Simon Cowell, Mock The Week And The Death Of Culture

The UK is fast becoming a cultural wasteland, and this motley crew are among the worst offenders…
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The UK is fast becoming a cultural wasteland, and this motley crew are among the worst offenders…


The Last Boredcast

It is hard to eke out any kind of existence in 21st century Britain without being aware of what a predominantly dumbed-down, boring place it is. Our culture, by and large, is helplessly denuded, shaped by plastic personalities with zero talent and with an eye on the pound signs rather than any sort of originality or creativity. For a topical exemplification of this theme, I need only say “Cameron” and “Film Council”.

This might seem just a bit like intellectual snobbery and, well, I suppose it is a bit. It’s just all I see is our populace sliding back to the swamps as we sit, bovine and slothful, and let this shit wash over us. I’m not saying that I want a copy of Gravity’s Rainbow posted to every home in the land, or that I want a diktat handed down demanding that everyone owning an mp3 player MUST have a Mozart piano concerto on it, I just feel that we are being constantly undersold by meretricious bollocks that demeans and benumbs us all.

To this end, I’ve picked a little selection of some of the most egregious culture criminals who, when I establish my Reich, will be first against the wall, charged with leading this assault of banal mediocrity on us all.

Mock The Week

You might have thought that satire was killed off once and for all when Tory cuntlord Michael Gove reckoned we should all dip into our piggy banks and buy one of the richest women in the world a yacht but the actual murder took place years earlier, when this abomination was brought to the screen. Mock The Week is symptomatic of the political apathy that wracks the country, a shallow, self-congratulatory, gurning, grinning, sixth-formy gathering which exalts itself but really only reaches a “Tony BLIAR more like!” level of humour. Having drummed out the only person of any interest in Frankie Boyle, this now represents the vanilla option to Have I Got News For You that, while it doesn’t exactly storm the barricades, has the peerless Ian Hislop and Paul Merton. The days of Chris Morris are long gone I’m afraid.

Satire is one tool that we should use to keep a check on our supposed betters, and should, to paraphrase Finley Peter Dunne, “comfort the afflicted and afflict the comfortable”.  If Mock The Week is among the best we can offer then the picture of the future I’m getting is the awful Andy Parsons IRRITATINGLY STAMPING EVERY SINGLE WORD slowly and loudly into a human’s face - forever.


To peruse the listings of this channel is to glimpse the running order for the end of the world. ITV 2 is, in fact, less a TV channel and more an open spigot, gushing lukewarm, lumpy sewage directly into your front room all over your nice new rug. If it isn’t shouty prolefests like The Jeremy Kyle Show, in which our eponymous hero goads mouth breathing, adulterous morons into battle, it’s the screeching, raisin-faced Judge Judy or, the chunky faecal jewel in the vast crown of shit, The Only Way is Essex.

ITV 2 is, in fact, less a TV channel and more an open spigot, gushing lukewarm, lumpy sewage directly into your front room all over your nice new rug.

Words can’t describe how ersatz, how staggeringly moronic this programme is. It is simply nothingness extrapolated. As far as I can tell it’s real people, acting, but in their real lives, set up, but all totally real. It’s reality, except they all receive direction, make-up and suggested lines. Baffling.

Things aren’t helped either by the protagonists all looking so much like mannequins, plastic, empty-headed, vacant. All they do is preen, fuck, eat and occasionally pretend to fight, the men lumps of vaguely sentient beef and the women exhibiting worked-on faces that look like someone pressing a skull through the surface of a balloon. The lines are blurred so much that, horribly, two of the girls were attacked in a nightclub. Were the attackers hitting out at the characters or them? But the characters are them, so, is it real anger? It’s this commingling of the false and real that renders it all vaguely unsettling, and I often wonder that maybe I’m just the idiot who can’t get his head round it. Then I hear one of these cretins talk about fanny diamantes or some wanky poser’s hole of a nightclub and realise they are all agents of the Antichrist. For the love of Jehovah, make it stop.

Shit Lit

Reading now appears to be a pastime with approximately the same level of popularity as that perennial hobby ‘hanging your sagging, twitching scrotum within swiping distance of an angry scorpion’. What doesn’t help is that, when people do read, they pick up utter tosh. Putting to one side the facile ghostwritten autobiographies of sports stars or entertainers who are barely out of the womb (you Bieber, a thousand times you), as well as the baffling rise of ‘misery lit’ (isn’t life miserable enough?) we come to two publishing megastars: Dan Brown and Stephanie Meyer.

In the interests of disclosure I should probably state here that I’ve read two of Dan Brown’s books, and if anything this makes me more qualified to slate him. He is barely a writer and is actually more a sculptor, taking marginally interesting ideas and artlessly moulding them into prose so wooden you could make decking out of it. He produces texts with both eyes on a film adaptation and hence with no craft or nuance, nothing to make you think. This makes it shallow and, ultimately, a bit rubbish.

I have actually read very little* of Meyer’s twee, vacuous fantasy, aimed at the masochistically lovelorn, and have seen only 23 minutes of its celluloid counterpart, but it is simply mawkish, pre-pubescent pig piss. From what I can gather, it all boils down to whether some simulacrum of the reader (for that’s what ‘Bella’ is, a void, not a character, a space for the spinster/teenage reader to inhabit) wants to partake in bestiality or necrophilia, and the tiresome trail of woes and heart-fluttering tedium that goes with this momentous decision.

I see grown women reading this on the train with tears glassing their eyes and I just want to shake them and shout, “YOU’RE A GROWN WOMAN - SORT YOURSELF OUT!” but I don’t as my old dear brought me up the right way, i.e. with great emphasis on not conducting random assaults on public transport. More’s the pity.

As an addendum, I also feel that anyone who goes along to evictions and boos should be immediately filled, via the mouth, with concrete and cat shit. Such a person is too vindictively stupid to be allowed to live.


Endemol was the gunk-spattered midwife that delivered the demon child that was Big Brother and unleashed it on the world, a birth with all the beneficial effects of a sexually frustrated lion being introduced to a ward of crippled haemophiliacs. Moving swiftly away from pioneering sociological experiment it soon became a vapid, voyeuristic construct, gifting the idiot that tuned in a one-way mirror view in to the most pointlessly famous house in the country (after Buckingham Palace).

Worse still is that it isn’t reality, as the edit suite shapes easy hate figures, taking away any independent thought and allowing you to sit sniping in front of the screen at these cartoon humans. It’s all so vicious and unnecessary. This is to say nothing of the whole culture borne of Big Brother that pervades television now, in that it isn’t a real show unless you can vote on it, comment on it, have some input. Pretty soon we’ll be voting on Question Time, deciding whom Dimbleby will teabag live on air. Possibly.

As an addendum, I also feel that anyone who goes along to evictions and boos should be immediately filled, via the mouth, with concrete and cat shit. Such a person is too vindictively stupid to be allowed to live.

Simon Cowell

Simon Cowell is the arch-villain of this piece, a showbiz Blofeld, a sinner who has dipped his golden hooves into almost every sphere of entertainment. Not content with making every checkout girl from Aberdeen to Eastbourne think she’s Whitney Houston, his production teams then branched out into bringing every unhinged pensioner in the country on to Britain’s Got Talent so we could heckle and deride the patently mentally ill. Nice work.

When not trying to set new records for asphyxiating trouser waistlines he presides over “The X Factor”, an evil beast that has sullied the charts with tortuous covers devoid of any originality at all, making out it’s all about the music when the show must make its money a hundred times over due to saturation advertising before a single is even downloaded. And O yes, the programme itself, straddling both evenings of the weekend, a hyperactively hellish, dystopic lightshow that is so penetrated with spin and direction it is about as plausibly ‘real’ as Star Trek.

Probably most yawnsome is the insidious PR machine that guffs backstory all over everything. Take this year for example, when we were invited to treat priapic, hedge-headed fuckwit Frankie Cocozza as some kind of Keith Moon/Ozzy Osbourne amalgam when he was in fact about as rock n roll as a Quorn risotto. But there were the constant stories in the media about his heavy nights out as if he was the only teenager to ever stay out past midnight trying to get some blart. He’s 18, he’s going to be a drunken, skirt-chasing little div – I know I was. But that was his ‘character’, which fits into the overall plot. The others are given their identity too, including promoting the Irish girl as some sort of ethereal celtic warbler, part timid woodland creature and part Kate Bush, who looked as if she was going to collapse beneath the weight of make-up and hair gunk they foisted on her. Poor fucker.

Luckily people seem to be coming to their senses and are voting with their arms and turning this bombastic shite off in their droves. But this is what we need to do with all the above, ignore, starve and kill, as you would rid yourself of a parasite.  This would then make way for more interesting, entertaining and edifying stuff, and we could all do with that, eh?

*eight words roughly, before slinging it across the room and almost maiming the cat

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