I've only ever consumed seven minutes of Britain's Got Talent - it was instantly obvious which psychological buttons Mr Cowell enjoyed antisocially pressing.
And they lap it up.
19.2 million people for the Final on Saturday.
The pre-Final coverage was blanket.
The betting markets were top-heavy with punters betting on Susan Boyle to win.
So, we can't have that happening then.
The rumours that are bouncing around the trading rooms are unanimous in their assessment of the shenanigans at play, but cannot, for evident reasons, be printed in this place.
In today's climate, we all totally accept that this racist little island voted for a multicultural street dance troop in the competition, despite the societal advance of the odious UKIP and BNP hate brands and the massive media campaign to support Ms Boyle.
There is no mainstream media analysis of why Ms Boyle now finds herself in the Priory this morning, having been escorted there after losing the plot somewhat following the outcome in the Final.
The organisers tell us that it is the euphemistic "exhaustion" that is the problem.
Simon Cowell deserves a happy slapping at minimum, and there are grounds for justifiable homicide here.
Britain's Got Talent gives you Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder.
A phantasmagoric fantasy with a fake result and a nervous breakdown.
The mainstream media befuddles.
2009 = 1819.
Which is as neat a cue as one can produce to print Percy Bysshe Shelley and 1819.
An old, mad, blind, despised, and dying king,--
Princes, the dregs of their dull race, who flow
Through public scorn, mud from a muddy spring,--
Rulers who neither see, nor feel, nor know,
But leech-like to their fainting country cling,
Till they drop, blind in blood, without a blow,--
A people starved and stabbed in the untilled field,--
An army which liberticide and prey
Makes as a two-edged sword to all who wield,--
Golden and sanguine laws which tempt and slay;
Religion Christless, Godless, a book sealed,--
A Senate--Time's worst statute unrepealed,--
Are graves from which a glorious Phantom may
Burst to illumine our tempestuous day.
Sound familiar?
Would Ant and Dec consider entering parliament?
Cowell for Minister of Justice is no more ridiculous than the same sentence with Jack Straw included instead.
Esther Rantzen for the Home Office.
Britain Has Got Talent.
It Is Celebrity Talent - Hypertalent.
Let the fake take over the fake.
Less Real?
More Real?
Or so far from Reality that the very use of the word "Real" is Surreal.
To live in the English media, today, is to live in a very strange place indeed - psychopathy in spades but a complete absence of any talent other than the hyper variety.
The signposts of post-imperial decline - a rotten system, faked up by a rancid press.
© Football Is Fixed/Dietrological
