Wednesday, 28 October 2009
I was stumbling and bumbling through the world wide interweb when I came across an interesting couple of facts about you.
Before I go into those facts, let me assure you that I am not a crank and my intentions are honourable. I didn’t put “Simon Cowell” into Google hoping to find all sorts of sordid facts about you. Let me make that clear right from the start.
In fact, the truth is a bit sad really. I was devoid of ideas when it came to writing my next blog post and I decided to look for famous Librans – and your name popped up. That’s how desperate I was.
At first, I wondered who you were – so I asked my dear lady, Mrs PM.
“Who is Simon Cowell?” I asked.
“You know when you run screaming from the room on a Saturday night,” she replied. “He’s the reason.”
“Not X Factor,” I cried.
“X Factor, Pop Idol, Britain’s Got Talent, America’s Got Talent – they’re his shows.”
At first, I wanted to hunt you down and subject you to, arguably, my biggest ever rant about the music you promote and those dreadful Saturday night light entertainment programmes that YOU are responsible for, while pummelling you around the face with a rancid salmon to emphasise my points (and believe me there are a LOT of points). I wanted to lock you in a room with Jeremy Kyle and tell him that you were a drunken chain smoker who stole sweets from babies.
But then I thought “No – I am a nice guy and I need to help this man realise the error of his ways. He is a fellow Libran.”
Simon – I want to save you.
We have a kinship, Simon, you and I. Your birthday is 7th October, the day before mine. If astrologers are to be believed, then we have similar personality traits and, although I hate to admit it, we are like brothers.
So I’m going to help you, Simon, in my own inimitable way.
Firstly, congratulations on turning 50 this year. You don’t look a day under 50 and I’m surprised you are so young. Given the dreadful music you promote (and it IS dreadful, Simon, utterly dreadful), I had assumed that you were at least 65 years old. I foolishly imagined that you were a pensioner with false teeth and dyed hair who was seeking a hobby after a long hard life being a gopher for somebody with talent. I guessed that you had a few bits of cash and had used it to inject your face with enough botox to turn you into the Michelin Man.
I admit it – I was wrong - totally and utterly wrong. And I apologise unreservedly for my warped thoughts.
Now, how can I help you?
First of all, being a Libran like me, I can understand your need to rant. I can fully appreciate you desire to vent your spleen when something displeases you. Look at fellow Libran Margaret Thatcher! She vented her spleen for eleven years as Prime Minister of Great Britain.
I’ve seen you in action. I can’t bring myself to watch your appalling TV programmes but, in the interests of research, and in a desire to make you a better person, I have suffered by watching your performances on YouTube; quite frankly I’m appalled.
Here are some of your worst moments:
“You’ve just killed my favourite song of all time”
“It was a bad shrieky version; I’d pack your suitcase.”
“You sing like a train going off the rails.”
“You sounded like Dolly Parton on helium.”
“You’re too old to be a Barbie Doll.”
“I really hate your image – it’s almost creepy.”
“That was like a one year old, singing.”
“Do you have a singing teacher? Get a lawyer and sue her. I’m serious.”
“That audition was like watching a ship sink.”
Simon, there’s no need to be that nasty. I can be that nasty from the comfort of my own living room but the only casualty is my television (which incidentally is thinking of suing me for constant and relentless verbal bullying). The victims of my cruelty are beyond my reach and will never hear me liken them to a screaming tuneless banshee. But you are staring them in the face when you utter those words. It is despicable.
My first piece of advice is, therefore, to be nice to these awful people. They may sing like crows on drugs but they are human beings. They may be the most talentless humans in the world with voices like broken foghorns – but they can’t help it. In their eyes (or should I say ears) they ARE divas; they ARE Elton John; they ARE Stevie Wonder; they DESERVE the fame they are going to get.
Be nice to them. Just say something like:
“I vote no. Next!!”
And when pressed for the reason, let them down gently:
“It was good but there are better people out there.”
The contestants will be happy and the audience will be happy. Nobody will ever take the piss out of your hair again.
Which conveniently brings me to my next point. I have terrible hair and I openly admit it. Mrs PM forces me to put products on it to keep it from invading the house next door. She even does it when I am asleep. You would do well to take her advice. To be honest, your hair looks like a tiny aircraft could land on it. I’m not sure what effect you are trying to create but it does look absurd.
One person said “[his hair] looks like he cut it himself blindfolded in a dark room with his feet”.
I’ve had worse things said about my hair – but you are on telly, Simon. Millions of people watch you every week. People tune in hoping to see a seagull perch on your head and your bonce and crap on your face.
I know it took you a while to get rid of those ludicrous high-waisted trousers and now, apparently, you do actually look a little bit like a human being again. You can do the same with your hair. With a decent haircut you can face your critics with your head held high. And there will be not one seagull in sight.
My final piece of advice is to stop promoting boy band clones, girl band clones, women who think they are Mariah Carey and guys who think they are Robbie Williams and embrace your one true love – ROCK MUSIC!!!
Get out there and start a talent show for young up and coming rock bands; there are thousands of musicians who can actually play instruments, write their own songs and are in bands with mates just waiting for a decent record deal.
I am sick to my back teeth of hearing second rate pop-clones filling the airwaves, warbling badly on a Saturday night and filling our tabloid newspapers with meaningless twaddle about their private lives.
Embrace up and coming rock bands on a Saturday night and I might watch you without:
(a) throwing up
(b) assaulting my telly to a with a cricket bat
(c) getting into trouble with Mrs PM for puking on the carpet and assaulting her poor TV with a cricket bat.
I am trying to turn over a new leaf myself and to spare my TV before it leaves home. You can do the same.
We are Librans. We love Rock music. You can change. You must change.
The Plastic Mancunian
P.S. Sorry for comparing you to Margaret Thatcher. It took years for me to get over the fact that her personality was similar to mine in the eyes of astrologers. I’m still not over it yet actually. The Plastic Mancunian is not for turning – AARRRGGHHH!!! Sorry Simon – ignore that last sentence.
P.P.S. If you want more advice my fees are reasonable. I charge £200,000 for a 10 minute session. Cheap at twice the price – don’t you agree?