Britain's Got Shafted

Poor old Simon Cowell's having a bad week. When he jetted into the UK to sit at the end of the judges' table and stop David Hasselhoff from falling over, he was probably expecting a hero's welcome. Local boy done good and all that. Instead he had to endure a cacophony of boos, not to mention a ribbing from Geordie's answer to Hale & Pace. Ever the professional, he tried to turn a blind eye to the criticism. Unfortunately, it turned out to be more of a droopy eye, since his botched botox job made it look as though one of the floor managers had just opened the Ark of the Covenant.

First there was Cherylgate, a story which managed to make front page news right across the US, despite the fact that all anyone had been talking about in the preceding weeks was the fact that no-one in the States knew who she was. In the absence of any genuine insider insight, the news media resurrected all their previous speculation about why she was never going to land the US X-Factor gig in the first place. They just changed the tense and simply re-appropriated it as a hot-off-the-presses exclusive.

Was it the impenetrable accent, a lack of chemistry with the queen of self-medication, or that pesky assault conviction? No-one knows and, despite the paper's best efforts to convince us otherwise, no-one really cares. So Simon loses his luxuriously-maned pet rock, and everyone moves down a seat. Over in the Middle East, the war still rages on. Interestingly, Cheryl's managed to maintain a dignified silence over the whole farce, leaving the rest of us to wish that she'd remained similarly tight-lipped last time she visited a recording studio.

Simon's return to Britain's Got Talent, accompanied by John William's triumphant Superman march, was supposed to reassure the great viewing public that our favourite shows were safely nuzzled between his hairy tit-sacks. And that was probably the case until a former colleague decided to pull a Wikileaks and expose the talent factory for the dubious scam that it is.

The contents of the anonymous whistleblower's blog were only online for a short time, but were quickly cut-and-pasted into a bunch of other sites. Many of those sites were forced to quickly remove the article, replacing it with a notice that read "moved due to a claim from Simco Limited ('Syco') and Sony Music Entertainment UK Limited ('Sony')."

The veracity of the writer's claims are yet to be established, but it makes for interesting reading nonetheless. Although I could do without all the cloak-and-dagger subterfuge; he's talking about a reality TV show, not the fucking Enigma machine. If you didn't get to see the original post, allow me to paraphrase it for you: Britain's Got Talent preselects its preferred acts and manipulates the audience vote. Anyone with half a brain, which admittedly excludes about 75 percent of the show's viewers, already knew that.

Much of the post focuses on 12 year-old Ronan Parke, who's a dead-cert for victory on Saturday night according to our anonymous informant. Try telling that to Susan Boyle, assuming she stops yelling at pigeons in the precinct long enough to listen. If the article is to be believed, acts are allegedly hand-picked for stardom well in advance of the show being filmed, then groomed, coached and re-invented, ready for their TV debut. There's also a bizarre focus on Parke's indeterminate sexuality, suggesting that Cowell's team decided to 'play up' the gay angle, without the author ever explaining how he thought that might enhance the kid's Stateside appeal.

Whether or not these claims are true is really of little consequence. But Cowell's foolish overreaction does suggest that there's something in the article that he didn't want the public to know about. Many people have labelled Simon a genius for his ability to gift-wrap a dogshit and make us say "thank you" for it. And although I'd grudgingly agree that he displays moments of cunning brilliance, let's not forget that this is also a man who goes to Sinitta for advice, but only because Debbie Gibson's line is always engaged.

Who knows, maybe Ronan will win tomorrow's BGT final. And maybe he even had it in the bag months before the cameras started rolling. But does it doesn't really matter? Those who enjoy watching the show do so because it attempts to recapture the spirit of all those 70s talent shows that used to clog up the airways - admit it, there are few things more fun than watching Nina Myskow make a teenage magician cry.

Anyway, the point is, this might look like a talent contest. And we may even get the chance to vote. But the audience-participation element is just a novelty addition to the format, like the bedsit they stuck on the side of the Big Brother house. Cast your mind back to the origins of the Idol/X-Factor format and you'll recall that Popstars made no attempt to involve the audience. In fact, the outcome was a fait accompli before the first show even aired. The genius of the concept, was in lifting the lid on the cruel and fickle nature of the record label's A&R process. Shows like the X-Factor and Britain's Got Talent may give us the illusion of control, but ultimately, we're just fifteen million unpaid participants in an extended focus group for next year's slate of new artists.

Simon's troops are rallying around him in his hour of need, with one underling telling the press "There's no way this person will get away with this." Comforting words, even if they imply that the villainous blogger is actually a disgruntled caretaker who dresses as a luminous zombie. Forget Scotland Yard, Simon needs to get Scooby and the gang on the case. In the meantime, the police believe they're closing in on their prime suspect. Let's just hope that Joe McElderry, Shayne Ward and Leon Jackson have all got a fucking good alibi.

From bad to worse

Regular readers of this blog will know that p0pvulture has something of a love-hate relationship with the Daily Mail. I love the fact that it aggregates a whole host of celebrity and entertainment stories, but lament the sneery, bullying tone it adopts when reporting them.

It's the paper's innate sense of superiority that troubles me, even more than its loathsome xenophobia or fanatical dedication to a Britain that only ever existed in Enid Blyton's most halucinogenic cheese dreams.

Thankfully though, there's a delicious irony in the fact that its tone seems to be growing ever more supercilious, even as the quality of its reporting spirals irrevocably down the drain. Three examples in today's edition really caught my eye.

The first was a story about Gemma Arterton who has spoken out about the way Brits love to build up home-grown talent, only to knock it down at the first sign of success. Let's be honest, the woman has a point. So how does the Mail trail the feature in its margin?


Not getting off to the best of starts then. Addressing Gemma's claims, the Mail says "According to her, we simply don't like pretty girls who do well." Perhaps they're going to disprove her theory with an even-handed approach to the subject? "Obviously being a woman of both beauty and ability can be a burden. But Miss Arterton, it seems, is confident she can handle the pressure."

I'd say that was a 'no'.

OK, so Gemma's young and hot - she can take care of herself. What about Sylvester Stallone? The 63-year old film-maker recently broke his neck while filming the action movie The Expendables. He told FHM Magazine "Actually, my fight with Stone Cold Steve Austin was so vicious that I ended up getting a hairline fracture in my neck. I'm not joking...I had to have a very serious operation afterwards. I now have a metal plate in my neck."

That all sounds pretty painful. The Mail's headline?


But it's not all just snide remarks and holier-than-thou editorial. Sometimes it's just the laziest journalism on record. Today's finest non-story is a 'before they were famous' piece about everyone's favourite spinster songbird Susan Boyle. Prepare yourself now, this is some exciting stuff...

In a Daily Mail showbiz exclusive, the paper breathlessly announced that a woman called Tori Graham found half of someone who may have been Susan Boyle, in a photo that was taken at Edinburgh Waverley station in 2002. This is what the Pulitzer was invented for.


To paraphrase Oscar Wilde - we are all in the gutter press, but some of us are looking up the skirts of the stars.

Sharon gets ugly (again)

Proving that there's no bitch like an old bitch, Sharon Osbourne has decided to show the caring maternal instinct that won her the title of Freemans Celebrity Mum of the Year in 2006. Appearing on a US radio show hosted by Opie and Anthony, the Wicked Witch of the West Coast decided to take a pop at the world's newest middle-aged sweetheart.

Talking about Susan Boyle, Sharon (whose greatest gift to the world was a pair of entitled brats with substance abuse issues) described the showtune-loving spinster as having a face like a "slapped arse".

Encouraged by the laughing goons in the studio, Osbourne continued: "She does look like a hairy arsehole. She's a lovely lady, but she needs a Gillette razor. [God] gave her the talent. Yes he did. [And] he hit her with a fucking ugly stick."

Which is a little rich, given that Sharon has spent over £120,000 transforming herself from frumpy housefrau to well-loved national matriarch. And she still looks like Alex Reid's alter-ego Roxanne. 

Susan Boyle may never be the face of L'Oreal, but at least all her shortcomings are superficial. Sharon's unpleasantness is on the inside too, which makes one wonder just where she's been putting her own ugly stick.

Green eyes monster (deal)

There's a great moment in The Empire Strikes Back when Luke Skywalker faces Darth Vader in a battle to the death. Hanging on for dear life, a battered and bruised Luke is hit with the facts behind his mysterious upbringing. His masked nemesis tells him that ObiWan Kenobi had lied, and that he was in fact Luke's father. Still, it's not all bad news for the Jedi in-training. Vader makes him an offer he can't refuse (or so he thinks), saying "Together we will rule the universe."

The relevance? I can't help thinking back to that momentous scene when I read about Simon Cowell and Philip Green planning a transatlantic media organisation that could rival Disney. The fact that they're still talking means that Simon Cowell didn't scream "No", attempt suicide and end up hanging upside down from a weather-vane. I also imagine that he still has all his own fingers.

So what does all this mean? No-one's really sure, since the contract have yet to be signed. However, I can't help but be a little cynical about the notion that this partnership could be bigger than Disney. After all, despite being a union-breaking, anti-semitic, pro-McCarthy dictator, Disney was also a visionary creative. His story-telling skills, imagination and entrepreneurial risk-taking marked him out as a true original. He also gets extra points for inadvertently inventing the immersive brand experience. Simon Cowell, on the other hand has precisely two ideas to his name - a resurrection of The Gong Show, and a slight tweak to the Pop Idol format.

As for Philip Green, he's got a reputation for buying up old stock and selling it on, finding innovative ways to avoid paying tax, and getting on the wrong side of anti-sweatshop groups. All of which makes me think that this is going to be less of a Luke and Vader team-up, and more like a Sith and apprentice arrangement.

Who knows, in five years' time Mickey Mouse might be queuing up to have his photo taken with Susan Boyle...

Winners and losers

OK, so I wouldn't ordinarily follow up one post with another on the same subject, but given how big the Britain's Got Talent final was (over 19 million viewers - unheard of in a multi-channel age) I felt I needed to close the book on the subject.

Watching the show last night I was struck with an almost Calvinistic sense of predestination (I win extra points for using big words). It was as though there were nine contestants competing for the trophy, with Susan Boyle as a kind of wild-card-cum-guest-star. As a consequence, there was an uncomfortable atmosphere as the other nine acts gave their all in a show that seemed to be a foregone conclusion - as predictable as Lost having a season finale with a WTF moment. By the time Piers Morgan told Susan she was his favourite contestant and that he hoped she would win, it seemed as though the fat lady had sung (sorry, easy joke).

But then Diversity took to the stage, with another stunningly choreographed performance showcasing their wild-haired bespectacled secret weapon, who looks more and more like Scary Spice's Mini-Me.


And somehow, all the hype, coverage and hyperbole took second place to a genuine display of spectacular talent.

As much as I loved Susan's performances, and watching her go from spinster to superstar, I can think of no more fitting ending to a talent show than for the most talented act to win. And although there's an anti-climactic sense of 'is that it?' about being denied the denouement we all expected, we should be happy with how it turned out. Unfortunately, the media now have to cover their backs for making the SuBo story run and run, which is why half the headlines about the result seem to be about who came second, rather than who actually won. Even the press conference this morning with the Essex-based dance troupe focused more on Susan than anything else.

The reason Susan caught the imagination of the world wasn't because she had the most remarkable voice we'd ever heard. It was because she reminded us to look beneath the surface. She told us to never give up on our dreams, no matter how old we are. And she proved that eyebrows demand regular management.

More importantly, she showed us that winning wasn't as important as proving to the world that we have something to offer. Think back to her first audition, when she finished her song and walked straight offstage - she wasn't there for the judges, she just wanted her chance to show what she could do. She dreamed a dream, and for a few weeks, it was one we all shared.

The media reaches Boyling point

Obama's election, Bobby's resurrection in the shower and the WMD in Iraq. All pale into insignificance when compared with the column inches dedicated to a middle-aged spinster with unruly hair and depressing dress sense.

Unless you spent the last few weeks in a persistent vegitative state, you're no doubt aware that the UK is in the grip of Britain's Got Talent mania. All this week we've been treated to the semi-finals, as each night eight acts took their turn to showcase a staggering lack of the show's eponymous quality, with a few notable exceptions of course.

But there's only one act that anyone seems to care about, and that's Susan Boyle, AKA The Hairy Angel, SuBO (the woman has more aliases than Sydney Bristow). With the show heading inexorably towards its final edition tonight, the media has responded by filling its front pages with speculative, and often falsified, stories about Susan. It's no wonder the poor woman got off to a shaky start last week, even Jesus' second coming will be under considerably less scrutiny.

First it was Lily Allen 'blasting' Susan (in fact she simply said that the Scottish singer was overrated), then plastic-faced uber-gay Craig Revel-Horwood waded in to say that Susan sucked (presumably forgetting that he's a judge on a different show). Most recently, it was even considered news that Heather Mills was unaware of Susan's existence (presumably the apocryphal Amazonian tribe unaware of James Bond or Michael Jackson have at least watched SuBo's YouTube audition).

Then there are the stories of Susan herself, rather than desperate media tag-nuts who invoke her name for some easy column inches. Susan's moods, Boyle's breakdown, Susan quitting, Susan's pep-talk from Simon, Piers' defense of Susan, Susan's safe-house. It's enough to make your head spin.

In amongst all this coverage were two consecutive stories in my favourite neo-Nazi rag, the Daily Mail, which highlighted the alarming disparity between news and fact. In typical foaming-at-the-mouth style, the Mail churnalists had stated that Susan "stunned a room full of hotel guests with a four-letter rant... Watching the show the hotel's bar, Boyle is accused of sticking two fingers up at a television and shouting 'f*** off', before stomping off to her room." Weirdly, just 24 hours later, Susan's 'furious four-letter outbursts' were reported somewhat differently: "The churchgoer twice slammed her fists down on her chair, swore under her breath then hid away in her room at London's Wembley Plaza Hotel." Now, call me a pedant, but swearing under one's breath can hardly be considered an outburst.

Still, the old saying goes 'There's no such thing as bad publicity'. The show's been in the public eye all week, ratings have never been higher, and Simon Cowell will be able to afford lots more cosmetic orthodontic work. So everyone's happy. Apart from Susan, of course, who just seems to be caught in the middle of this media-managed maelstrom. Let's hope she pulls something out of the bag for tonight's final, starting with a decent outfit.

Don't give up so easily

I feel a little cruel, attacking the Daily Mail when its defenses are so clearly weakened. Because even its own writers seem to be losing faith in its 'write anything as long as it fills space' credo, especially where celebrities are concerned.

The latest revelation is that Help-The-Aged volunteer and part-time actress Catherine Zeta-Jones is 'desperate' to play Susan Boyle in a biopic of her life. This, despite the fact that Susan's story so far consists of 47 years of nothing, marching onto a stage and singing a song, having her eyebrows plucked, and sitting back as 100 million people watch a clip on YouTube. It's not quite Lawrence of Arabia is it?

Unable to resist adding another ostrich egg to this already over-stuffed pudding of a story, the Mail continues by stating that "It is believed that... director James Cameron has expressed an interest in a similar project." James Cameron, who has spent the last 14 years developing a 3D movie about 10-foot tall CGI aliens, is interested in the non-story of a Scottish spinster who likes Elaine Paige.

Surely, no-one with slightest trace of journalistic integrity would ever consider fabricating a dream of such cheese-before-bedtime proportions? The clues are in the words which pepper every paragraph of this laughable litany of lies. 'Apparently', 'said to be' and 'it is believed' all make a worrying appearance here. All courtesy of a 'source' at Britain's Got Talent.

And that's where it all starts going wrong for the Mail. They talk about Susan saying "she has been dubbed the hairy angel", forgetting that they were the ones who coined this unappealing nickname. The final ignominy is that the only fact that appears in the article manages to negate the entire piece. "Miss Zeta-Jones's publicist in the U.S. said there were currently no plans for her to play Miss Boyle."

Still, if nothing else, the article gives us yet another opportunity to marvel at the skills of their in-house photo-shop department.

I want it all... and I want it now

We live in a world of instantaneous fulfillment. Instant celebrity, overnight success, that's what we all crave. Take Susan Boyle for example, who just three days (and 2.5 million YouTube hits) ago was revealed as the woefully under-polished diamond of the new series of Britain's Got Talent. Within 24 hours of the show airing, the Sunday Mirror had already run an exclusive interview with the style-stymied songstress. And what a difference a day makes...

The story itself ticks all the boxes - learning difficulties, bullying, dead parents, poverty. We can take our pick as to which heartstring we want tugging. It's no wonder Simon looked like all his birthdays had come at once. But what really stands out in the Mirror's story, is just how predetermined the outcome is looking. Speaking about the kids who bullied her in school, Susan comments "They're all grown up with children of their own. But look at me now - I've got the last laugh." She's refers to Simon Cowell as the boss, and speaks about a meeting that she's already had with Sony BMG. Even the Mirror gets in on the act, talking about Susan's gamble paying off and Simon 'grooming her' for stardom. I don't know about stardom, I think she'd just benefit from some grooming.

Still, even if this interview makes her success in the show seem like a fait accompli, and pretty much invalidates the notion of an audience voting for the winner, at least Susan's got one thing right. She never makes the assumption that she'll be working with Simon Cowell - she's very clear that she'd be "happy to work for him".

Daring to dream

Since I've been writing this blog, a number of people have commented how 'me' it is. Some say sarcastic, others say scathing, and it would be churlish of me to disagree. But sometimes, I see something that cuts through the cynicism and just gives me a dose of the warm fuzzies. Last night, it was Britain's Got Talent.

I'm not talking about the show itself, that's still the same tawdry, variety show that the I hoped had died out in the seventies along with Pan's People and the three-day week. The vast majority of acts are soul-crushingly inept losers, usually just a gossamer thread away from from a full-on nervous breakdown. But occasionally a glimmer of talent emerges, hand-in-hand with a tragic tale of woe, and the tabloids masturbate themselves into apoplexy. Meanwhile, Ant and Dec gurn from the wings, mocking the acts, trash-talking the judges, and generally just filling in time until their next trip to the trichologist.

So it was purely by accident that I happened to see ten minutes of Britain's Got Talent last night, and the performance of Susan Boyle. This 47 year-old (who looks a good 20 years older) has never been kissed and lives alone with a cat in a Scottish village. As she took the the stage, the whole audience and the three insufferably smug judges, were already laughing dismissively at the woman alternately described in the press as 'Ma Larkin' or a 'Hairy Angel'. It didn't help that she looked like she'd been styled by Helen Keller, or that she made the mistake of attempting to gyrate seductively in a manner that reminded me of John Hurt's convulsions right before the Alien made its debut.

She said that she wanted to be a professional singer, but had never had the chance, as the camera cut to some scrape-faced teenager in the audience rolling her eyes. She dreamed of a career like Elaine Paige, which probably sent the younger half of the show's audience to Wikipedia to look up the grand dame of musical theatre. The judges prepared themselves for the worst, and off she went.

It must have taken all of five seconds for the audience to realise what was happening. It was one of those moments where a show like this transforms from a Roman spectacle of Christians vs lions, and becomes something truly magical, with the power to change lives. It's the kind of moment that once took a dentally defective mobile phone salesman and turned him into the best selling recording artist ever discovered on a talent show. Never mind that 'true opera fans' were falling over themselves to deride the bastardisation of their beloved art form. The fact is, someone utterly unremarkable in almost every way, found an opportunity to showcase the one thing about himself that was remarkable. And people loved it. I wouldn't be surprised if Susan enjoys a similar fate.

Interestingly, we got a text this morning from a friend in Australia, commenting on her performance, that he'd heard about on Ashton Kutcher's Twitter feed. I guess good news travels fast.

Anyway, that's my heart-warming story for today - back to venom and vitriol tomorrow. In the meantime, see for yourself what all the fuss is about: