Simon Cowell has made stars of boybands, Chico, Susan Boyle and a variety of completely forgettable singers like Steve Brookstein, Leon Thingy and DooDah Sneddon. Possibly. We’re get all those talent shows confused these days.

So what’s his next move? Well, apart from publicly wooing Cheryl Cole again (presumably Kelly Rowland can’t be bothered saying ‘boo’/sitting next to the bizarre Tulisa on the X Factor next year), he’s decided he’s going to make a talent show about DJs.

Seriously. While this may pique the interest of some, there’s little chance it could work in a primetime format… surely?

The music vampire-cum-mogul is launching a new talent competition to find the world’s best DJs.

Cowell says:

“DJ’s are the new rock stars, it feels like the right time to make this show”

So what kind of thing will the DJs be doing, to showcase how brilliant they are? Of course, the best DJs show off their skills  over a series of hours when they promote then play a set for a dancefloor filled with people. Will the show be around 40 hours long while a variety of DJs try and make a crowd go nutso?

Of course, the most notorious way for a DJ to show-off is to scratch. For those that don’t know, there’s a variety of ways to approach scratching. There’s the usual thd-dghgdggy-thd stuff, as well as the infamous wiki-wiki-frrssshh scratch. But that wouldn’t make much of a show.

There’s more showy people out there who can do things like this…

Or beat juggle like this…

In which case, if that’s what Cowell is going for, then he’s trying to reinvent the DMC Championships which, as brilliant as it is, isn’t going to be winning over any primetime mums and nanas any time soon, is it?

Away from that, Cowell wants Cheryl Cole back in his loving, tender, televisual embrace. When asked whether Cheryl could potentially return to the ITV1 programme, he said:

“She could be a panellist again if she wanted to – 100 per cent. I don’t know if she would. I think she probably misses me.”

Whatever. She’s off washing her hair for money. We’re more interested in what Cowell plans to do for DJing. Will we see a good-looking DJ getting off a stool for the key-change?

Oh god. Cowell is thinking of DJ Talent isn’t he?

Runaway bride Simon Cowell has broken off another relationship, this time to his makeup artist Mezhgan Husaiany.

“It’s quite a complicated relationship. We have had a break from each other, and we are still incredibly close,” Cowell told The Sunday Mirror. “I’m vulnerable. It’s not on, it’s not off, it’s somewhere in the middle. I don’t know if I will ever get married, but I am happy.”

You know how painful it is when you drop an M&M and it rolls under the sofa, and is juuussstttttt out of your reach? Welcome to Mezghan Husaiany’s life.

Why would Simon Cowell want to get married? He’s so rich that he could walk into a christening, drop-kick the baby over the font and he’d still leave with the phone number of half the congregation.

Simon Cowell is famous for three things; an oddly-smooth Frankenstein-esque forehead, unnaturally high-waisted trousers and the habit of leaving ex-girlfriends with huge pay-offs. He’s like a modern-day Professor Higgins – picking humble girls out of the gutter, teaching them to speak all puurrrttty, then setting them up in multi-million-dollar mansions.

Unlike our last relationship, where our pay off was a keyed-up car and a strongly worded letter from a lawyer.

Instead of playing out this awkward Ross-and-Rachel-on-and-off-yes-that-does-count-as-cheating-you-bastard snooze-fest Hussainy should just take the money and run.

OI! FATTY! IT’S JANUARY SO YOU’D BEST GET ON THE TREADMILL! Is what I’d be shouting at you if I wasn’t one of you; a Festive over-indulger that left a world of salad and steak for one populated almost exclusively by Toblerone and Terry’s Chocolate Oranges. We’ve all been there and now you’re probably sitting clutching your list of New Year’s Resolutions desperately trying to convince yourself that you’ll achieve all of the things on it.

You won’t.

Why should you? You’re your own person and you don’t need a list of goals to tell you that you should probably crack open a bag of cress every now and then before you start to resemble Michelle MacManus & Rik Waller’s illicit love-child. You don’t even need a list of goals to tell you that it might be time to get yourself on a dating website and meet someone new before you fall into the arms of an ex-lover because you’re horribly lonely.

None of that matters though because there’s always something better than a list and in this case adverts are willing to take on the role of your conscience and the New Year ad schedule is packed with sanctimonious bullshit designed to get you out there into the world looking svelte and feeling amazing thanks to some pro-biotic yogurt.

That’s the thing about adverts, isn’t it? They play up to an accepted norm about the society that you live in. Take the hideous Morrisons advert in which two middle-aged children discuss the recession and the need for people to ‘tighten their belts’ in January. You think this is fine because they’re Northern but they’re actually creating a sickening dystopian vision of a world where children are no longer free to be children and have to think about food vouchers and Freddie Flintoff’s bath of gold doubloons. Of course, Morrisons are trying to add an innocent expression onto something that responsible adults seem to talk about all the time whereas some ad campaigns are just cynical.

Take a moment, shut your eyes and imagine a meeting room where six people are sitting. None of them are wearing suits or any kind of formal business attire and one is wearing a pair of tattered brogues with no socks. One man fiddles nervously with his spectacles as he examines the stoney faces around the room. They’ve been given the ultimate contract; a weight loss brand that needs a change of direction.

One woman in the group suddenly rolls back in her ergonomic back-supporting office chair and makes a loud exclamation of joy. “I’ve got it,” she shouts, “why don’t we show overweight people that if they follow the Weight Watchers plan, it’ll make them thin?!”

There is a stunned silence in the meeting room and the glass walls begin to de-mist as their collective breath is held. Everyone looks to the man wearing a rugby shirt at the head of the table. He nods sagely and the room erupts in applause. The creatives have done it again! Fat people can be thin and they will show them the light!

“Wait though!” Cries the man with no socks. “How can we convince our target audience of saturated fatties that they want to be thin and beautiful?” The room falls silent again: all that can be heard is the nervous tapping of pens on the table.

“What about writing a song and getting a pop star to sing it?” The quietest woman suggests. “We could make the lyrics really motivational so that they really speak to our target market?”

There is some muted discussion in the room. It’s too quiet for us to hear but we all know that they’re discussing who to have sing it. Rik Waller and Michelle MacManus are busy making babies and Craig Colton from last year’s X Factor is far too shit. They need someone that people can aspire to be like. Someone sassy and respectable that will quite literally sell their soul for money.

If only there was someone that fitted the bill. They have a long conversation and seem to come up with nothing. They’re standing up to leave, presumably off to think about it over some champagne and oysters when a Britain’s Got Talent judge walks into their office, looking for scraps.

“Hark!” They cry in unison as this fictional account becomes alarmingly Dickensian. They’ve found their woman. A sassy, respectable woman with a big, idiotic face who would quite literally sell her soul for money. They don’t even need to negotiate with her. Alesha’s shaking hands with them all before they even name a figure. Her only stipulation is that she doesn’t have to touch any of the fatties and that she doesn’t have to rap. She’s moving in a new direction.

Now you know how the Play Weight Watchers campaign came into being, aren’t you a little more open to its message and its 3 minutes and 14 seconds of bad miming, worse dancing and sanctimonious ‘body positive’ thrust? Doesn’t the sight of these people who, you’ve got to hand it to them, look great inspire you to go out there and go to meetings, living by a strict ‘point controlled’ system which requires you to lose weight by emptying your wallet?

Or does it still make you want to tear your own eyes out and stuff them into your ears so that you don’t have to see or hear this abomination ever again? What’s it going to be, fatso?

Dear hecklersprayers, this article contains information that may ruin your appetite and could even inflict some serious mental damage, distrust of the female nether-parts up to and including the Predator’s face.

Right, with that legal stuff out the way, it’s bad news for all straight men and gay women out there. Susan Boyle is on the look for a suitable mate.

We can’t actually bring ourselves to speak of the hairiest winner of Britain’s Got Talent in a sexual light. It just seems very, very wrong. Like how you wouldn’t want to know about your grandparent’s sex life, or how your mother explains the first time you find a condom in their bedroom. An uneasy, topsy turvy feeling in your stomach makes you want to vomit enough bile to make Example think ‘Jeez, they’re being a bit harsh.’

So, we’re not going to dwell on the unfortunate facts that come with having a first boyfriend; the heated frisson, the ‘do they/don’t they’, the damp patches on her knickers, and instead think of how happy the stubbly singer will be.

Apparently the hirsute honey isn’t short of offers either. Which must make all of you’s with no girlfriend/boyfriend slightly envious. I mean, if a woman approaching the sweaty depths of menopause with natural hair like that can get someone to boff their brains out, what’s wrong with you?

The stubbly siren is ready to settle down with a lovely fella who looks after her and thinks of her in a nice way. Just like what she did for her mother until she died in 2007. And for a few years after that until she decided to audition for BGT and Simon Cowell ditched her corpse in the usual place: under the stage of Red Or Black?

But who would be a good suitor for the closest thing we’ve got to explain the Missing Link in human evolution? Well, she thinks Donny Osmond is good enough for her. Which is going to stress middle aged women the World over. Perhaps they’ll rise up in a Justin Bieber-style army to find Cowell’s pet pig and string her up. Or maybe just pop down to Waitrose for some prosecco before she picks up the kids in the Range Rover.

We think that because Donny Osmond isn’t available at the moment, we could come up with three people who would be perfect for her.

Harry from Harry And The Hendersons

It’s a perfect choice for a hairy mythical beast to be the one that makes an honest woman of Susan Boyle. Both are things of legend. They’re both equally as hairy as each other. And Harry has the Hendersons, who wouldn’t mind another surrogate beast roaming around their house, drinking all the milk and getting up to general mischief.

John McCririck from your nightmares

Tell the truth, having Susan Boyle as a love rival to Booby would make an excellent reality TV show. One can sing Nessum Dorma like no other, and the other is Susan Boyle. Instead of The Bachelor’s rose, McCririck could wipe a freshly picked nose baby on his chosen wife.

Trevor Eve/David Essex/Cliff Richard

Any one of these would be a fantastic addition to the celebrity landscape, and on the other hand, would really irritate all our mothers.

As if you couldn’t have guessed, the bushy babe is telling us all this because she has a new album out soon, and wants people to buy it and listen to her Depeche Mode cover. If she does that by slamming her fleecy face in the papers, then so be it!

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Remember when we all laughed at Susan Boyle because she had a funny face? Then she started singing and everyone said in unison; ‘Wow, you can have a funny face AND sing! Who knew?!’ Remember?

Then, when the initial shock of Boyle’s voice ebbed away, everyone went back to pointing and laughing at her. Remember that?

Well, she’s going to turn that hooting mockery into hatred from Depeche Mode fans. That’s because a) Depeche Mode fans are some of the weirdest, most dedicated, joyless nutters you’ll ever meet and b) Susan Boyle has recorded a cover version of a Depeche Mode song.

Susan Boyle is returning to the CD racks with her third LP, ‘Someone To Watch Over Me’.

On the album she tackles ‘Unchained Melody’ which has never been covered before, but more interestingly, she’ll be crooning ‘Mad World’ and, here you go Depeche Mode fans, ‘Enjoy The Silence’.

This will drive Depeche Mode fans insane with unwarranted grief as they see one of their favourite songs wrestled away by someone from a talent show.

The only other times they will have felt this awful is when Dave Gahan nearly died of a smack overdose, which was nearly as bad as when The Saturday’s covered ‘Just Can’t Get Enough’ (or indeed, Crazy Frog’s cover).

Depeche Mode couldn’t give two hoots about their back catalogue could they?

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Britain’s Got Talent, the nation’s premier talent contest attracts thousands of willing participants each year. From dancing dogs to fire-eaters, gymnasts to geriatrics, the show has everything people could possibly want on a Saturday evening. That is, apart from three judges with any discernable talent.

Much has been made of BGT judge Michael McIntyre’s innate ability to point out things that are usually seen as too mundane to mention while dancing around the stage like a human spinning-top, pepped up on a cocktail of cocaine and speed. This seemed, to Simon Cowell at least, enough talent to secure him a place on the judging panel. However, it seems that he’s too nice to keep it.

What of David Hasselhoff? He’s big in Germany for his warbling singing voice, while he is best-known in this country for playing the role of the drunk, strung-out father in 80s’ TV classic Knight Rider. What will become of him and his perma-tan?

While the future of these two pantheons of talent hang in the balance, former Les Dennis cock-botherer Amanda Holden has come up with a plan to distract Simon Cowell from her obvious lack of any real showbiz credentials. This is, of course, the woman who was almost mistakenly cut down during filming of Wild At Heart, during a campaign of deforestation near the set. She needed some kind of Plan B (not the ‘soul saviour’).

According to reports, the swollen-bellied arbiter of taste and ability is planning to sweeten the deal with talent show supremo Simon Cowell by making him her baby’s Godfather. Presumably the offer of her first-born didn’t appeal to Cowell as much as the opportunity to mould a completely fresh child in his demonic, self-appreciating image.

The spawn is set to be unleashed early next year, around the time of the first Britain’s Got Talent auditions, and Holden doesn’t want to miss out. She even seems willing to give over some control of her family life to a man with one of the most evil minds in the world. Cowell is said to be thinking of using the child as a round in Red or Black, his quite preposterous new challenge show in which members of the public have a chance to win their dignity back in front of millions, before having the opportunity snatched away, only to be spat on by Ant McPartlin.

Speaking to some Red-Top purveyor of molly-coddled twattery, the woman, so often mistaken for a sapling, stated:

“Simon is the ultimate godfather. I’m going to make Simon godfather so I don’t get the sack from Britain’s Got Talent.”

That’s a nice thought, isn’t it? In order to advance your career, you’d sign your child over to Syco.

“I’ve been told my seat is safe but the dates may clash. But we’ll work something out. I’ve been told by all the right people I’m safe.”

“All the right people” have let out massive pantomime ‘Awwww’ in near-perfect unison. The notion that Amanda may be so predisposed jettisoning a child from her reproductive organs that she might miss out on the opportunity to judge a ‘street dance’ troupe while sitting next to a recovering alcoholic and a child-like comedian, awestruck by the wonder and glory of everything he sees, fills them with sorrow. It’s a real tragedy.

Still, priorities, eh?

It’s a small miracle that people who watch The X Factor and Britain’s Got Talent think it’s a level playing field, when the shows are quite clearly as choreographed as WWE events. They’re not based in competition, rather, the drama of perceived competition. They are, first and foremost, television programmes: scripted, edited to within an inch of their lives and in both hugely successful franchises.

And now, the allegation of ‘FIX!’ is being thrown around again, as if the shows weren’t hugely manipulated in the first instance. It’d be a surprise if they weren’t, but we always worked under the assumption that they were rigged, and didn’t really mind (mainly because we are part of the viewing public that don’t pick up the phone to vote in such shows, thereby, investing little more than sarcasm and occasional lust).

However, feathers are flying at the moment. That’s because a supposed Sony executive has anonymously blown the whistle on this year’s Britain’s Got Talent which claims that eerie child crooner, Ronan Parke, has already ‘won’ the show.

As such, Simon Cowell has been forced into issuing a statment flatly denying these claims that BGT is a con.

The anonymous blog (which you can read in full here – be warned as it is rather lengthy and you probably don’t care that much) alleges that Ronan Parke already signed up to Cowell’s SYCO label two years ago with the intention of him entering the talent show, guaranteed a victorious spot.

The hugely not-creditable source claims to be an employee at the label who is disgusted with it all, and wants to lift the lid on the scam, which involves an accusation that Cowell designed Ronan to ‘act more gay’ as some kind of unique selling point to audiences.

The blog says:

“Until now Ronan had been encouraged to “boy-up” and it was planned to present Ronan as an everyday skater-boy.  But with his girliness still showing through, the image just wasn’t  believable.  So a decision was taken to encourage and allow Ronan to “release” and enhance his campness.  Disgustingly, SYCO planned to sexualise him.  They were well aware of  course, that if they sexualised a young girl to look sexually older than she is, all hell would let loose.  But with Ronan, as one executive put it, ‘no one has ever seen a ‘gay’ kid before,  it’ll be a novelty.’”

In return, Cowell’s statement says:

“There has been speculation on the internet that Britain’s Got Talent finalist Ronan Parke was known to and worked with Syco/Sony Music before entering the show. There is no truth in this story whatsoever. Ronan first came to Syco/Sony’s attention when he entered this year’s competition. Syco/Sony Music will not hesitate to take whatever legal action is appropriate to prevent further publication of these unfounded allegations.”

This all sounds bogus as hell to us, but amusingly enough, adds another layer of drama to a TV event we figured was rigged anyway. Is this surreptitious ‘multi-platforming’ on behalf of a production team? If it is, you have to doff your cap to them because this is about to generate some buzz, thanks to the internet already being something of a celebrity bogeyman after all the injunction rumours that have been flying around.

So what do you think?

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What do we think about Amanda Holden? Not a great deal to be honest – she’s just sort of ‘there’. Although it is difficult to look at her without remembering that she used to have regular sex with chicken enthusiast Les Dennis which is, frankly, horrible.

The fact that she also let Neil Morrissey push his winky into her foo-foo is also deeply harrowing to us. Although we suspect not as upsetting as it was to Les, who was still married to her at the time and probably still thinks about it as he sits in his damp-ridden bedsit eating cold baked beans straight from the tin before spending his evenings with a brown paper bag on his head weeping and masturbating.

Anyway.

She has landed herself a job on what we assume is the ironically-titled Britain’s Got Talent due to her extensive experience of, well, just being around and that.

And on said job, some contestant – a Britney Spears looky-likey with her ‘twins’ on display due to an ill-judged transparent body stocking – named Lorna Bliss (we’re still trying to verify the surname) gave Amanda ‘No We Shouldn’t, I’m Married’ Holden a great big lesbian snog on her nose this Saturday. As a result of the ‘lip-plumper’ Bliss (no confirmation as yet) was wearing, Holden’s conk swelled-up like Neil Morrissey’s penis and filming had to be halted, according to reports.

At least, that is Amanda ‘Those Vows Mean Something’ Holden’s take on events. Remember all those pap shots of her atrocious squid’s anus of a mouth after she “didn’t” have collagen implants last year? That she attributed to bad lighting?

Yeah. We’re saying nowt. Her swollen conk was as a result of a lip-gloss laden lesbian fake-Britney Spears kiss. No problem.

Still no confirmation on the veracity of the surname of Lorna Bliss, who sounds like she should be ‘working the tables’ at your local Madame Choo-Choos, but – according to her website – Eamonn Holmes is quite the fan.

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Susan Boyle may well be known partially for her angelic singing ability, but really, we’re more interested in her crazy antics. She’s like Michael Jackson, only without the crazed fans, dance moves and court appearances.

And now, it is that time of year when your obese uncle visits because he’s eaten his own cupboards bare, Britain’s Got Talent has rolled round to gnaw away the ITV schedule.

So it seems only fitting that Susan Boyle gets a waxwork replica dedicated to her in the world’s most cruddy museum chain, Madame Tussauds. This way, the PR behind Britain’s Got Talent can revert to a former success story when the UK public realise that this year’s so called crop of talent is a load of drivel.

The waxwork of Susan Boyle is being showcased in Blackpool, a town famous for being a poor man’s Las Vegas [Vivaaa Las Blackpool! - Ed]. Instead of having any genuine glamour, the glittering billboards and grand hotels are replaced with 32 watt lightbulbs that blink every other minute and need replacing every other month. The only people fascinated with Blackpool illuminations are those living in rural areas who haven’t been introduced to the invention of colour and still believe in incest.

With the UK and the world in general suffering from crippling debt, it’s great to know that somewhere, someone thought it would be great to blow money on honouring image of yet another disappointing Scottish person. We’re not just talking a a couple of quid you could pay school children to make a ropey knock off model. Instead, £150,000 was spent on the model of Susan Boyle.

But what exactly has Susan Boyle contributed to the world? Has she made the Scottish national dish – the deep fat fried Mars Bar calorie free? Perhaps she’s written detailed blueprints on how to overthrow the dictatorship in Zimbabwe? No, none of the above are correct. Instead, she is known for being the crazy woman who went on Britain’s Got Talent, looked like she’d had an argument with a bag of flour whilst dressing in the dark and surprised us all when she opened her gob and started singing.

Yes, we did all look like idiots afterwards and the goody two shoes of the world started telling us that we should never judge a book by its cover. Either way, Susan Boyle ruined the internet for a couple of months as the video of her performance was spread quicker around the internet than a lady of the night giving out STDs to clients. But we’re not here to whizz on her chips; she seemed to have a jolly good day out, commenting on her wax likeness:

“What can you say? They have done a very good job. It feels fantastic”

Fantastic indeed, as you see, dear reader, people who come from West Lothian can’t afford mirrors. Therefore, most of the population have never seen their own image unless they live close to a lake or a river. Even then, the excitement of seeing themselves results in accidental drowning as they attempt to rescue the person trapped under the water.

We’re sure that when all the Susan Boyle hype fades away, she’ll be allowed to keep the model so she can sit it in her kitchen and count it as a real life non-talking friend.

Bless.

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Britain’s Got Talent, and by God, that’s got to be sifted out somehow. They’ve got to be taken off these streets, these talented people. They’re a damn liability. They can’t keep flinging their tiny urban dancing children around like that without consequence. At some point, a poor defenceless granny is going to be trundling her week’s supply of gin and Rothmans out of the Tesco Metro and an Adidas-clad five-year-old limb will flail wildly out of a headspin and knock her eyeball right through the back of her skull.

So hooray for Britain’s Got Talent. Soon all of this year’s supply of talent will be tucked away nicely in a SyCo dungeon, out of harm’s way, where they can be safely milked for pennies until dead or demented. But it’s all change for 2011, as the AntDec chirrup in the typically bombastic opening, showcasing the success of previous winners “Carphone Warehouse Pavarotti”, “Urban Dance Troupe 1.0″, “Naked Ballet Weird”, “Er…”, and “the Wicked Witch Su-bo”; Britain’s Got Talent but America’s Got Piers Morgan and Simon Cowell’s Got Advanced Syphyllitic Insanity (he hasn’t, obviously, he hasn’t at all – he’s got hideous diarrheoa).

So We’ve Got New Judges joining Amanda “Armpits” Holden behind their big red fun-buttons – Michael McIntyre and David Hasselhoff.

Within the first 2 minutes of the show, it’s clear what the roles will be within this judging panel. Amanda Holden will use both hands to attempt to manipulate emotions out of her immobile, putty-like face, hopefully ending the series looking like Lionel Richie’s bust in the Hello video. Michael McIntyre will manage to shriek in two octaves simultaneously. And The Hoff will seem blissfully unaware of anything happening in front of his face, bar a few blurry shapes and interesting noises, and will occasionally, alarmed, bark out non-sequitar catchphrases like a shell-shocked old duffer reliving their past in a trench in the Somme every time a car backfires within a mile radius.

Britain’s Got Talent, judged by that lot? Michael McIntyre is popular, somehow. Amanda managed to make someone, somewhere think “Hey, that Jamie Theakston’s not a bad actor, actually.” And The Hoff can’t even locate his own mouth with a burger even when helped with 10 square foot of previously pristine bathroom floor and the sweet cradle of gravity. May as well have a show called Britain’s Got Sexual Allure and have it judged by Ian Beale, Grotbags from off of the ’80s and a 400 page thesis on the current NHS reforms.

So to the talent, and as it is the audition stages, it was the usual mix of bores, maniacs, dogs, and extreme editing. And, of course, massive and painful wrangling of the definition of the word “talent” until it encompassed “being able to pop your eyes out at will”, as in the case of the nadir of the night, Antonio from Essex. He didn’t just pop out his eyes like a stress toy, though. He did it while grinding to Mr Boombastic, like a sexy stress toy. He somehow impressed with this freakish behaviour and got through to the next round, meaning he now has to come up with something else to pop out lest his act get stale and repetitive; start working on those Kegel muscles now, dude.

Elsewhere in the buzzed back into obscurity group: a Beatles-murderer, tunes not Ringo, in Liverpool (“LIVERPOOL ROCKS!” Thanks, Hoff); John, who painted himself gold, sang Gold and stormed off indignantly after half a verse and one rejection (“BIT PRECIOUS!” Thanks, random cameraman. Next time, give your lines to Hoff); and Tongue and Cheek, a Stupid I’m With plus-size aerobics duo who made the classic mistake of thinking standing in the wrong order in tshirts with their names on and smacking each other’s arses made them endearing (“I MAY HAVE BEEN BORN YESTERDAY BUT I’VE BEEN UP ALL NIGHT!” Easy, Hoff. You’re not in your light-up leather jacket now.) And Blair the piss-taking London banker, who painted himself to resemble a dolphin and did seemingly nothing at all, including failing to take the opportunity to say “This? Oh, I just blue myself,” unforgivable in the eyes of the Gob.

To the winners! Denelda brought the canine sass with the obligatory bloody dog act, twirling her collies around her like they were scarves falling from an Arabian princess; a horrifying image after seeing Denelda focussing all her post-HRT horn on McIntyre’s wobbly head and her sheepdogs on heat focussing pure dog-lust on AntDec’s unsuspecting shins. Michael Collings was the obligatory bloody uggo-got-game act, an amiable shambling man-mountain from Plymouth who talked of trailer parks with keycards and all-you-can-eat Chinese buffets and other such foreign concepts to the Soho-bound arseholes responsible for patronising him half to death in the show’s edit. Snide remarks from Amanda and Michael chased him and his guitar onto the stage until lo and behold, would you Adam and Eve it, he’s only a musical genius! Well, if you call noodling around a Tracey Chapman song in a pleasant John Legend-y voice while Simon Cowell foghorns “SUUUU-BOOOO” in the background and poops out another million pounds “musical genius.”

Two more notables: the obligatory bloody adorable child act came with David Knight (“I FOUND YOU! MY SON!” Nurse! Bring the Hoff-syringe!), a nine-year-old comedian. McIntyre makes friends and influences people by shouting right into David’s innocent face and making it wobble and sob. But David shook off the slight and performed a nuts and bolts observational set – the entertainment coming mostly from McIntyre laughing away before slowly realising a nine-year-old has written something approximately equal to his best material, and all that means for his self-worth. Odds are on for Michael McIntyre to have a total identity breakdown before the series ends and start claiming he’s a SyCo-designed and produced replicant.

And to round off proceedings, weirdy-beardy bell-ringers Gay and Alan, both played by Kevin Eldon, who brought the house to a swaying climax with their rendition of My Heart Will Go On. Slightly malformed, slightly suggesting a complicated bell-ringing element to their foreplay, slightly sweet – perfect fodder for the baying crowd to hoot approval at. You’re freaks, they holler, but you’re our freaks.

So there you go – hecklerspray‘s tip, forget about everyone but the singing bumpkin, as he’s clearly going to win. Another season of this madness has begun, and who knows what heights Amanda Holden’s hairstyle will reach. It’s already metamorphosed through more life stages than Zoidberg in a fountain of life.

Next week: nothing less than a hair replica of the Burj Al Arab will do.

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Michael McIntyre, a man that seemingly no stand-up comedian likes because he’s not edgy enough and became incredibly famous in a very short period of time, is clearly seeing off the competition before they get a foothold on the comedy ladder.

McIntyre, who is starring on the panel of judges on the new Britain’s Got Talent series, managed to make a nine-year-old boy cry all over his tiny face during auditions for the show.

And now, amusingly, McIntyre is hoping that the footage of him being needlessly nasty to a pre-pubescent child won’t be aired. Thankfully, we’re here to report on it and don’t worry – we’re storing this information to use against him repeatedly. He’s now Michael ‘The Big Dirty Child Botherer’ McIntyre in our heads.

So, what happened?

Well, tiny budding stand-up comic, David Knight, started crying at what was presumably his first heckle. He walked on-stage and in Birmingham and McIntyre – aka Captain Buzzkill – hit the ‘no, piss-off’ buzzer before the kid had even started his routine, after admitting his favourite comedian was Harry Hill.

Realising he looked like a massive dong, McIntyre quickly back-pedalled and apologised for ripping out a nine-year-old’s ambition and taking a massive shit on it, soon to be broadcast on national television.

He said:

“I’m sorry, it was a joke, not one of my best. You’re naturally funny – a star in the making.”

Hasselhoff, who has inexplicably been asked to star as a judge on the show, threw his tuppence into the fray, saying:

“You are not only the best nine-year-old comedian I have seen, you are the best comedian. You belong on that stage. I’ve never seen anyone intimidate Michael like that. I love you for it.”

God. Americans can be so achingly hokey can’t they? He’s only nine, but already, The Hoff considers him to be better than Richard Pryor, Bill Hicks and Billy Connolly. What a spectacular dimgit he is.

Anyway, after McIntyre had ravaged a young boy’s dreams, he realised that this might stick a boot in on his Nice Guy Of Comedy facade.

“He had bought a one way ticket to tears. I thought I was going to have to jump on the stage. The buzzer is so loud. I hope they edit that out. I don’t want to see him jumping out of his skin.”

That’s right. You’re doing this for him aren’t you? You keep telling yourself that while you do your best to find some eye-holes that look good on an adult face.

In fairness to McIntyre, he is saving some of his manufactured ire (apparently at the behest of ITV) for the adults as well. One chap called John Hampson walked on-stage painted gold and walked off the stage after McIntyre pressed the buzzer before he reached the chorus of Spandau Ballet’s ‘Gold’.

The comedian said:

“He’s not the father of the young comedian, is he? That family hates me. What is it with me today? I saw a man with a gold head, singing ‘Gold’ and I thought, ‘This is the moment I am paid to press my buzzer.’ Now he is sitting in a taxi, with his gold face.”

Imagine that. Having your hopes torn apart by Michael ‘Have You Ever Noticed This Mundane Thing We Do?’ McIntyre and then, having to sit in a taxi, painted gold while a taxi driver tries not to talk to you because he clearly thinks you’re mental.

Oh! What a circus!

Still, that all said and done, McIntyre is still a better person than most of you lot. At least he didn’t vote for Stavros Flatley. You idiotic roost of chicken-minded simpletons.

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Despite the fact that Amanda Holden should technically be reclassified as an android after the mixture of human tissue to plastic, polymers, artificial tear ducts and assorted car engine parts  dipped below 50% in 2010, the Britain’s Got Talent judge has announced that she is six months pregnant.

More than this, because she is so far gone, she as revealed that it is a *spoiler alert* human baby that she’s planning to give birth to.

Oh, and it’s apparently a boy. Or, conceivably, a very convincing example of a synchronous hermaphrodite, which will surely brighten up the birth no end.

The arrival of a baby is always a joyful occurrence in a couple’s life – not that we need reminding at this time of year of course, Alastair Cook’s birthday on the 25^th of December was heralded with as much excitement and gusto in my house as anywhere in the land, but unfortunately, it doesn’t look like this announcement will be heralded with as much joy as that anniversary.

Not because the parents aren’t all happy and all, but that it seems as though despite the fact that she is as the stage where most pregnant mothers to be need to take several deeps breaths from climbing stairs and need to piss with the regularity of an elderly man who has had a lifetime of being punched in the kidneys for fun and profit, she is still fulfilling her duties on Britain’s Got Talent and in the Shrek musical. Now Magazine over excited itself and bellowed:

The Britain’s Got Talent judge, 39, who is married to Chris Hughes, has only 3 months to go before her new baby arrives. ‘Just to let you know. I am 6 months pregnant with a baby boy!! Have had to keep it quiet until now! I’m still doing BGT and Shrek The Musical!!!’ she announced on Twitter.

So there’s no let up for fans of eerily blank faced, expressionless robots, who despite being technically ‘human’ still manage to cross over into the ‘uncanny valley’ like Tom Hanks in that animated film about a magic train that never got stuck in the snow (we’re guessing it was something like that as we don’t have money to splash out on dire looking Christmas films. Not when we’ve found out that we can get pretty much Danny Dyer’s entire back catalogue through pay-per-view cable that is).

So we still get to see the bizarre sight of what is effectively a shop window dummy weeping at every available occasion as a succession of deluded pub drunks parade their increasingly barrel scraping talents in front of her.

Having said that, it’s probably the fact that she has had all that Botox that has meant that she has been able to keep working for six months into a pregnancy without anyone noticing that she has a bun in the oven. All that Botox probably means that it’s not only her face that it stationary, but her entire lower body, which means that the poor little chap is trapped in something like a fleshy version of a Japanese capsule hotel.

On the plus side though, at the actual birth, it’ll be like watching someone trying to squash a child’s head though a kitchen spaghetti measurer.

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Elton John is good value for money because he’s an outspoken old bitch. Over the years, he’s glammed up his work with a variety of outlandish outfits and even more unbelievable wigs. And now, he’s making ridiculous claims about pop music.

This is despite the fact he did a duet with insipid boy-bland, Blue.

In his attack on the music industry, he said that today’s songwriters were “awful” and warned that television talent shows failed to produce any genuine stars. Weird he should say that when The X Factor is primarily a television show as opposed to a breeding ground for musical talent. It’s a bit like slagging someone off for buying, say, Watford FC and moaning about the fact they don’t produce decent footballers.

Sir Elton has claims that singers expect instant fame and are not able to deal with the demands of the industry. God forbid anyone should enter the shark pit of the music business and go a bit mental, like, for instance, spending £1.5million per month on piss-all, hoovering up huge amounts of cocaine in a private jet and going on a 2 year bender with John Lennon and Harry Nilsson.

Of course, Elton John wants to point out that he had a hard paper round before he hit big, pointing out that artists need to experience “hard graft” if they were to make it in the long term.

Sir Elton also slated musicians for not writing their own material.

“It’s important they write their own songs, so they’re not at the mercy of anyone. Songwriters today are pretty awful, which is why everything sounds the same. Contemporary pop isn’t very inspiring.”

That’s coming from a man who has all his lyrics written for him by Bernie Taupin and has done covers of songs by The Beatles and The Who.

Of course, this imagined terrible state of pop music is thanks to the music industry’s reliance on shows like The X Factor and Britain’s Got Talent.

“I’m not a fan of talent shows. I probably wouldn’t have lasted if I’d gone on one. It’s become boring .?.?. brain crippling. I like Simon Cowell but what he does is TV entertainment.

“There have been some good acts but the only way to sustain a career is to pay your dues in small clubs. I was in a band at 17, became a songwriter with Bernie Taupin and wasn’t successful until we’d had six years of hard graft and disappointment, as well as great times.”

Elton added:

“TV vaults you to superstardom and then you have to back it up, which is hard. Leona Lewis and Alexandra Burke are at the mercy of the next song they can get.”

Yeah. We all long for a golden period of pop again. Like the ’60s perhaps, when 99% of the acts on Motown didn’t write their own songs and provided us with some of the most fun records in the history of everything, ever. Or maybe we could all hark back to that stretch from 1964 to 1976 when every single band was basing their music on 12 bar blues in an appalling state of formula.

We miss those good ol’ days, right?

Of course, no-one could ever accuse Elton John of being formulaic. Listen to tracks like ‘Tiny Dancer’, ‘Rocket Man’, ‘Levon’, ‘Candle In The Wind’ and that bollocks he did for The Lion King, and there’s not much between them. If we were to use the same broad brush-strokes as Elton, then we could simply dismiss his back catalogue as ‘a bunch of ballads played on the piano’.

Elton John (real name Ricardo Montalban) does like to pick on pop music though and he’s got previous with The X Factor.

A couple of years ago he described it as a “cruise ship show” as well as saying that he’d rather be attacked by an alsatian than tune in. That’s not to say he didn’t enjoy the increase in sales when acts on the show performed his songs, which he personally gave the green light to.

We’re in the middle of a period where rock music is utterly devoid of life and pop music is just about the only genre that’s working at the moment. Give us Lady GaGa, Beyonce, Katy Perry and Girls Aloud over the dubious, hamfisted talents of an ageing piano player without a decent tune to his name since the ’70s.

THANKS.

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Susan Boyle has proved that nothing earns money faster than making people feel guilty with your hairy face.

She’s loaded. And it’s all for one simple reason – because Susan Boyle is so staggeringly odd-looking that people are truly amazed when she’s not massively incompetent at everything she tries her hand at. Oh, and also it’s because she’s got a clever financial team who don’t let her spunk all her earnings away the instant they arrive. Which has made Susan Boyle furious, by the way.

Susan Boyle is apparently complaining that she’s only allowed £300 of her £10 million fortune a week, which isn’t even enough to buy furniture for her new house. Honestly, with strict rules like that anyone would think that a) she has experienced mental difficulties in the past and b) is unaccustomed to dealing with large sums of money. Oh, hang on.

The important thing to remember with Susan Boyle is that it won’t last forever. She’s essentially a YouTube sensation, so sooner or later the world will move onto to another YouTube sensation – maybe a baby that looks like Vladimir Putin, or a seagull in a top hat – and forget about her.

But at least when that happens, Susan Boyle will be set for life. Her management team has set up a system of trusts and investments to ensure that, even if her popularity wanes, she’ll still have the bulk of her £10 million fortune to live off when she retires. The downside to this is that Susan is only allowed £300 a week in spending money, which seems fair enough.

Remember that Susan Boyle was admitted to The Priory just because she didn’t win Britain’s Got Talent, and that her mental frailties could cause her to spunk away her entire fortune on a giant fibreglass statue of a dancing pony if she had unrestricted financial access.

But still, Susan Boyle’s brother Gerry has got wind of this system and has expressed concern that he won’t be able to buy that private jet he’s had his eye on it’ll have a negative effect on his sister. He told News Of The World:

“Susan said to me, ‘I’ve been told I get £300 a week because I’m a novice. I don’t have the money to go and buy the furniture’. So she’s still stuck in the small council house where we all grew up. She should be able to walk into a bank anywhere and say she wants £50,000 cash. That may not be advisable, but it would be HER choice because it’s HER money.”

Yes, surely she should be able to do that. Surely Susan Boyle should be able to walk into any bank she likes and say “I’d like £50,000 cash, please, so that my brother can buy an expensive month-long holiday, an enchanted amulet and a necklace made of buzzard eyes.” The fact that she can’t is madness. Pure madness.

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By now, we all know what Simon Cowell is about. He’s a panto dame without quite so much badly applied make-up. He is the head of an entertainment syndicate that is rivalled only by WWE. In fact, the similarities between Cowell and wrestling’s Vince McMahon are many. Flat-top hair-cut… neutrally coloured clothes that still manage to be slightly offensive… man-tits… giant foam hand. Anyway, the point is, they’re the villain of the show, watching over their lair like mini-Murdochs.

So when someone goes on a show of theirs, we all know exactly what to expect. In Cowell’s case, we expect an eye-roll and perhaps a withering aside delivered in his posho English voice (his best was when he told Gillian McKeith that she had made a song “non-human”.) However, that’s not stopping one woman from suing Simon Cowell for discrimination.

A contestant who auditioned for Britain’s Got Talent is reportedly suing Cowell after he left her feeling humiliated on the show. Emman Czikai claims that the judges took away her ‘self respect and dignity’.

Apparently, the lady felt “degraded” after she was on the receiving end of some negative feedback from Cowell and his eerily faced fellow judge Amanda Holden. It is eerie though isn’t it? It’s like staring at a blow-up doll that’s desperately trying to come to life.

Well, at least we all know what makes Neil Morrissey’s cock tick now, eh?

Anyway, Czikai sang talent show favourite, ‘You Raise Me Up’, which saw Cowell respond with: “Emma, Emma, reality check here, it’s not the music; it’s not the microphone; it’s you.” He also added: “It is a beautiful song when you’re not singing it.”

Now, in fairness to Cowell, that’s very, very tame for him. However, Czikai is saying that her performance was affected by her medical conditions which means she’s suing Cowell’s company – Simco Limited – on the basis of  ‘disability discrimination’.

At a pre-tribunal review on Wednesday, she said:

“I am certainly not prepared to be humiliated. Because I have these illnesses, singing is all I can do for my future and therefore it is important for me not to have 13 to 20 million people all over the world thinking I cannot sing.”

She added:

“It is quite upsetting to be regarded as a failure and to be targeted and mocked. It was the microphone. It was the music. I have not got a horrible singing voice when I am in a fair environment that meets my disabilities as I proved on Britain’s Got More Talent.”

So… for further potential humiliation and an inevitable law-suit against us, here’s Emman singing ‘You Raise Me Up’ nearly three times. And sorry if you’re still thinking about Neil Morrissey’s engorged member.

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