Think For Yourself

I've been lucky enough - if that's the phrase - to be invited to Britain's Got Talent tonight.

Have you been watching at all? Last year I didn't watch it all, but I rather got caught up in it this time around and I've been enjoying it. It's a hateful load of tosh with no one particularly talented that I can see, except Susan Boyle, who does have a good voice. Of course, if she'd been pretty and about 35 she wouldn't be at all unusual. No wonder she's having a meltdown. Whoever thought to call her the Hairy Angel should be shot. It's the cruelest nickname for someone who quite clearly already lacks confidence.

Anyhoo, Mrs F-C is beside herself with excitement, especially as we get to go in the VIP bit. She doesn't get to go to many things with me, work-wise, so it's a treat. I have to say, much as I loathe TV recordings, I'm looking forward to it. Thank God it's live - at least you know it has to finish at a certain time, and you don't have to go back over things pretending to laugh because they didn't pick it up first time. It's painful. And boring. And hot. The last time that happened to me was at Harry Hill. He's funny, but not when you've had to chuckle lightly for the fourth time at the same old joke. So I only go to live shows now. Look at me.

So, I think tonight we might be seeing family singing sensations - and to me the Cowsills of the Noughties - Good Evans, that irritating ballerina who's about eight and that frankly rather frightening boy soprano.

But if anyone pulls out, we'll be happy to stand in. I thought I'd cook an elaborate omelette while Mrs F-C sings Chirpy Chirpy Cheep Cheep behind me.

Well I'd vote for it.

This shit got all the way to semis after all...