Oops La La

As you might anticipate from my earlier post, this week I have been assiduously following the semi-finals of Britain's Got Talent and Good Friend is a very willing convert. As well as alternately marvelling and cringing at the mind boggling variety of acts, another, unexpected reaction has enhanced our nightly viewing - we have both, despite his startlingly chemically enhanced teeth, fallen in love with the re-constructed Simon Cowell! No longer the unfeeling, robotic, high-waisted, life-sized Barbie consort, he has morphed into a charming, sexy (especially when collar and tie batten down the chest hair) sympathetic man who is kind to children and animals and, most importantly, respectful of Amanda Holden's right to an opinion. It now falls to Piers Morgan to fulfil the role of condescending ageist misogynist who can also add spectacularly ill-informed to his CV - Bleeding Heart, my a***.

And so to the finalists... GF and I liked Signature, the dancing Sikhs and also clever collie, Gin, plus the shy chorister Andrew Johnston but not kiddie ballroom duo, The Cheeky Monkeys (Simon's soft side was positively flaccid where they were concerned). We adore inspired dancer George Sampson (to the point of actually picking up the phone and voting for him) and who would not admire the poise and talent of 12 year old Faryll Smith? We do not rate string ensemble Escala, however, who may be brilliant and gorgeous but are not innovative and would not attract nearly so much admiration if their collective and amply displayed pins were not quite so lissom. Martial arts duo, Strike, are far from a knockout in our book and what happened to the fabulous Hoop La La? I'm quite sure Prince Charles would have enjoyed them. But who cares? Our boy has won - for his Mum - and there wasn't a dry eye in the living room, the newly returned Brian having, predictably, beat a retreat to an early bed.

Many congrats to Blackpool's Jodie Pregner, victor in the Battle of the Nancies. The Lord and his side-kick, Cameron McIntosh, made it quite clear they didn't want her with the ennobled gargoyle even stooping so low as to make a sizeist remark (hey, what about a remake of that other Victor Hugo Classic, The Hunchback of Notre Dame?). They didn't like being over-ruled by "the people", seemingly forgetting that it was the plebs who made them their multi-millions in the first place.

Jaw Jaw

Driving again today for the first time since the little op. Recent very warm weather means that Middletown is looking its very best; we are lucky to have so many lovely tree-lined streets, especially in the oldest parts. Why must Brian be so uncompromising about on-site parking although I guess I'd be cursing if I couldn't park within a few yards of my door late on some dark and dreadful night.

I've just treated myself to a recording of Saturday's "Britain's Got Talent". I love talent shows and have proved rather adept at picking winners, especially on American Idol. Barring his misguided backing of Gareth Gates instead of Will Young on the very first Pop Idol, I am nearly aways in step with Simon Cowell who talks a lot of sense (although I did think the musical saw was a tour de force) and in a less abrasive fashion than formerly. Brian, naturally, abhors all this "waste of productive time"(hence the furtive recorded viewing) while William is more forbearing but does not care for the violent and prolonged paroxysms of laughter provoked by so many of the contestants. As I keep reminding Brian, "all of human life is there" and also, sadly, some with doubtful claim to the human part. His particular bete noire is "I'd Do Anything" or, in reference to 75% of the judging panel, "You could all be Nancies". I am no advocate of cosmetic surgery but if you had even some of the Lord's (A Lloyd-Webber) money, wouldn't you? His facial expressions are simply excruciating but it was his integrity which came under the Merchant scrutiny last Saturday when, as expected, he took his chance to get rid of ginger Ashley in the sing-off even though her rendition of his very own "Don't Cry for me Argentina" was streets ahead of Neve, the dark, very young and very, very un-nancyish Irish beauty. Even Brian, who had made a premature re-entry to the lounge, was crying "shame!".

Until last week, I had no idea that Rachel Johnson, Sunday Times columnist, was the sister of Boris. Now there can be no-one in the land, let alone London, who is unaware of their relationship because she is everywhere (Woman's Hour, Question Time). I hope this is not an indication of how Boris intends to conduct his mayoral term ie too many Johnsons in the spotlight but then I wouldn't be the first to suggest that he is a bit of a d***. And is it just me, or is there something of the trans-sexual about the sister? That jawline, for instance......