I love Simon Cowell. I don’t mean by this, that I’m in love with him before anyone gets carried away now, I’m just in awe of him.

Ok so he thinks wearing the highest waisted trousers ever known to man are cool and he wears his chest rug with pride, but he’s worth like gazillions so I won’t even get started on the whole cuban heel thing to propel him those extra few inches.

So you’re probably thinking it’s the zeros in his bank account that I’m loving, right? No it’s not actually but if he were to offer me a few quid, then I wouldn’t say no. But anyway, back to my love for Simon. I love Simon because he’s honest and he’s brutal. Not brutal in a bitchy kind of way, but in a truthful and admirable way.

Take these beings that stand in front of him on X Factor claiming to be the next Mariah or Beyoncé. They’ve not just rocked up of their own accord have they let’s be honest? No. They’re there because they’re a product of society’s inability to say “You’re shit, don’t bother wasting anyone’s time, you’re simply not good enough.” 

Not enough of this shit is said frankly. It doesn’t have to be delivered in an obnoxious manner, I’m just saying that sometimes in life, you need telling you’re up to scratch.

Simon, in my opinion, does this. He tells it how it is and people don’t like this and take offence. This is precisely why I love Simon.  How can you take offence at the truth for crying out loud?

Often people don’t like the truth. I’ve been told often enough I’m a bit blunt. I wouldn’t say I’m blunt; I deliver the truth and that’s what people don’t like about me – I don’t care to be honest. If you don’t like hearing the truth, this says more about you than me but let’s not go there.

If Harry ever says “Mummy, I want to be a pro footy player” and he’s in the unfortunate position of having two left feet, I’ll be straight on to him telling him to give it up. Some might say I’d be shattering his dreams and oh what a terrible mother I’d be; I say mind your own business nosey parker, I’m not about to set my son up for a catastrophic fall.

There’s another problem here and we’re of the generation and times when you’re reminded you can be anyone you want to be. With the best will in the world, I’ll never be the next Beyoncé. I can’t sing for shit and as much as I think I can move my hips as well as she can, I’m 34 with a post baby body that never has time to smash the gym, so it’s never gonna happen is it.

Still, there’d be some fuck out there telling me to excel and I can achieve my dream of being Donny’s answer to Beyoncé. So there I’d be in front of Simon Cowell, being told to stick to my day job. And rightly bloody so.

There’s nothing wrong with taking a leaf from Simon Cowell’s book and being honest if you ask me; just as you don’t want to see a 50 year old woman in hot pants, you sure as hell don’t wanna see me breaking glass as I shriek my head off and crush my backing dancers as my hip goes on me mid performance.

Sometimes the Simon Cowell’s of this world just have your best interests at heart.

And they’re there to save you from yourself and the ludicrous thoughts that some of us pretend to be something we’re not and that’s why I love Simon Cowell.

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