Exeunt, Pursued by Bears

Britain’s Got Talent is on in an hour. Although it was a great deal of fun watching a man eat four chocolates in a minute, this week I am hoping for bigger and better things. Cats acting out the Trojan War, a man who can uncork bottles with his eyes, a fat priest performing Lady Hamilton’s Attitudes in a nappy, a woman suckling a pangolin, twelve bejewelled and shit-flinging eunuchs, a magician who vanishes the moral compasses of everyone in the room, a small boy who eats his own feet, The Great De-gloving Machine, a pelican circling the room with a baby in its beak or even a child singer who shouldn’t be shot on sight.

Not Long Now

Britain’s Got Talent is my favourite thing. Oh, to live in a world where everyone wears sequins and all dogs jump backwards through hoops. I especially like the magicians with their glamorous assistants. There is something seedy and deranged about amateur magicians. I like to speculate on their sex lives – I bet they keep their assistants in cages. I think that next year I will audition myself, as a clown called Forcemeat. Underneath my grimy tailcoat I’ll wear a suit of ham and I’ll make people put their hands in my bumbag, even if they really, really don’t want to. My routine will involve mixing together a hundred horrible ingredients in a giant teacup and force-feeding Amanda Holden the resultant slop until something inside her ruptures. Then I will spit-roast all the precocious child-dancers with their Vaseline smiles and leg-warmers and alarming eye-shadow and I will eat them all up. Straight through to the second round. I am also available for children’s parties.