Simon (hopefully) says: ‘Please stop hitting me now’

PEOPLE often ask me: “How much would you theoretically like to swing a Wile E Coyote Acme-style nail-encrusted bat into the face of Simon Cowell and thus reduce his wooden gnashers to comedy splinters?”

To which I normally reply: “Quite a f***ing lot, now you mention it.”

Others ask: “Does the fact that he appears to be an enthusiastic fan of built-up heels increase your desire to then whack said bat into the backs of his knees while he yelps out in cartoon pain?”

To which I reply: “Yes indeed it does.”

Yet more people often then ask: “Are you sick of the f***ing sight of him p*ssing around on a jetski in Barbados surrounded by famous and stunning women that he nevertheless mysteriously never seems to have sex with?”

“Oh yes,” I reply. “I am wholly sick of that sight.”

Then someone else will ask: “And does a picture of his toptoothed half smile while sat behind the wheel of a black Bentley make you want to grab the nearest plastic toy axe and put it about his flat-haired head?”

“Funnily enough,” I say: “That’s exactly what it makes me want to do.”

And finally someone will say: “Does it give

SIMON Cowell F***ing c**t!

you genuine pain that Simon probably really does deep down think he’s actually some sort of living god and not the tremendouslysized thunderc*** that many sane people think instead?” “Yes,” I say. “It does.” And then I go and take paracetamol in a darkened room where Britain’s Got Frigging Talent is Most Definitely Not Frigging On.