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No, not her...

No, not her…

On Tuesday, April 8th 2013 I had a sudden panic. I got that gut feeling that someone was missing. A void was appearing in my life. I flicked through the channels on my television and every one was confirming the same terrible, shocking absence… Where the hell was Emeli Sandé?

Ignoring what I’m sure many will view as a slightly tasteless start to this article (shamelessly looking to profiteer in the form of hits from the roaming hoards of Scousers and angsty lefties who seem to be scouring the internet searching for anything relating to Margaret Thatcher’s demise so they can pour their rabid bile onto the comments section) I was left perplexed by her absence from my screen.

This was a person who I had come to view as a rock of my very existence. Wherever you turned for the last 12 months, there was her oddly-coiffured face grinning back at you.

Have you seen this woman?

Have you seen this woman?

During the Olympics, you could have been forgiven for thinking that she had won as many medals as Usain Bolt and Michael Phelps combined, so omnipresent was she. Since singing the same song about 15 times per ceremony over the summer, she has failed to leave our screens, selling everything from thingamejiggy to, erm, whatever that product was in a series of fairly nauseating adverts that would honestly make you believe she was the most successful female artist of all time.

All of this from a person who I, as someone who is fairly into their music, know as “that girl who sang the chorus in that song by that poor-man’s-Plan B bloke who’s nailing Millie from Made In Chelsea”. Which isn’t exactly fame in any conventional sense of the word. OK, maybe I’m being harsh. She has also done a song that sounds a bit like a Florence and the Machine B-side, although I only know this because it’s played in one of her plethora of adverts.

It wouldn’t surprise me if she didn’t exist, if she was revealed to be a music industry in-joke. You know, a couple of big-wigs had a boozy lunch and decided that, in the name of ironic humour, they would invent someone and see how staggeringly famous they could make her through exposure and exposure alone. A bit like James Corden or Tracy Emin.

I’m not sure how the whole thing started, but it was probably along the lines of this:

Setting: A trendy west-end restaurant…

“The X Factor is getting a bit tired, besides since the whole phone voting scandal, we don’t actually get to choose the sort of pop star we want.”

“Yeah, look what happens when those idiots get to choose a winner. I mean, who the hell is going to buy anything by Joe McElderry or Matt Cardle.”

“I’ve got it, let’s find an out-of-work actress with a reasonable voice and make everyone believe that they must love her.”

“Perfect. There’s someone who busks outside Ikea with a fairly punchable face. Let’s give her an absurd hairdo and flog her like a dead horse.”

“Brilliant. Are there any big events coming up?”

“Only the Olympics…”

“Bingo. Waiter! More Cristal please!”

Or something like that.



But back to my personal tragedy. In the words of Henry Higgins, I had become accustomed to her look. Accustomed to her voice. Accustomed to her face. Her bizarre disappearance since Tuesday has left me worried. Is she alright?

For god’s sake, advertising executives, I beg you. It has been over two days since I saw her on my television and I am concerned. Please bring her back soon.

I’m sure you will. But until then I will not sleep a wink.

By Harry Harland