The Diary Of Simon Cowell: The Morning After The Night Before..

Was woken by some serious banging and crashing in the hotel this morning. How many times do I have to tell that man servant to let me lie-in after a night on the shandies?! Put on my sequined dressing gown and wandered downstairs to fire him (he’s been asking for a holiday for years anyway…) only to discover that my penthouse was being raided by some drunken chavs! On closer inspection, they turned out to be the talentless sods I’m relying on to win the competition this year. One of them was emptying the contents of my mini-bar into his man bag! He tried to flee but I grabbed the little turd by his beanie and asked him if he wanted to waste his life drinking, doing drugs and having sex or be a real rock star like those lads in JLS? He just vomitted all over my rug. I’m going to give him a record deal and then take his first pay-check to pay for the damage. That’ll teach him a bloody lesson..

Spent the whole of yesterday afternoon at the dry cleaners while those little bastards did laps of the villa. You give a give a group of excited teenagers a free holiday and an open bar and before you can say ‘SuBo’s beard-trimmer’ the lot of them are behaving like Oliver Reed during a Parkinson interview. Incidentally I must remember to check I took Parky’s number down right when I last saw him. The one I’ve got just doesn’t connect to anything…

Cancelled the bouncy castle I had put on for those little wasters as a punishment for their debauchery, but did enjoy a long session in the ball pool while they ironed my £20 notes. Bloody kids. Yet another scandal this afternoon (they really are rather good for publicity). One of the girls from boot camp used to be a prostitute! I knew she looked familiar during the auditions! The last thing I want is that whole story coming out – even my reputation probably won’t survive those photos. I still can’t believe she charged extra for the strap-on…

The press were laying siege to the hotel when I came down for breakfast this morning. I told them that prositutes are fine by me, but they seem to have taken it in completely the wrong way… Needless to say I had another social welfare woman on the phone within the hour shouting about how I’m setting bad examples and that I have a responsibility to young girls who watch the show. I told her that £160 per hour was a bloody good rate of pay and maybe she should consider it. She said she didn’t care about money that much which is why she did so much volunteer work. I’m seriously fed up with these bloody hippies and their anti-capitalist agenda. Every time I try to turn some backward hillbilly into a star they get more worked up than Jedward’s neighbours. After I put the phone down I went to look up the word ‘volunteer’ on Google. I am gobsmacked!

I was still laughing about that whole ‘volunteer’ thing this morning. I let one of the receptionists in on the joke as I left the hotel but I don’t think she understood it properly because she didn’t find it very funny. Then again it is delightfully abstract. After congratulating myself on an excellent sense of humour, I put my useless bunch of contestants through their paces. Most of them are okay, but some are pretty horrific. I must have been checking my chest hair during their auditions because I wouldn’t let them near a karaoke machine let alone a recording studio.

Some bloke from the BBC called this evening. I told him that I’ll pay my licence fee when they agree to move Strictly Come Dancing to an earlier spot on a Saturday evening. I much prefer it to X Factor but I haven’t been able to watch a live episode for years! That reminds me, I must give Bruce Forsyth his garden gnomes back…