A towering ego and why Simon will never know true riches
I’VE ALWAYS found Simon Cowell peculiarly fascinating. He’s a ruthless mogul, a man who’s made himself enormously rich by persuading foolish youngsters that fame — for anyone who can hold a tune — is the only dream worth having.
Since 2001, he’s dominated popular culture in this country. We’ve loved him for his brutal honesty — ‘that was truly appalling’ — while simultaneously being horrified by his cruelty.
Our collusion in this theatre of humiliation has turned both The X Factor and Britain’s Got Talent into massive successes.
But what lies beneath that Cowell veneer? What really goes on inside that Botoxed, tooth-whitened, fake-tanned head with its curious flat-top of hair?
The disappointing answer seems to be: not much. In fact, this mighty mogul appears to possess not so much hidden depths as hidden shallows.
Extracts from an eagerly awaited new book by the brilliant investigative journalist Tom Bower, who was given a year’s unprecedented access to Cowell and his friends, portray him not as a tortured genius but as a vain, middle-aged man who treats women like disposable playthings.
Indeed, Cowell emerges not so much a colossus as a pathetic child. He describes X Factor judges Dannii Minogue (with whom he had an affair — or ‘a few bonks’, as he charmingly puts it) and Cheryl Cole (with whom he’d like to have had one) as ‘ new toys’, and says he enjoys watching the women around him grow jealous of each other: ‘I find girls fighting very amusing.’
HEIS clearly less a lover than an ego- driven impresario. ‘ I’m attracted to crazy women,’ he revealed. ‘I encourage crazy behaviour and I make them crazy. Every girl wants to be number one and they’re very territorial. I like the fight, because otherwise I’d have a dull group of girlfriends.’
So intent is he on proving his sexual prowess over and over again that one must assume he didn’t have much luck with girls as a teenager. Like many ageing bachelors, though, he fails to realise just how repellent most women find such an attitude.
Does he genuinely think his lookalike flock of big-breasted, pert-featured girlfriends fancy him for who he really is? As Mrs Merton once famously asked Debbie Mcgee: ‘So, what first attracted you to the millionaire Paul Daniels?’
Would either of them still care two hoots for him if he were to lose his fortune and his reputation tomorrow? That’s a question Cowell probably never asks himself. Like many powerful men, he’s surrounded by so much sycophancy that he’s forgotten love and loyalty need to be earned.
My guess is his glory days may now be over. Yes, Britain’s Got Talent remains entertainingly watchable — but the most exciting judge on it this year is not Cowell but David Walliams, who’s proving to be not only cleverer and wittier than his paymaster, but altogether more likeable.
To be fair, Cowell knew the last series of The X Factor had lost its edge and doubtless hoped this book would help propel him forward again.
But, as the royals have discovered to their cost, you should never let too much daylight in on the magic. Only exceptional people can emerge from such scrutiny looking more interesting than they did before.
Today, Cowell appears less like a towering tycoon and more like a tawdry end-of-the-pier showman.
By his own admission, he’s lonely. Tellingly, when his London home was broken into by a deranged fan a few weeks ago, no one was there (apart from staff) but Cowell, watching Saturday night TV on his own.
He’s often said he doesn’t want to marry or have children because he thinks the commitment and responsibility would be restricting and boring. It’s the kind of thing you’d expect a 20-year-old to say, not a man in his 50s.
Meanwhile, there’s always another shot of Botox, Simon. Plaster on that fake tan. Sail the Caribbean with your latest girlfriends and pretend you’re Peter Pan.
But don’t expect to be happy. You may look younger than most other men your age, and you’re certainly far wealthier, but you’re fated never to realise that true riches come from enduring relationships.
Personally, I wouldn’t swap these for any number of Hollywood mansions. But how could a man who peddles the dream that fame is the only thing that counts ever begin to understand that?