Why are Hollywood movies so long these days? I haven't yet seen a film at the cinema this year that had a duration of less than two hours. Don't get me wrong, some films deserve the 'epic' treatment: a film like Zodiac, as punishing to the posterior as it was, wouldn't have worked any other way.

But why did Diehard 4.0 have to be two and a half hours long? Why does Transformers have to be three years long? Both films have simplistic plots that provide far-fetched excuses for a lot explosions. Why not just tighten it all up a bit and make the film run to a hundred minutes? Chop out all the extraneous 'comedy' scenes, the parts where characters finally express their love for one another.

Transformers isn't a terrible film. The robots, for the most part, look great – detailed, well animated and nicely designed (apart from Soundwave, who I thought was rubbish - too much like one of the Gremlins).

The acting's mostly serviceable - the humans do their job well enough, and some of the comic scenes are quite well performed. Only John Turturro, a normally great actor, grates with a ridiculously over-the-top turn as a wild-eyed 'man in black'.

The plot is completely mental - the Transformers are basically fighting over a pair of Victorian glasses - and the film makers don't bring out Megatron until the end of the film - a big mistake, I felt.

The most frustrating aspect of the film was the choice of camera work - someone had the bright idea of shooting all the action scenes in a juddery 'Saving Private Ryan' style, which means you can't tell who's hitting who most of the time, and if you're like me, you get terrible eye-strain.

Before the film came out, a lot of hardcore fans moaned about the alterations to the robots' designs - Bumblebee is no longer a VW Beetle, Megatron isn't a gun, and so on - but this isn't really what spoils the movie.

It's the leaden pace - and the mind numbing duration - that prevent Transformers from being a really great piece of popcorn entertainment.

Dark lord of evil Simon Cowell and his cackling sidekick have returned for another prolonged belly laugh at Britain's proletariat. That's Saturday night television all wrapped up until Christmas.

In an effort to 'freshen up' the now four-year-old show, Simon Cowell has made a few changes. The massively insincere Kate Thornton has been replaced by everyone's favourite bullying PE teacher Dermot O'Leary. Danni Minogue makes an unexpected appearance, but doesn't seem to do anything – she simply stares, her face static and waxen, like the corpse out of Weekend at Bernie's. That Irish chap who always got water poured over his head was sacked, only to be reinstated twenty minutes into the programme.

For all the personnel changes, the basic format is the same – a tightly, cunningly edited montage of deluded old women shrieking, and lithe youngsters who sing with rather too much enthusiasm. The latter almost always get chosen - especially if the lithe youngster has been recently bereaved. 'I'm singing this for my father in law's cousin's best friend.' It's the same every year.

Of course, I don't have to watch it – there are plenty of other channels – but, as I stretched myself out on the sofa last night for a sedentary few hours of Pringles and alcohol, I knew that I was helpless to resist. I don't know what it is about the X Factor that keeps me watching year after year; is it the masochistic side of me that enjoys watching younger, more handsome people than myself sing to a panel of dead-eyed judges? Is it because the appalling choice of songs (horrible ballads usually, like 'Wind Beneath my Wings' and 'I Believe I can Fly') make me feel all superior about my own taste in music? Is it because I get a perverse enjoyment from watching as people's hopes and dreams are shattered with a single twitch of Sharon Osbourne's demonic eyebrows? Or is it because I secretly enjoy leering at Simon Cowell's ample, ample bossoms? If I was being truly honest with myself, it's all of the above. I feel guilt, I feel shame. I promise to myself that I won't watch anymore. But then it's Saturday again, and Simon Cowell appears on the screen in a tight top, beckoning wickedly...

Easyjet. I always wondered what an airline company would be like if it was run by the Chuckle Brothers. From the horrible children's tv-style logo on the planes to the frankly bizarre queuing system (which cleverly manages to create an atmosphere of panic and hysteria), Easyjet managed to ensure that a simple one-hour flight passed as slowly and uncomfortably as possible.

Anyway, Frankie Boyle: Hilarious. Anyone who watches Mock the Week on BBC2 will know roughly what to expect – his live show is the same, only more so; sharp, cutting and occasionally quite brutal comedy. His remarks about Lewis Hamilton and Duncan Bannatyne are unrepeatable here; his style of humour is iconoclastic and intentionally provocative – he appears to genuinely relish the gasps and winces his jokes induce from the audience. His gleeful, mischievous chuckles between gags often made me laugh as much as the jokes themselves.

It's also worth pointing out that tickets to see Frankie Boyle were a third cheaper than the overblown (both physically and culturally) Ricky Gervais. A bargain – and Frankie's easily three times funnier than Ricky Gervais too.