STEVEN HALLMARK

ONCE upon a time Janet Jackson (she had a last name then) sold her records on a mixture of carefully polished pop talent and the fact that she was Skeletor's little sister.

As the years have passed, brighter and shinier popstrels have emerged and Janet has failed to make the move to dignified diva.

And, with the Jackson name becoming more associated with some, erm, unsavoury allegations, she can't use that as a selling point.

She has, instead, resorted to exposing herself at sporting occasions to raise her profile.

Unfortunately there wasn't a Witton Albion defender around at the Superbowl to give her a boot up the backside - and land a sneaky elbow on Justin Timberlake's nose for good measure.

You wonder why she doesn't rely on her musical talents - until you listen to this album.

Frankly, it's rubbish.

It's a terrible attempt to sex up a woman with the allure and vocal strength of Minnie Mouse.

There are feeble efforts at sexy R&B tunes that fall flat - interspersed with sick-making little spoken word insights into Janet's 'character'. I have socks with more charisma than this woman.