Simon Cowell has become the bane of contemporary television and music. This socialite’s offspring has left a decade of god-awful television and pop music in his wake, and like most descendants of wealth, he was given his first job by his father, regardless of suitability. From this position in the music business he has carved a niche for himself in the arse-end of the pop music by creating disposable aural diarrhoea. This critic of mentally-ill, queue-loving psychopaths has for some reason been given the responsibility of trying to find the next Michael Jackson or Prince but has to date only found Matt Cardle and Shayne Ward.
Responsible for two of the most ironic titles in TV history; “X-Factor” and “Pop Idol” should be revoked under the Trade Descriptions Act for never finding a performer with either qualifying attribute. Yet year after year this pudgy-chested pundit responsible for Sinitta, Five, and Robson & Jerome has the gall to sort the talent from the talentless. Sounding like a gay Ian Hislop with a ridonkulous wardrobe and “Just For Men” hairstyle, he annually plays judge in his makeshift throne like a toddler in a high-chair demanding the jester to entertain him in his trans-continental quest for audio landfill.
Living his life like Bill Murray’s character in Scrooged, he started his showbiz career dressed as a dog on a kid’s TV show and slowly began to climb the brown-nosed corporate-ladder of entertainment until he eventually became a sad TV executive. And thanks to his hijacking of the UK Charts and his takeover of prime time TV, he has spoilt countless Christmases. Unlike Scrooged however, there is yet to be a happy ending in which he denounces his bullshit-peddling ways and seeks redemption.
The Ghost of Christmas Yet To Come desperately needs to visit this talentless self-styled talent judge and make Simon cower.