In an exciting new development, The Voice proudly presents the Battle Rounds… AND the spinning chairs. Together at last.

So what’s the point of the swivelling seats? Answer: unable to see the warbling wannabes, the four judges of the apocalypse have to make their decisions on sound alone. Five series in, the novelty’s wearing thin… but it’s still an intriguing proposition.

That’s why the blind auditions drag on for eight long weeks. Because they’re the only bit of the laborious process people want to watch.

Now, in a desperate bid to stop the punters deserting the sinking ship, the Beeb’s panicking producers have introduced the un-blind auditions where the chairs spin for no apparent reason. Just for the sake of it. Like a pointless merry-go-round.

It’s not as if the bizarre “battles” aren’t ludicrous enough already. Pub singers two-by-two screaming into each other’s faces in a boxing ring. No one knows why.

Whoever loses (ie. the older fatter one) becomes “available for a steal”. As if they’re a second hand car. Lovely little runner… she’s a steal. Kicks tyres.

At this point three of the prattling panellists turn their backs on a person they know everything about – name, age, appearance etc. – and we wait with bated breath to find out if any of them will turn again. What’s the point of the swivelling seats this time? Answer: there isn’t one.

Anyway, back to the Beeb’s sizzling search for a star (total tally of stars discovered so far: zero) and over two endless hours we endured “Boy” George, Ricky Wilson and the gang wildly overpraising a life-sapping parade of relentless mediocrity.

The bemused contestants were allotted between seven and ten minutes to stand by a piano with their condescending coach and then traipse into the ring to try and outperform their rival in a duet to the death. After the 11th repetition of this stupefying ritual I was busy looking up the number for Dignitas.

Labouring under the delusion she’s a comic genius, Frank Spencer sound-alike Paloma Faith ruined the mission statement by soppily objecting to the word “battle” and obsessively reminding us she’s a pacifist. Every 14 seconds. Paloma… we don’t care.

“What I lack in talent I make up for in banter,” she insisted. Dunno about your talent Ms F. But your banter sucks. No wonder ITV doesn't want her.

Anyway, in fairness, Cody versus Heather’s rousing rendition of Sinead O’Conner’s Nothing Compares 2 U bordered on listenable. And transgender Jordan (rejected, mysteriously reinstated and now PC favourite to win) and Theo’s version of Kate Bush’s This Woman’s Work was pretty damned good.

So it wasn’t all bad. Unlike Will.i.am.a.jerk’s lamentable command of the English language. This waffling oddball talks total gibberish. And he’s off: “For Scott and Vicki to win, the cow has to jump over the moon, the little dog has to laugh to see such sport and the little fish has to run away with the spoon.” Thanks Will, don’t call us…

And as for the rest of feeble four, why did they keep crying? Tears of boredom? Or was that just me? Hate to break it to you guys… but you’re presiding over the uncoolest show in town. Mum songs, dad dancing, dead relative sob stories... it’s middle-of-the-road BBC through and through. Even The X Factor’s hipper than this. And I can’t say worse than that.

In one of her rare appearances, ghost host Emma Willis told homesick Harry: “You’ve got the best grin on your face. And a twinkle in your eye.” And a ring in your nose.

But take it away original thinker Paloma: “Dwayne made it his own and really owned that song.” No doubt he nailed it too. At least they’re not resorting to clichés.