AFTER 11 weeks The Voice finally went live and it was great to see Paloma Faith on top form as she wildly overpraised a wailing wannabe without a chance. 

“It’s brilliantly entertaining and absolutely bonkers like women,” she began, confusingly. “Like as another bonkers person to another and to another. I mean you’re self-confessed like I am so entertaining and fun I thought it was great.” Nicely put. 

To add to the unintentional comedy, prattling Paloma sounds like Frank Spencer. She’s the second worst judge. After enemy of the English language Will.i.am.a.dork, that funny little guy on the end who can’t construct cogent sentences. 

The quarter finals started on the back foot and never really recovered. Out came the mentors with a motley selection of contestants who were clearly somewhat reduced in numbers. Suddenly, Team Paloma and Team Ricky were down to two. What happened? 

Our thanks to informative host Marvin Humes for putting us in the picture: “Beth and Chloe have had to withdraw from the competition due to personal reasons.” That’s cleared that up then. What a mess. 

Seeking to restore order with a spot of light hearted banter, the unflappable Emma Willis compared Ms Faith’s red and white striped dress to a stick of rock. “I could lick you,” she said shortly before realising that live TV can be perilous. 

In a rambling epic, the viewers weren’t allowed to vote until right-on Paloma had safely put transgender Jordan through to the semis. After she was summarily rejected at the blind auditions but mysteriously brought back, the PC BBC so wants her to triumph. 

For two hours and twenty-five minutes the four gushing panellists assured every single so-so singer that they were musical geniuses destined for superstardom. As opposed to pub warblers designed for obscurity. 

It was as if they were watching a different show to the rest of us. After huge Harry’s horrible version of David Bowie’s Space Oddity, Will told him: “You could have ruined a classic.” Could have? He did. 

A random moment as schoolgirl Heather sensationally revealed: “I’m around the same kind of point with my IQ as Albert Einstein and Stephen Hawking.” Not only brilliant but modest too. 

In fairness, with her matching flower-patterned piano and dress, clever Heather delivered one of the better performances. Boy George protégé Cody was pretty good too. But there wasn’t much else to write home about. 

Along the way, we had to put up with the usual succession of beloved mums, dads and nans. Relative of the night award to Lydia Lucy’s karaoke loving granny Dotty. When she broke into song the dog ran for cover. 

And to remind us what the Beeb’s search for a nobody is all about, last year’s winner Steve McCrorie returned but no one could remember him. In the grand tradition of all The Voice’s champions, fame and fortune has eluded him. 

This is a competition that’s terrified of its own finals. They hang on to the spinning chairs for a disproportionate amount of time because it’s the only bit the punters really enjoy. When the chairs stop spinning millions stop watching. 

Anyway, can’t wait for the next round. Good luck to the eight remaining hopefuls. Let’s hope they all turn up. 

My review of The Voice is also on The Sun Online