“I am not an animal! I am a club singer!” mumbles Susan of Boyle. Immediately the crowd stop throwing rotten vegetables and recoils in shock. The judges; eyes now narrow, they expertly scrutinized this mutation that parades the stage of primetime before them.

Then; she sang, and the world changed.

If you are one of the countless thousands that has been enthused into obsessive amounts of You-tubing because you saw an ugly woman sing well, then you should put your head in the oven now, before something really shocks you! Was it really all that surprising given the track record of such shows?

It’s 50/50, there is no middle ground for the mediocre, and no longer is there a spotlight for the Mr Average. Society now dishes out judgement from either end of a short scale, either a standing ovation and a montage of tears, or a chorus of boos, followed by a montage of tears. So which do you want? Which do you deserve? 

On a cynically positive note, it is like something from a HD natural history programme to see reality televisions circle of irrelevance complete it’s trivial self; as Jades light fades, the flash bulbs set their callus sights on Susan Boyle with Max Clifford in tow, no doubt. A star is born! Some dare cry resurrection as the spirit of a nobody done well lives on.

I just cry murder, but the television volume is to too loud and nobody hears me. Alas, alack, I die alone in front the box, never to complete my life’s work by purchasing dear Susan’s album of predictable covers and duets; available this Christmas, from a supermarket or competitively price website.  

Sleep well sweet prince.