' interview me I feel like a wounded Antelope on the plains of the Serengeti being stalked by hungry lions. That Carol Mcgiffin is the worst. She hands me her damp knickers off-camera whilst they're playing my video for "When We Collide" (which Simon told me I'd made my own and stayed at number one for three weeks!) and whispers that she wants a "Cock and Va-Jay-Jay collision." I'm sure she's drunk. I tell her to call my manager Jeff. She needs to back up and get in line.

January 28th 2011

Mid-afternoon and I'm collecting one of those cut crystal glass bowls from 'Woman's Own' for being voted as having The Sexiest Buns Of The Year. The award is handed over by Max Beesley, who's won it the past five years running (!). As we pose for press fotos he grips my hand really tight, making me wince, and with his grin fixed hisses in my ear, "Better watch your back, Cardle. You don't fuck with me in my house." I wouldn't dare. I love Max. He's done loads of great work. He's mates with Robbie Williams and he did that brilliant film with Mariah Carey. Everyone I know calls him "The Guv'nor". I tell him to give my manager Jeff a bell cos it'd be sah-weet if he could play piano in my touring band. He seems really made up and gets a bit weepy as he hugs me and repeats "Thank you, thank you, thank you," over and over again. Apparently those 'Jobsite' ads don't pay too well and 'Hotel Babylon' has been cancelled.

January 29th 2011

A strategy meeting with the Syco team at Cowell Towers. They suggest a co-headlining tour with Susan Boyle to maintain my profile which'll end with an appearance at the death metal festival Bloodstock. I'm being honest here, I'm not sure about it. When I go out live I plan to do a load of stuff from my second album 'Dark Delicacies', which'll come out after this 'X Factor'-related one. It'll be a concept album charting one man's descent into the darker recesses of his own private hell. Most of it'll be just me and an acoustic guitar addressing stuff that really matters to me in songs like 'Hey, Mr Broadband' and I'll be hooking up with The Black Eyed Peas to record the Will. I. Am. penned 'Platinum Pussy Pass'. I agree with Alan McGee, he really is the reincarnation of Sly Stone. I'm not sure if the sheer scale and ambition of my work will go down well with Subo's audience who don't tend to be as thoughtful, quiet and respectful as mine.

I'm just about to venture a tentative "Erm, I don't think so, Simon," when Leon Jackson bursts into the room waving a pistol and screaming "Where's my fucking career, bitch?"

I hit the floor and scramble under the table in a blind panic. Simon's dead calm. "I don't know what you did with it, but I'm afraid you won't find it here, Leon," he says, and then Subo leaps on him and wrestles him to the ground. Apparently, Joe McElderry was waiting at the front of the building in the getaway car. Really scary.

Simon has Leon undressed by security and his ankles and wrists bound to a chair. Simon's eyes look like pools of blue-black oil. Cold. Full of rage. His face is hard.

"Who sent you?" he asks as he slaps Leon with the back of his right hand. Again. And again. A small purple egg starts blooming under Leon's right cheek. Leon spits a mucusy a thread of blood at Simon's feet and laughs a mirthless, hollow laugh. "Fuck you, Cowell," he says.

They drag him away unconscious. "What's going to happen to him?" I ask. "Don't worry about Leon. Worry about yourself, Matt." He sits down, straightening his shirt. "Now, about this tour..." he says, wiping the back of his hand with a white silk hanky which comes away all red and blotchy with Leon's blood.

"I'm in," I say eagerly. "Whatever. Whenever. Wherever. I'll do it!"

* You can read this diary entry in my bezzie mate Basil's previous blog. Take it easy, yeah?

2010 in a pretty pink bow

Multicoloured balls of fire scatter in all directions, wave after wave of incandescent fury dancing across the night sky, exploding and cascading back to earth. Then, with one last whimper, it's over. Darkness and silence return. Fumes from spent firecrackers and rockets hanging in the air as 2010 turns into 2011.

There were a number of ways in which I planned to wrap this final blog in a pretty pink bow. I thought about doing a spoof Matt Cardle Christmas Diary:

Tuesday Dec 21

Busy day today. Start it off by appearing on the "Chris Moyles Breakfast Show". Top bloke. Dead switched on. And totally funny. Good times. Unfortunately, he had to go to an emergency traffic report and cut short the interview just when I started talking about the stuff I plan to do on my second album, which'll be a return to the more personal and introspective stuff I was doing before I won "X-Factor".

Lunchtime finds me doing a signing of my new no.1 single "When We Collide" at the HMV in Bayswater. The place is PACKED. It's like wall to wall p-u-s-s-y. I rock the house with "Tears In The Rain" which I wrote with the band I was in before I went on "X-Factor". The crowd were so into it. Totally silent and open-mouthed. Dead appreciative. It was a shame that during the second verse there was a power failure. Luckily it didn't last too long and my manager decided I should probably do "When..." to give 'em a different vibe instead of starting up "Tears..." again. Fair enough.

Simon Cowell's been brilliant. He's dead genuine and wants me to express myself. I remember him saying: "Matt, I want you to be you. I don't want you to be a "style". So many acts today are merely style and no substance. You're different. You've got genuine soul and that's what I want. I want your soul, Matt," and he was so intense when he said it. It was almost like his eyes sparked red. I've been giving him my soul ever since.

I thought perhaps I could look at the recent OFCOM report into our attitudes to swearing:

Apparently, pre-watershed, most participants found the words ‘cunt’, ‘fuck’, ‘motherfucker’, ‘pussy’, ‘cock’ and ‘twat’ unacceptable and also wanted care to be taken over the use of the words ‘bitch’, ‘bastard’, ‘bugger’, ‘dick’, ‘wanker’, ‘shag’, ‘slag’ and ‘shit’. Post-watershed, ‘cunt’ and ‘motherfucker’ were considered the least acceptable. There were contrasting views on the use of the word ‘fuck’ which was considered more acceptable by some participants (e.g. younger people and male participants) but less acceptable by others (e.g. participants aged 55-75). Respondents also wanted care to be taken over the use of the word ‘pussy’ post-watershed. The other words listed were considered acceptable post-watershed by most participants.

“I hate that word (‘motherfucker’), I hate it, I don’t know why I just hate it.”

Group discussion, male, no children, aged 30-55, ABC1, white and BME,

Birmingham

Many participants weren't familiar with, and didn't know the meaning of the word ‘bloodclaat’. Some assumed that it couldn't be particularly offensive because they hadn't heard the word before. They also didn't think that many people were familiar with it and would therefore be likely to ‘miss it’ if it was used on television.

“Sorry, can someone explain how it’s offensive to me because I actually don’t understand it.”

Group discussion, male, younger children, aged 20-45, C2DE, white and BME, London

‘Bloodclaat’ – “Jamaican/Patois originated, meaning blood cloth and referring to menstruation” (derogatory)

At which juncture I would have advertised my favourite new non-swearing, swear word: 'TWUNT'. A fruity combination of two naughty words to create a moist, glistening new one which means absolutely nothing but is pregnant with intent and is unequivocal in its communication.

I alighted briefly upon the notion of highlighting my favourite Facebook status updates of the past 12 months:

A good meal can be a near-sexual experience - a sumptuous, homemade Thai Green Curry for example. This evening's Bacon, Mushroom and Goat's Cheese filo baskets on a bed of rocket leaves was so good, I dislodged a light fitting.

Basil Creese Jr dreamt about you again last night, my lips still tingling from your perfect kiss as my eyelids flutter open. The scent of rain and the wet pavement seeps through the open hotel window...

As I departed, the villagers bestowed upon me the name "Mutembaiie", meaning 'Fire God'. In return I ask only that they sacrifice their livestock and Chris Fucking Moyles. Seriously, what is he for?

I danced with the idea of looking at this year's Adult Video News nominees for the "Cleverest Porn Movie Title Of The Year". They were as follows:

Barrack's Big Stimulus Package

A Brutha Came in Yo Mutha

It's Okay! She's My Step Daughter

Sexual Blacktivity

War on a Rack

Who's Nailin' Paylin?

Your Mom Tossed My Salad

Some hot wax dripped on the buttocks of the individual who correctly hits me back with the actual winner of this category. Eventually I figured it best to go with a recent observation. The Top 5 rated television programmes of 2010 are;

• The X Factor final - 17.7m
• England vs Germany 2010 World Cup - 17.4m
• EastEnders - 16.4m
• Coronation Street - 14.7m
• England vs Algeria World Cup 2010 - 14.6m

Now these are exceptional numbers, so I checked out some more run of the mill programmes. A repeat of "East Enders" on BBC3 commands an audience of 1.16m. "Neighbours" on Channel 5 1.29m. John Pilger's "The War You Don't See" on ITV1, a condemnation of the UK and US media which is complicit in their respective governments' rapacious war agenda, and emerged in the shadow of the Wikileaks mushroom cloud (during which hubbub, high profile Neo-Con draft dodger - aren't they all? - John Bolton, advocated a "military response" to the cable leaks. I mean, it's hard to tell with those Neo-Cons and their quest for "Full Spectrum Dominance", but was he suggesting they nuke the internet? Yeah... Probably) pulled in a paltry 940,000.

“If the public knew the truth, the war would end tomorrow. But they don't know and they can't know.”

Former British Prime Minister David Lloyd George, to Manchester Guardian editor C.P. Scott

Rageh Omaar, Dan Rather and David Rose all told how they spouted, parrot fashion, lies fed to them by a relentless disinformation campaign to justify an illegal war and expressed shame. Testimony from soldiers recounting tales of missions of bloody carnage targeting civilians where they were advised that to rescue injured children was "off mission" brought tears to my eyes. The true revelation of this film is that in the First World War, 10 per cent of casualties were civilians. By the Second World War, it was 50 per cent, rising to 70 per cent in Vietnam. In Iraq, it was 90 per cent.

Grainy camera footage from helicopter gunships unveiling a street strewn with dead innocents is accompanied by a soldier smirking "Oh, yeah. Look at those dead bastards. Nice."

Meanwhile, Andrew Marr was standing outside 10 Downing Street and smugly intoning:

“I don't think anybody after this is going to be able to say of Tony Blair that he’s somebody who is driven by the drift of public opinion, or focus groups, or opinion polls. He took all of those on. He said that they would be able to take Baghdad without a bloodbath, and that in the end the Iraqis would be celebrating. And on both of those points he has been proved conclusively right. And it would be entirely ungracious, even for his critics, not to acknowledge that tonight he stands as a larger man and a stronger prime minister as a result.”

Andrew Marr, BBC 1, News At Ten, April 9, 2003

This is the same man who recently said that those who blog are "socially inadequate, slightly seedy, cauliflower-nosed young men sitting in their mother's basements and ranting." All of which is certainly true of me, as you well know, but what blogging has revealed to me over the past year is the gaping chasm between the concerns and feelings of us, the 'unpeople', on one side and the politicians and their agents in the media on the other, who claim to represent us.

Marr and his clique aren't journalists, they're stenographers unquestioningly disseminating propaganda which is why you'll never read anything in the mainstream press about the worse-than-Hiroshima nuclear fallout levels in Fallujah or the Israeli government calculating the dietary needs for the population of Gaza ensuring the population is kept alive at a near-starvation level.

The political class despise us (probably with good reason. If you've ever been to a football match and had the twunt behind you spit meat pie all over your back in his haste to yell racist abuse then I'm sure you'll have had doubts about the logic of universal suffrage and the notion of democracy) and that's why they would rather carry out the day-to-day running of our lives in secret whilst we lap eagerly at the slick of excrement seeping from the cathode ray tube. And we're happy to comply, aren't we? Otherwise we'd do something about it.

Mr Marr (his incomparably indolent interview with Tony Blair earlier this year was as close as we'll come to seeing a 'rusty trombone'* executed on UK terrestrial television) has helped me connect with my inner Hulk and for that gift I thank him.

Have a brilliant Christmas and I hope 2011 brings you everything you've ever wished for.

Be easy

b-b-b-Bx

* 'Rusty trombone' - "a euphemism for a sexual act involving a man in a standing position with knees and back slightly bent, with feet at least shoulder width apart in order to expose the anus. The other partner typically is on his or her knees behind the man and performs anilingus while reaching up beneath the testicles or around the body to masturbate the man, mimicking the motions of a trombone player."