Sharon Osbourne returned to the UK to be an X Factor judge, confirmation apparently coming when a deserted ship, the long-dead skipper lashed to the wheel and the hold containing just a single chest freezer, bumped eerily into a jetty at Southampton. Her return means that Sharon and Ozzy Osbourne are living apart. They’ve stayed together through thick and thin – or Jack and Kelly, as they’re otherwise known.
They wanted to inject something new into the show so they’ve brought back Sharon – who, of course, has had so many new things injected into her you could bounce a coin off her face. Sharon’s set to do X Factor mentoring by Skype. Is Skyping right for an X Factor judge? Maybe I’m tiring of the show but the way I’d most like to see them giving advice is via an Ouija board. Contestants mustn’t worry, as they can ask Simon’s advice at any point, just by writing their question in urine dribbled from an upturned crucifix, then throwing it into the fire. The great thing about Sharon is that she speaks her mind – it’s just a pity that her mind appears to be haunted by the soul of an angry dockworker. Personally, I’ve missed Sharon’s little words of wisdom – to make up for it I’ve had to spike my nan’s tea with meths. I was sad that Tulisa’s been given the heave-ho. I liked Tulisa on there – with her boobs and hairy Greek arms you could squint and imagine Simon was still there.
Simon says he’s a workaholic; judging by his face, so’s his plastic surgeon. Simon looks like he’s had the Botox applied by someone whose only qualification is a three-week upholstery course they took in prison. On the plus side for Simon, at least his hair’s no longer the weirdest looking thing on his head.
What about that Simon Cowell biography by Tom Bower? It described the life of a tortured genius. Perhaps a slight overstatement, though I’d do anything to make that phrase just half true. He’s had so many affairs! Simon managed to keep them secret by only ever having sex with all these women in the privacy of his publicist’s imagination. The author had access to Simon’s entire inner circle – mainly soft toys who’ve attained a level of higher trust by having their button eyes removed. The book costs £18.99. Though if you sent me £9.99 I’ll gladly send you my summary in an old Pringles tube.
Simon wasn’t available for further comment. He’s believed to be in an aircraft hanger full of tenners somewhere, a leaf blower in each hand, gleefully shrieking beyond the audible human spectrum. And in a desperate search for scandal, hidden cameras have been installed in all the X Factor backstage rooms. This shit running for eight years isn’t considered scandal enough.
It seems that Simon was ‘feeling very low’ over the rev-elations about his private life, according to a press release to promote the revelations about his private life. A lot of girls Simon has slept with are coming out of the woodwork. Well, from the look of them they’re coming out of the waxworks. I don’t believe it he did it eleven times in one night – glamour model Alicia Douvall just doesn’t look like that sort of woman, the type that can count. I’ll bet Simon can, if the guy is hot enough. I’m joking – I really mean, if the guys are hot enough. I’m joking – I really mean, if they guys are paid enough. I’m joking – I really mean, if the guys are finished in the recording studio. Only kidding. Simon’s said he doesn’t care if people think he’s gay as it’s nothing to be ashamed of. Not true, Simon. If it turned out you were gay the homo-sexual community would be extremely ashamed.
Yes, in Bower’s book the cat is out of the bag. Simon’s a tiger in the sack. He’s ruined more springs than a Scottish weatherman. The book says he tried to shag Cheryl, but she told him she didn’t want to spoil the happiness she’d found. She was dying of malaria at the time. These endless stories about Simon being unlucky in love are his best chance of looking human since he stopped living with a professional make-up artist. You can’t make Simon seem human! I’ve got more chance of sympathising with a dry-stone wall that falls on a toddler.
Simon’s been likened to a Roman emperor – how times have changed. While Nero had the power to end a gladiator’s life, Simon orders the mentally challenged to sing ‘Mama Do the Hump’ while their leggings sag around their arse. Dannii Minogue had an affair with Simon. Now we know why she spells her first name that way; she wants to distance herself as much as possible from the reality of who she is. He said, ‘It was her sexy clothes and tits – it was genuine love.’ Remind me, in which of Shakespeare’s love sonnets does he compliment a lady’s clothes and tits again?
No wonder Dannii went from Simon to a rugby player. Once she’d bought the strap-on, she may as well use up its warranty. Dannii went to Twitter to ask for privacy, displaying the same logic as when she turned to Simon for love. Resorting to Twitter to ask for privacy is a bit like asking a zombie horde for a vegetarian gravy recipe. It’s said Simon liked to treat the female judges like ‘toys’ – presumably, then, Dannii was a doll who’s face has been repaired and Sharon was one that was used too much by rough kids then left in a carrier bag out the front of Oxfam.
Simon’s got a woman – Lauren Silverman – pregnant. It seems the conception was touch and go, Lauren almost regaining consciousness halfway through as she’d only eaten half the chocolate mousse. Simon claims he never wanted children. Which, to be honest, is probably the best thing to say when you’re in the music industry and Operation Yewtree are buzzing about. It’s the age-old story – millionaire flat-topped androgyne impregnates property mogul’s wife on ocean-going yacht. The woman’s husband must be gutted – after all, he only invited Simon on holiday so he could use his man-tits as a travel pillow. It’s Sinitta who I feel sorry for – if she doesn’t play nice with the new baby she’ll be put in a cattery.
I think he’ll be a good dad – surely there’s no way he’s able to sleep at night anyway. He likes the idea of being a dad. Of course he does. Who doesn’t like the idea of being a dad? Even women like the idea of being a dad. Never having to do the night feeds. Taking a week off work and then never really having to spend any time with the kid until it’s seven. Being a dad is great.
Except, of course, when it isn’t. When all you want is to be as far away from your offspring as possible. That’s why they’re called ‘offspring’, because most of the time you’d like to go off without your children and come back sometime around spring.
Then again, Simon has the money to make it work. As dads, which one of us hasn’t at some point wanted to turn our backs on the kid and climb into a helicopter, and, as it hovers above our home with a bearing set for the south of France, shower the nannies with £20 notes while shouting over the noise of the rotors, ‘Good luck, Consuela; the little fucker’s your problem – see you next spring’?
Simon hasn’t the patience to sit through fifteen seconds of a ventriloquist’s act. How’s he ever going to deal with a toddler saying ‘toast’ repeatedly for four hours? People in Simon’s circle said the pregnancy seemed very out of character. Which is an understated way of saying, ‘HOLY SHITBALLS! THIS AIN’T RIGHT! THE GUY’S MORE BENT THAN THE ZIMBABWEAN ELECTIONS!!’
• • •
I always wonder why, on Britain’s Got Talent, they cut back to Amanda Holden for reactions? Her face doesn’t fucking move! They might as well cut to V for Vendetta, or that crystal skull Arthur C. Clarke was always banging on about. I honestly don’t know if there’s more poison in Simon’s heart or Holden’s forehead. The reason Amanda Holden gets so many Botox jabs into her forehead is to prevent all the worry lines that would result from trying to work out how shagging Les Dennis fifteen years ago qualifies her to judge a talent contest. If Holden cries any more then I’m worried the salt water will warp whatever it is her face is made out of. Mind you, Simon’s face now looks puffier than the Puffa jacket that Puff Daddy would wear on a puffin-watching trip.
Half a million pounds for the winner – Britain’s Got Talent is the only place left in the country where the mentally disabled actually get some money. This year they opened the series in the contestants’ houses to explain why they’re auditioning. How are they going to t
op that next year? Go back one step further and explain it by showing the contestants’ mothers downing vodka in pregnancy? It must be a weird job for David Walliams, slowly realising that every character he’s created has been surprisingly sane and realistic.
After a fourteen-year-old boy with cerebral palsy did a stand-up routine, Alesha Dixon said, ‘You were great. You made me laugh before the act even started.’ Good one, Alesha – and people said you were just a face on a stick.
Saudi Arabia’s version of the show, Buraydah’s Got Talent, isn’t going to allow singing, dancing or women. It sounds restrictive, but technically Subo could still have won it. I can’t wait for the Saudi Simon Cowell – a controlling, power-hungry man with a dislike of women.
Thailand’s Got Talent went the other way and shocked viewers with a contestant who paints using her breasts, something I’ve tried with my partner to spice things up in the bedroom. Way more trouble than it was worth, so we switched to rollers for the lounge. It’s double standards. This woman paints with her tits and gets worldwide recognition, yet when Susan Boyle does it she gets tasered outside her local chip shop and charged with graffiti.
I was sad that ITV and the BBC decided to schedule The Voice and Britain’s Got Talent against each other, because I was worried that I might finally run out of hate. I suppose it’s not a big deal because we’ve all got hard-disc recorders now. If they’re both on at the same time you can just watch something good you taped earlier that week.
If it weren’t for The Voice then judges like Danny Wotsit would be nobodies today. It’s the show where the judges turn their backs on the contestants. A bit like The X Factor a week or two after the final. If they want music-industry realism surely they should have it so contestants perform with the judges only being able to see the top of their heads.
Not being able to see contestants is an interesting format tweak. If they can just eliminate the other four senses, too, they’ll have really nailed it. Not looking directly at contestants is hardly original. Even now when Simon has a meeting with Susan Boyle I hear he reverses up to her using the reflection in the back of his highly polished shield.
People get snobby about watching The Voice and say, ‘Oh, I want to see REAL singers.’ Go out, then! Go out! You’re watching a reality show where the judges have been picked purely on their ability to grunt in slightly different ways. Danny O’Donoghue said he needed coaching to stop himself swearing on the show. I just have one thing to say about that. Who the fuck’s Danny O’Donoghue? Whoever he is, he has a brutal 80s flat-top. Like Skynet built a special Terminator to infiltrate Cork’s gay community. I think there should be another celebrity on the back of the chair and the chair should keep spinning really fast, so they kind of strobe into a single entity. What a thrill for contestants to have their career ended by a hybrid of Christina Aguilera and Mr. T, who has never even seen their face.
Jessie J looks like someone has pitched the elixir of youth on Dragons’ Den and didn’t mention it had side effects. Bless Jessie for getting her head shaved for charity; but she’s afflicted with a bit of a man-face – she now looks like Action Man has moulted. I believe her when she says it’s ‘not about the money’, so she must be a judge on The Voice because she genuinely hates music. But it does need that Susan Boyle moment, doesn’t it? Someone hitting a note so high that the rest of will.i.am’s hair pops out of his head.
Viewing figures for The Voice started high and then dwindled after they stopped the spinning chairs. To combat this, next series they’re going to keep Jessie J in a centrifuge machine like an inarticulate tranny kaleidoscope. Of course, being on The Voice did wonders for the career of its first winner, Leanne Mitchell – mainly because she now works in MFI as a revolving-chair saleswoman.
I don’t need to watch people recruiting young women on to a ‘team’ without having seen their real faces – that’s just an evening on Twitter for me. Viewers liked it when the judges couldn’t see the acts, so they’re going to speed through the singing and finish the series with a close-up of Tom’s cataracts slowly taking hold. Tom rarely gets all of his favourite singers on his team, as he kept accidentally pressing the large red button on his emergency necklace.
The ‘battle’ round is always very exciting. Last year I watched a fat bloke in a Hawaiian shirt scream ‘Sign, Sealed, Delivered I’m Yours’ into a middle-aged dinner-lady’s face and I’ve never felt more alive.
• • •
The BBC had high hopes that The Voice would put it back on the map in the face of ITV’s dominance of the reality TV space. But for the BBC to flourish it needs its biggest supporters to get behind it. Maybe it’s time to accept we’ll just have to sell it to a group of wealthy paedophiles. Yes, it’s radical, but they’d only have to paint over the bottom bit of that first ‘B’. Toilet signs were among hundreds of items pilfered by souvenir hunters after BBC TV Centre’s final broadcast, as people filled their houses with objects covered in paedo DNA.
Vernon Kaye was escorted out of the BBC when security caught him trying to steal a dressing-room sign. At least, that’s the reason they gave him. You didn’t need that sign, Vernon, you’ve been stealing from the BBC your whole career. I took a lifesize model of George Alagiah, which I keep in my wardrobe. But it’s started to make knocking and sobbing noises so I might have to chuck it out.
George Entwistle resigned as director general. He’d only been in the job for fifty-four days. To be fair, I’ve been in jobs longer than that and still not known where the toilets are. It must have been an awkward leaving do to arrange. I don’t think they do cakes in Patisserie Valerie that say, ‘Sorry, you got the paedophile wrong.’ Trust has been lost in the BBC now. To be honest, I thought that it was lost after the first series of The One Show.
The BBC’s sloppiness reflects badly on all journalists. Not least tabloid ones, as when trawling the internet for stories they often end up copying and pasting from bbc.co.uk.
Tell you who you don’t hear much from lately – that woman who insisted she was the illegitimate child of Jimmy Savile. It seems that almost every day for a couple of years a new, well-known face is unveiled in the relentless Advent calendar of sexual abuse. I, for one, look forward to the mass trial of Britain’s celebrities at some paedophile Nuremberg. Honestly, the way things are going, I wouldn’t be surprised if I heard that Dave Benson Phillips used to wank into the gunge tank. I was never into the celebrity paedo parties. I’d stand in the corner and simulate the experience by having Jeremy Beadle give me a handjob. Once, Mike Reid gave me a Reacharound.
When I heard Rolf Harris had been arrested I thought it was for his performance at the Royal Jubilee. If Rolf goes on trial then at least the courtroom artist won’t feel under any pressure to do a good job. They’ll probably find it hard to resist drawing him with the body of a kangaroo.
The owner of the first time-machine will have a moral dilemma about whether to kill Hitler or bomb the 1988 Royal Variety Performance. It seems when it comes to TV, the author L. P. Hartley was right: the past is a foreign country. Paedoslovakia. Ironically, the only non-paedophile on telly in the 80s was Ian Krankie. Perhaps evidence will emerge that Britain itself is a paedophilic landmass and when we’re all drunk at Christmas, it rams Anglesey up Ireland’s arse.
Footage emerged of Savile defending Gary Glitter. So, he might have been a predatory paedophile but at least he wasn’t a hypocrite. The pair actually invented the platform shoe together, purely as a way of seeing children who were slightly further away.
For those conspiracy theorists who say these scandals will one day be shown to involve our politicians, well, who knows? They kill kids, so there’s no reason to think that they wouldn’t be fucking them. There are quite feasibly politicians alive today who took to fucking kids just to try to give themselves the stomach required for the real business of government.
The Sun’s front page reported ‘Gary Glitter’s 10 hour sex quiz’. Finally, a show you could imagine Justin Lee Collins hostin
g. I have to say, Glitter didn’t do himself any favours when questioned over child sex offences by trying to bribe police with Top Trumps cards and a Kinder Egg. Officers aren’t expected to question him again for a while. As it’ll take them months to chip open his laptop with a toffee hammer. Savile’s cottage in the Highlands was vandalised. It appears that they’ve scraped off so many of the hundreds and thousands you can now see the gingerbread walls beneath. Jim Davidson said, ‘The Jimmy Savile witch hunt is going a bit silly.’ It’s not a witch hunt, Jim. Remember, witches never existed.
Jim Davidson was cleared of historic allegations that he sexually molested two women. He says he’s ‘a gentleman’ who once gave up his bed for a drunk dancer. ‘I never laid a finger on her, even though she was completely comatose and wouldn’t have had a clue what was going on.’ I always thought a gentleman ‘never tells’ but it appears that a gentleman is someone who could have raped someone but didn’t.
Davidson says he’s not a Jimmy Savile figure. True. People used to like Jimmy Savile.
Davidson was once voted Britain’s funniest man. I can understand this, as when I first heard the news of his arrest I couldn’t stop laughing. He’s previously had brushes with the law after he was banned from driving following a speeding offence. If I were the judge I’d let him keep driving. But ban him from using his seatbelt or his brakes. When he was caught by police and asked if he was the driver he said, ‘Can I nominate someone I don’t like?’ Good luck pinning three points on the entire Pakistani population of the UK. Jim, if the system really allowed us to nominate someone we didn’t like you’d currently have two and a half million points on your licence.
Scotland’s Jesus: The Only Officially Non-racist Comedian Page 9