[cub]

Brilliant!

"The mask has been removed," said Katie Waissel. She was trying to atone for the silly get-ups that had made her a fixture in the bottom two with a stripped-back new look, previewed last week but emphasised now.

So what happened when we got used to the real Katie? It was voted off. The elfin haircut accentuated her Windsor ears and cement-trowel chin, but the problem was that, like most people who try on a series of annoying personas, Katie did so because her inner self was less attractive.

It was the end of a sad and moderately sinister saga. Having consistently denied Katie's manifest lack of puff for the sake of some tawdry headlines, Simon Cowell claimed her desperately befuddled mangling of Everybody Hurts would have been "fantastic" if only it had been more than two minutes long.

In reality, if the gulping and wailing had gone on for even another 20 seconds, there'd have been a danger of some viewers doing exactly what the lyrics advise against, and topping themselves to escape the torture.

Previously, poor Katie - alone on stage, with not so much as a dayglo astronaut's helmet to distract us - had made a half-hearted stab at Sex on Fire by Kings of Leon. It was neither sexy nor fiery. Erotic warmth was provided, surprisingly, by Rebecca Ferguson.

Normally, weird over-styling and her natural diffidence make Rebecca rigidly unsexy, despite her looks. It was business as usual for her first song in Rock Week - a clipperty-clopperty, Lighthouse Family muzak version of I Still Haven't Found What I'm Looking For, sung apologetically with everything clenched in a leopard-print truss.

Then suddenly, for song two there was a sparkling black minidress, a glint in the eyes and a pelvic wiggle all the more arresting for being barely discernible. Rebecca's Aretha inflections on Satisfaction ("About some yooseless! IN-formation…") were so spot-on, even the judges made the correct comparison, rather than being reminded of Sade/Whoopi Goldberg/Steven Gerrard/whoever.

However, still nobody has had a word about Rebecca's habit of nodding calmly in response to absolutely any comments. "You are a star! I love you!" (Calm nodding.) "You have the best voice in the competition!" (Calm nodding.) "Everyone you know has died in an earthquake, and your hair is on fire!" (Calm nodding.)

Similarly, Matt Cardle's elastic interpretation of Nights in White Satin was the moment when he emerged as the sure series winner, but his stock response to praise - a wobbly, hand-kissing prayer gesture, like someone mocking an Indian waiter - is unacceptable.

For this reason, we must vote for Cher Lloyd. Good as her songs were - bumptious, shouty pop-rap, in straggly gypsy/chav chic - the highlight of the weekend was her look of polite contempt as Dannii Minogue wittered about a problem with the sound mix.

No chance of Cher having to do another sing-off: Wagner effectively voted himself out by going serious. Even hardcore Wagnerians couldn't cope with the sight of his staring eyes and square jowls filling the whole screen as his face shuddered with the effort of Creep by Radiohead.

Mary Byrne suffered the indignity of a sing-off against Wagner. Everyone voted Waggy for eviction. While he excitedly celebrated this 4-0 victory, Mary looked uncomfortable: embarrassed even to be taking part in such a formality, yet aware that - now the weirdos have all gone - she's next.