1. She is a freak. She pulls ugly faces and talks like she’s on drugs. She has all the hormonal world-challenging coke-high of being a teen, but none of the sweaty self-consciousness. Her ugly facial expressions reveal an inner landscape of earthquakes, cyclones and floods, with a population of personas drowning and surviving as each disaster passes over it.
2. She is selfish and egostistical and lacks a conscience. She is a bitch and a diva. She would be a shit friend. But that is what we want from a superstar- everything about them should be antithetical to normal life.
3. She’s a psycho who would beat the shit out of you any given Friday night, but luckily her ferocious chav-complex gets channeled into a pop star persona that makes the walls shake. She has the solidity of a Platonic form, next which worldy objects, like Simon Cowell’s hair, are but wisps in the wind. When she appears on stage, space and time bend under her weight, and the moon and sun move that bit closer.
4. She swaggers and pouts on the stage not a like a plugged in sex doll (yes you, The Saturdays), but like a feral child of indeterminate sex, who feeds on the heightened emotions of her audience. She devours our empathic fear (what must it be like to be on that stage?), and binges on our vicarious vanity, drinking deep from the adrenaline we leak from every pore. In return, we get an in vitro transfusion of pure transcendental POP.
5. She is an automaton, an alchemical genie that takes on a solid form far more durable than her lamp-holder’s (the public) shaky-handed mortality. She is post-human, not because she has machine-parts, but because in a sense, she is a machine. She has been made in the X Factory, and while the other products (One Direction, I’ll see you in the Bargain Bins of 2011) perish as they reach sunlight, the Cher Lloyd™ is eternal..
6. She is God- and we have invented her to fill the hole left by Jacko- that peter pan figure who made impossible dreams come true, all the while generating nightmares that incrementally destroys the world from the inside out. Forget dubious Descartes, she offers the true proof of existence: I get goosebumps from Cher Lloyd, therefore I am. Like God, true celebrities are proof that we exist because they represent beings more wonderful and awesome than our imaginations could ever come up with.
7. She has an old soul. If the vampire in Let the Right One In could sing, she would sound the same. A life of pain and over-analysis is fossilized into an eternal well of molten anti-matter, spewing from her Superdrug-glossed lips.
8. She is as common as muck, and every Guardian reader who encounters her will be sickened by her unapologetic vulgarity. You couldn’t take her home to your mother, unless your mother was a scary gyppo. While they are placated by Katie Weissel’s pseudo-aristocracy, Rebecca’s aspirational poise, and Matt Cardle’s fake humbleness, Cher offers no such comforting veneer of class.