Bizarre that we just let Simon Cowell, like, do that. We just let him “be Simon Cowell”. There was that decade-long moment that I don’t think we talk about enough where he was the only person seemingly allowed on TV, first the villainous high king of The X Factor, then doing the exact same thing with the American version, then he launched Britain’s Got Talent, then whatever happened to his face happened to his face.
We’ve had a fallow few years of Cowell – The X Factor: Celebrity! Imagine thinking that would work! – but the DNA is ever-present and unbreakable: the jeans, the pointy shoes, the Beano haircut, the long-sleeved tee with the arms pulled short, the unblinking dread in his eyes, leaning forward over the desk before saying: “Look, OK? Sure.” My prediction is that we are at the midway point of Cowell. He will be the Bruce Forsyth of being gratuitously mean to average singers from the home counties. We’ll be watching him do it as the Earth is engulfed by the sun.
