*Warning: This is not the ACTUAL diary of Simon Cowell*
Late start this morning. I couldn’t find my spirit level so doing my hair was an utter nightmare! Another dozen messages on my answer machine from some bloke called George Sampson, he seems to think I owe him money! No time to worry about that as I had some important shopping to do before the day’s X Factor auditions. They just don’t make v-neck sweaters like they used to, I feel very uncomfortable with neither of my nipples on display. In the end I just had to buy the three most open ones availble. I had some scissors at home anyway… It turned out to be a very stressful afternoon at the studio – the standard of the contestants is just getting worse and worse I’m afraid. Told 80-year old woman she sounded like foxes shagging. She cried. I caught my reflection in the tear that rolled down her cheek: Perfection. Not looking forward to Wednesday – we’re off to Scotland. Louis invited me round to his house to play strip poker afterwards. Westlife popped in as well…
Woke up at Louis’s. Handcuffed to bed for some reason. It was good to see Louis and the boys getting on so well, but I wish they wouldn’t include me in their strange wrestling games. They kept asking me to do stuff for “tha craic” (whatever that is?) Saw Gordon Ramsay on the TV as I was eating breakfast, he really needs to sort those wrinkles on his forehead out! Must remember to tell him that when I see him next. Made it to the airport in time to catch a private jet to Manchester for the next set of auditions. Have packed an oxygen mask in case I catch the plague. Man at the airport looked me directly in the eye as he carried my luggage to the plane. I fired him on the spot..
Caught my plane to Scotland after my weekly knuckle wax. Air hostesses were summarily disciplined for their choice of inflight entertainment: Rage Against The Machine – the cheek! From now on my jet will be equipped to play only Joe McElderry and anyone who doesn’t like it will be fired. That reminds me, I must drop round to see Sir Alan Sugar about my planned range of skin toners. Finally arrived at Susan’s house in Blackburn, I can see why they call this place West Lothian – Loath-ian more like. Some peasants actually had the gall to look at me: have made a mental note to have them executed – they just don’t go with the look of the place. Susan’s shanty-flat was pleasant enough but there weren’t enough reflective surfaces so I didn’t know if my teeth were offsetting my tan properly. Tried a deep fried Mars Bar, was sick in the limo.
Decided to let Louis and Cheryl do the rest of the auditions, can’t stand the bloody peasants in the provinces anymore. Much prefer it here in London where everyone is too classy to talk to each other. Saw a busker on the street as I was one my way to my favourite plastic surgeon. “What’s the ambition here?” I asked him. “To make crap music and take people’s money,” he replied. I hired him on the spot. His name is Billy and he smells funny. He was kind enough to come to my preliminary appointment with me. Mr Patel says that he should be able to remove my head from my arse without much scarring.
Spent four hours today looking at myself in the mirror. I do believe I get more handsome as the days go by. Crept into Bruce Forsyth’s garden with Cheryl to steal his garden gnomes but he saw us and chased us down the street with a broom. Fortunately I had my trousers hiked up to my armpits again, so I was able to run full pelt round the corner – god I’m a genius. Madonna still hasn’t accepted my friend request on Facebook, how am I going to get her on X Factor if she won’t even speak to me? This is a disaster. Spent the rest of the afternoon snatching lollipops off local school children which made me feel much better. Urgh, X Factor starts tomorrow. Fortunately, my sound cancelling earphones arrived in the post today, so I can listen to Leona Lewis without hearing the drivel from the new contestants.
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