I was the tender age of twelve when Kaiser Chiefs released their debut album, Employment, and, for reasons I can't be sure of, I remember it well. After slipping the Franz Ferdinand disc (it was a golden twelve months for British music, alright?) from my Walkman, Ricky Wilson and co. proceeded to blow my achingly naïve mind by unleashing numbingly limp riffs and churning out unfathomable lyrics, inexplicably rhyming "lairy" with "thee" on indie pop stonker, 'I Predict A Riot', for example.

The trouble is, that, despite only being twelve and suffering from a severe lack of musical inexperience, I was more than aware that, yes, Kaiser Chiefs were fucking terrible. I knew that eight years ago. We all knew that.

Clearly, the bosses of The Voice, the X Factor with slightly more expensive furniture, are part of the alarming minority in 2013 that disagree, and have promptly signed up Wilson for the imminent third series, thus, I assume, enabling the Chiefs to scrape enough pennies together to shit out another LP in the near future.

He's not providing the catering or building the set, either. Oh no. Alongside Sir Tom Jones, Will.i.am and Kylie Minogue, Ricky will be a judge, charged with actually judging hopefuls on their musical prowess. I couldn't help but feel a little insulted if the guy who proudly boasts 'Ruby' in his band's back catalogue took it upon himself to crush my dreams under the gaze of a million or two on national television.

Of course, since Danny O'Donoghue (the bloke who bolsters The Script with his affinity for dodgy waistcoasts and rosary beards) announced his departure, viewers, quite understandably, wondered where the show's raw edge would spit from. "Who would fly the flag for the alternative folks", they raged. Well, panic no more, as Ricky Wilson's here, tambourine in hand, an arsenal of controversial statements prepared to drip from his rock'n'roll stained soul.

You can see what they're trying to do. These bosses, bless 'em, have a warped sense of what is significant; they believe that, because Wilson jumps up and down on stage a bit, he's cool. He isn't. They believe that, because he stands on an amp occasionally, he's a rock star. He isn't. They believe that, because he champions a band that is primarily guitar-driven, he must be relevant. With his slicked haircut and denim jacket, the kids must surely worship him. Aside from a chunk of the Reading & Leeds demographic, I'm afraid that no, they don't. I'm not sure that they ever did.

"Ricky is one of the UK music scene's great frontmen," the BBC's Entertainment Commissioning Controller Mark Linsey bleated in an earlier statement, and after suppressing a fit of giggles, you do wonder whether, if he says it enough, a handful of viewers may believe it. For the majority of us, however, we know that Wilson has been drafted in to represent the alternative crowd and the once thriving British guitar landscape, a notion that will, at the very least, nark more than a few and insult the rest.

Redeem yourself, Ricky. Bring the operation down from the inside and all is forgiven. Yes, even 'Never Miss A Beat'.

You can find Lee on Twitter: @NotLeeWakefield