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

Midweek Sport - - NEWS -

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.

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