Short Story: Britain's Got Simon Cowell

Short Story: Britain's Got Simon Cowell

Today I am having a cave woman day. Somebody has to replace the Caveman. Even he has vacated this hole.

Don’t worry. I’m not going to go to the full Caveman level of living in a fort of Dominos pizza boxes, refusing to wash and growing a beard that makes me look like I belong to the cast of 'Lord of the Rings'. I’ve just decided not to leave the house for a day.

When leaving the house, there are numerous potential hazards to be considered. You’re at risk of natural disasters and extreme weather. You may think that in Manchester the risk is pretty low, but at the moment it’s monsoon season, with torrential rain usually occurring between the months of January right through to December. This can have devastating effects, turning sleek, straightened hair into a Sixties afro and £6 Primark shoes into soggy shreds of plastic.

There’s the possibility of a freak accident, and with the new tramway system in the city, the risk of being mowed down by a tram coming out of the middle of nowhere is up to 90 per cent. Combined with the number of under aged boy-racers, taxi drivers and those dickheads behind the wheels of BMWs, you are lucky if you return home with all of your limbs.

The Shadow is living proof that in a modern society, we also face the danger of attracting a stalker. So, if you do make it home alive, it’s worth barricading the door on your way in and keeping your rape alarm with you at all times.

Probably the most frequent and dangerous hazard to encounter is that of social humiliation. You may only need step a few paces away from your doorstep and there it is, lurking. Sometimes you might make it further afield, you may go a whole day without experiencing it, but trust me, it’s there, and it’s waiting to pounce at any given moment.

My evening yesterday began by watching a bunch of idiots voluntarily inflicting social humiliation upon themselves. 'Britain’s Got Talent', by which we really mean, 'Britain’s Got Simon Cowell'.

It was nice to be at the other end of the spectrum for a change – the profitable end of the spectrum, where you can point and laugh at the people who have lives which are even more pathetic than your own. But you can’t stay at this end of the spectrum for long, and I was soon reminded of a series of humiliating events involving the biggest wanker of all time, *Rudolph*. Because next to Simon Cowell, the man who has made his millions profiting from the victims of social humiliation, sits his greatest example, Piers Morgan.

I never noticed it before but Piers Morgan is the spitting image of Rudolph. His boggly eyes, his overly posh accent, his lips which can’t quite separate when he talks because they’re stuck together with Superglue or something. Rudolph has it all. Perhaps he is in fact Piers Morgan’s secret love child. It’s unimaginable that the world is able to produce two men who are equally so much up their own arses it makes people vomit, without there being some sort of genetic relationship.

Porna had arranged a 'Britain’s Got Talent' party for her and all her workmates. She works at the M.E.N Arena, so I can sort of see why they are so interested. The contestants will all be performing there within a few weeks on their live tour. Yes, there is a live tour. Simon Cowell didn’t miss on that money making opportunity. I bet he thought, "Right, I’ve already humiliated these freaks beyond belief, what else can I do? I know, I’ll turn it into some sort of travelling circus and charge the public 30 pounds a ticket to see the elephant man and the 80 year old woman from Glasgow singing Edith Piaf."

I couldn’t stay long at the party - a) because I hate Piers Morgan and b) because I was meant to be meeting Mozza and Panjita, plus a load of other people I didn’t know, for a night out.

Mozza used to live with Panjita and I in our university halls. Over four years, the three of us have all managed to stay in contact.

Mozza and Panjita are closer, and I am the cling-on friend. It never used to be that way, but last year I went away to France and Germany, and so the two of them became best-buds while I was gone. They also became best-buds with a load of other new people, the people I went out with last night. I don’t know them. These new people, on the other hand, apparently know me very well.

Mozza now lives back down South and is working as a teaching assistant. She comes back to Manchester every now and then to get extremely drunk and voluntarily socially humiliate herself. She and Panjita get incredibly excited about this charade, about a month in advance there is an event created on Facebook and there is a constant wall-to-wall of "I can’t wait to see you!" I don’t share the same enthusiasm. I’d prefer it if we went out for a civilised meal and talked about our lives rather than get bladdered with the hockey team.

Yes, the hockey team.

The very same hockey team for which Rudolph plays.

And this is how my night of social humiliation began.

When I start sleeping with people I inform my mother. She likes a bit of gossip and I realised, after The Shadow incident, if I’m going to be having sex with a man, someone should probably know about it. If I end up dead in a river somewhere, I want my mum to be able to go after the fool who did it. And he would be a fool. For all I knew, Rudolph could have been a killer, and so I had to tell my mum, in case she would one day have reason to tear every limb from his torso. I still might suggest it.

So, one day. I received a message from my mum. "Who is that girl in Rudolph's profile picture?"

I couldn’t have run to the phone quick enough. My mum is the type of person who would have added him on Facebook – it wouldn’t have been the first time. At first you think having a mother who knows how to use the Internet is cool, but this woman knows no boundaries. I have tried deleting her, but she cries. She still leaves soppy comments on my status. Although I do get my revenge, I hacked her account and changed her profile picture to the photo of her in Amsterdam sat on a giant penis.

Anyway, I now know who the girl from the profile picture is. She was there last night, casting me the look of death from across the table. Panjita’s other friend, who has also slept with Rudolph, was there too, and she had some grudges to bear. If it wasn’t ex-conquests, it was his friends, making jokes and dirty remarks about my private areas. I have never met these people in my life. And yet somehow, they know all about my whole anatomy and can describe it in vivid detail.

I wish Rudolph a very slow and painful death.

So, imagine. I am sat there in a cocktail bar with a load of hockey players who know how I like it doggy style. The girl from the profile picture is looking at me so spitefully you would think that I had butchered her parents. Another girl is ranting in my ear about how Rudolph ruined her life whilst she smokes my cigarettes. I can see Mozza’s vagina because her dress is so short and she’s so drunk that she’s clumsily rolling around on the floor and Panjita is trying to set me up with yet another one of her friends, who by the way was a complete freak. How did I react to this uncomfortable situation? How do I ever react to an uncomfortable situation? I drink. I made my way through the whole cocktail menu.

After several Long Island ice teas, cheeky Vimtos and God knows whatever else was on that menu, I could start to see the funny side. I was chatting away to the freak, then an Irish guy who apparently I’ve met before but deleted him from Facebook (oops) and then to a guy who had incredibly bad breath. I thought I had put the social humiliation behind me. That’s when it strikes – when you think you are safe.

On my way out of the bar, I heard one of the guys make some jokey comment about my breasts. I could have walked away gracefully. But that’s just not me, that would make life too simple. Instead, I walked up to the glass window, pressed my chest up against the window and pulled my top over my head. I think one of my nipples may have been hanging out of my bra. Yes. That sure showed them. That is definitely the way to deal with social humiliation.

Last night I may as well have been on the 'Britain’s Got Talent' final. Simon Cowell and Amanda Holden would have all pressed that red button and buzzed me off stage. Piers Morgan probably loved it.

Instead of a group of MEN staff sat around at Porna’s applauding the TV screen, my audience was a bunch of rowdy hockey players. I have managed to inflict more social humiliation upon myself than the Glaswegian opera singer who can’t remember her lines. Simon Cowell has probably received news of this event and wants to sign me up to his travelling tour of circus freaks.

Every day that goes by I start to understand more about the Caveman. He must feel very safe in his fort of pizza boxes. Social humiliation is repelled by his smell and he can’t see what’s going on around him through all that facial hair. I don’t think I could grow a beard, even if I wanted to, I’ve spent all my Dominos money on Long Island ice tea and it must take years to acquire such a scent. I guess I will never be a true cave woman. So for now, I’m just hiding in my room.