Chloe Jasmine
Chloe-Jasmine Whichello won over the judges despite the spurious allegations made by her exITV

If there's one thing Britain loves, it's an underdog. And there's nothing that taps into this culture more than The X Factor, that Saturday night celebration of vocal talent and consumer capitalism.

Working class heroes drag themselves on stage in front of a squealing crowd, with a bucket load of talent and woe-is-me backstory slurry to hurl into the hungry mob's studio pen. Gobble the sorrow, snaffle the songs.

My job is tasting poultry rectums in Iceland's chicken nugget factory, but I want to sell records and buy a watch worth more than my entire housing estate. I eat manky grout to survive and my parents are dead, but they live on through my larynx. That sort of thing.

But can posh people be underdogs? Can someone who went to an elite private school, with no known tale of tragedy, lure enough public support to win The X Factor, the ultimate rags-to-riches processing plant?

It's the task Chloe-Jasmine Whichello has set herself. To subvert the inherent class prejudice – both upwards and downwards – upon which British society has been built.

Her accent sounds as though she has a double-digit number in the British throne's waiting list. Lower down than Zara Tindall, but higher up than Prince Michael of Kent. The sort of person who has land and spends seasons in different places. Where are you summering this year, darling? The Tuscan hills, of course!

And this smoothness of English seeps through into her melted milk chocolate singing voice, which has a unique jazzy depth that singles her out from the others. She has talent, there's no doubting that. But she also sounds like she has a trust fund. Money buys you most things, but definitely not an X Factor crown.

Bounding on stage and belching "ay up ducks, y'alright" before transforming into Aretha Franklin's long lost Lancastrian cousin and pumping out pitch-perfect Motown is what people want. Humble northern authenticity married to raw talent.

Starting a sentence with the third-person singular pronoun "one" isn't particularly endearing. It's stuffy, archaic and associated with the prim snobbishness of a Penelope Keith character.

"One is constantly on the go," Whichello, who is also a model, told The Telegraph in an interview.

One may be constantly on the go, but one does not sound sincere when one speaks with such linguistic pretence. And some have already doubted her sincerity after it emerged she had already auditioned for The X Factor in 2006 without a posh accent. Her mum defended her in the press to insist she is, in fact, posh as a golden corgi.

How the public reacts will be something of a litmus test for class-obsessed British society. Can us the Great Unwashed, us plebs who drink Pot Noodles and eat desserts with soup spoons, get over our own historic and instinctive dislike of sub-Royal Family aristocrats? We've already managed to embrace Made In Chelsea, the landed gentry's answer to TOWIE.

Can we let someone win The X Factor on merit and merit alone, even if they are a posho?