By UNCUNT staff
I have a recurring dream in which Simon Cowell has been found brutally murdered in his country mansion.
In the dream, I am at home alone and every news channel on TV is showing images of the murder scene. Cowell’s body is covered by one of those tent things the forensics use. Reports suggest his head has been irrevocably cunted open with a golf club. (An 8 Iron, if you need that level of detail).
I open the curtains and look out the window where a small huddle of people are gathering in the streets outside, laughing and chattering excitedly. Slowly, more and more people begin to gather until there is quite a throng, and the mood becomes buoyant. People begin to unfurl banners saying ‘Ding Dong The Witch Is Dead’ and ‘RIP Cuntface Cowell’. Ticker tape and balloons fill the air, strangers dance and embrace, somebody turns on a ghetto blaster and I hear the refrain “fuck you I won’t do what you tell me” ringing out loud and clear across the neighbourhood.
Amazed, I run to fetch the newspaper. The headline screams ‘Millions Celebrate Cowell’s Murder’. On the TV I see that all over England, street parties are taking place. David Cameron emerges from Downing Street with an effigy of Cowell and sets fire to it. Cut to Buckingham Palace where The Queen reads a statement declaring a national holiday “to see that Cowell cunt orf in style”. Scenes like this haven’t been seen since VE Day 1945.
Suddenly I hear police car sirens in the distance. I look down and see my hands are bloodied. I am clutching an 8 Iron. I panic. I try to scream but nothing comes out (it’s a dream remember). I try to run but my legs turn into jelly. I hear the commotion outside people shouting “that’s where he lives, up there in that shitty bedsit” (I don’t actually live in a bedsit. But in the dream I do, so fuck off).
The police begin hammering on the door and finally break in. I am led outside. As I step out into the street a small child yells “there he is mummy, there’s the man that killed Simon Cowell!” and I cover my face and wait for the crowd to begin kicking me to death.
But suddenly a roar goes up “Hip hip, hooray!” “Well done sir, about time too!” “Such courage, such….decency!”
All around me are beaming faces and people patting me on the back. I’m overwhelmed. The police lift me onto their shoulders and I am paraded above the crowds as people scream my name. Piers Morgan, Louis Walsh and Amanda Holden arrive and whisk me off into a private jet saying “thank, god. Thank GOD. It’s a miracle, A MIRACLE!!!” “Ok, ok”, I say, “but just don’t touch me. No, you can touch me Amanda, I was speaking to these cunts; Piers and Louis”. Louis pretends not to hear. Piers goes into a sulk, but I don’t care.
I’ve killed a national icon and instead of being imprisoned I am a national hero. This is the happiest day of my life.
….Then my alarm clock goes off and I stumble out of bed.
Downstairs in the living room somebody has put on ITV2 to watch the Sunday morning repeats. I stare at the screen as the X Factor theme tune fades and the camera pans across the studio. And there, in the middle of all the tone deaf cunts, divorced housewives, teenaged boys with Jedward haircuts and pregnant teenage mums sits Cowell on his eunuch throne, a half smirk etched on his botoxed face, his haircut an insult to modern civilisation, his jeans pulled up to his sternum, his emotionless eyes staring at his latest victim.
And I realise he is still alive.
I try to scream but nothing comes out.
I look at my golf bag and see the 8 Iron shimmering in the sunlight that is now pouring through the window……..
In the dream, I am at home alone and every news channel on TV is showing images of the murder scene. Cowell’s body is covered by one of those tent things the forensics use. Reports suggest his head has been irrevocably cunted open with a golf club. (An 8 Iron, if you need that level of detail).
I open the curtains and look out the window where a small huddle of people are gathering in the streets outside, laughing and chattering excitedly. Slowly, more and more people begin to gather until there is quite a throng, and the mood becomes buoyant. People begin to unfurl banners saying ‘Ding Dong The Witch Is Dead’ and ‘RIP Cuntface Cowell’. Ticker tape and balloons fill the air, strangers dance and embrace, somebody turns on a ghetto blaster and I hear the refrain “fuck you I won’t do what you tell me” ringing out loud and clear across the neighbourhood.
Amazed, I run to fetch the newspaper. The headline screams ‘Millions Celebrate Cowell’s Murder’. On the TV I see that all over England, street parties are taking place. David Cameron emerges from Downing Street with an effigy of Cowell and sets fire to it. Cut to Buckingham Palace where The Queen reads a statement declaring a national holiday “to see that Cowell cunt orf in style”. Scenes like this haven’t been seen since VE Day 1945.
Suddenly I hear police car sirens in the distance. I look down and see my hands are bloodied. I am clutching an 8 Iron. I panic. I try to scream but nothing comes out (it’s a dream remember). I try to run but my legs turn into jelly. I hear the commotion outside people shouting “that’s where he lives, up there in that shitty bedsit” (I don’t actually live in a bedsit. But in the dream I do, so fuck off).
The police begin hammering on the door and finally break in. I am led outside. As I step out into the street a small child yells “there he is mummy, there’s the man that killed Simon Cowell!” and I cover my face and wait for the crowd to begin kicking me to death.
But suddenly a roar goes up “Hip hip, hooray!” “Well done sir, about time too!” “Such courage, such….decency!”
All around me are beaming faces and people patting me on the back. I’m overwhelmed. The police lift me onto their shoulders and I am paraded above the crowds as people scream my name. Piers Morgan, Louis Walsh and Amanda Holden arrive and whisk me off into a private jet saying “thank, god. Thank GOD. It’s a miracle, A MIRACLE!!!” “Ok, ok”, I say, “but just don’t touch me. No, you can touch me Amanda, I was speaking to these cunts; Piers and Louis”. Louis pretends not to hear. Piers goes into a sulk, but I don’t care.
I’ve killed a national icon and instead of being imprisoned I am a national hero. This is the happiest day of my life.
….Then my alarm clock goes off and I stumble out of bed.
Downstairs in the living room somebody has put on ITV2 to watch the Sunday morning repeats. I stare at the screen as the X Factor theme tune fades and the camera pans across the studio. And there, in the middle of all the tone deaf cunts, divorced housewives, teenaged boys with Jedward haircuts and pregnant teenage mums sits Cowell on his eunuch throne, a half smirk etched on his botoxed face, his haircut an insult to modern civilisation, his jeans pulled up to his sternum, his emotionless eyes staring at his latest victim.
And I realise he is still alive.
I try to scream but nothing comes out.
I look at my golf bag and see the 8 Iron shimmering in the sunlight that is now pouring through the window……..
