Britain’s Got Talent on Saturday began to tell us which 40 acts were to perform again for the public vote.

And you’ll never guess which Oprah-loving, Obama-hating, probably metal bar-bending Sottish singer made it.

Give yourself ten points and a furtive crotch massage if you guessed Susan Boyle, she of The Voice, The Modesty and The Physical Characteristics Of A Balloon Rubbed On A Jumper Then Passed Over A Hairdresser’s Floor.

And Then Covered In Your Granny’s Christmas Wrapping Paper.

Okay, folks, here they are: your top 40 Britain’s Got Talent contestants. This weekend was the big night, when four-fifths of the contestants who had managed to evade Simon Cowell‘s deathsquads were told that their dreams of performing for The Queen were over, and hopefully they still remembered the prices of all the different Gregg’s pasties.

They were formed into groups for the judging: here a couple of identikit street dance troupes, there a few smartarsed stageschool kids who were dreading the parental consequences of not making it through.

And it was clear what those who hadn’t yet made it to YouTube were thinking when they saw one of the already-a-bit-famous ones:

“Score! I’m in the group with that big Scottish lady who has moustaches over her eyes.“

Or:

“Yes! There’s that Welsh bloke who walks round like a vicar in a porn shop.”

Or even:

“Oh, ballbags, it’s that old fella with nipple tassles who they put through just because he thought he was in front of a Japanese firing squad at the audition.”

Contestants were paraded in their groups – wearing the Poundshop clothes they’d originally thought looked kinda classy – before The Trinity: Cowell, Piers Morgan and Amanda Holden.

Feeling now like dirty handkerchiefs set in front of gilded napkins, they were forced to endure a painful moment of truth: Cowell’s tedious schtick of pretending to care (“I am so sorry, but you didn’t make it. Now, if you could just sign these organ donor cards and step through the door over there…“); Amanda’s careful scrutiny of their responses, trying to figure out what humans look like when subjected to emotional highs and lows; and Piers’s……well, buggered if we know, when he talks he just sounds like an octopus that’s recently discovered it can make noises by slapping its tentacles together.

The contestants’ responses were much more varied than their genepools: the cocky little drummerboy’s smile melted like a snowflake on a stovetop; a virgin dressed up as Darth Vader shook his fist in sexless glee; Susan Boyle did a Scottish dance which instantly caused our insides to become our outsides; and – our favourite – a tiny little girl pulled the saddest face the world has ever seen, made somehow more tragic by the Charlie Chaplin moustache she was wearing.

You’re still waiting with lusty anticipation to hear how your heroine performed, aren’t you? Relax, that’s coming up later today.

Bring on the angry comments, fatties.

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