Simple Simon Says

Like most of the world I’ve been enjoying Britain’s Got Talent or, as it’s known in our house, Simon’s Got Money. I found all week that I couldn’t sit through a whole show as they were very drawn out so, like a bored parent at an end of term school show, I sneaked in each night at the end with everyone thinking I’d seen the whole thing.

Although the final was full of fantastically talented people I think the heats were my favourite because, as we were frequently told, this year’s collection of pierced nutters, escapees, Women’s Institute helpers, flower arrangers and precocious kids were bringing back entertainment that the “whole family” could enjoy. Must have been the Addams Family then.

The finalists proved that those who make it in showbiz should count themselves lucky every day they wake up, because just being really good at something isn’t enough. All the talent in the world means nothing without a huge helping hand from Lady Luck, and that’s why the band I sang in years ago isn’t sitting on a pile of gold discs and asking U2 to support them just now on a world tour. Well, that and the fact we were tone deaf.

I haven’t ever actually taken part in a talent show, unless you count the school play when my twin Gerard and I were asked to sing a duet for the teachers at the last minute to see if a cute number could be put in as a finale. The idea was that everyone would leave saying how adorable the twins were. We sang Nellie The Elephant to a crescendo of silence, raised eyebrows and buck passing over whose idea it was, and they gave the song in the end to a little girl who used to chase all the boys for kisses. For us it was the equivalent of getting three red crosses from the judges and then a kicking from Ant and Dec.

At the first radio station I worked at in Glasgow, I was frequently asked to judge talent contests whether it was for largest marrow, silliest song, best dressed float in a parade or even, once, the most creative use of an empty Maxwell House coffee jar in a garden. The winner was a very large, red nosed, man who smelled like his compost heap and had filled his coffee jar with beer and jam to drown pests like bees, wasps and slugs. Judging by his waistline I think he ate them afterwards. And then the garden.

As I became better known in my home town I moved on to the talent judging that all my mates envied until Mr Political and Mrs Correctness came along and the wet T Shirt contests bit the dust. To give these competitions some sense of class the girls would talk about wanting world peace, a cure for cancer and respect for old people, but they also used to mention a lot their desire for more accessible surgery in underdeveloped areas to change lives. I later discovered this meant they wanted a boob implant so they could marry a footballer.

I was a judge in many Miss Scotland competitions which is not something I would recommend as someone always comes up wanting a fight because you didn’t choose their daughter and accusing you of secretly being related to the winner or, worse, sleeping with them. One parent even offered me a night of “unbridled passion” if I would vote for their daughter, but I tactfully pointed out that he just wasn’t my type.

My finest hour, and you may well have seen this on telly several times on the “It’ll Be Alright On The Night” type shows, was when I helped judge a TV talent show called Sky Star Search, presented by Keith Chegwin, where you would be forgiven for thinking that the only criterion needed to take part was that you were totally useless. That’s the contestants by the way, not the judges. Anyone who wanted to come was allowed on and we had comedians who weren’t funny, singers who sang off key, sword swallowers who stabbed themselves, a juggler who would have done better with his hands tied behind his back, a ventriloquist who was brilliant at everything except keeping his mouth still, and an escapologist.

This man said he would escape from a sack after we had put handcuffs on him and tied him up inside the sack. Well, he didn’t even come close to escaping and we dissolved in tears of laughter as his allotted time came and went while he struggled and the cameras tried to make a writhing sack look interesting. He carried on trying through the commercial break and the whole of the second half where the other acts did their thing with him struggling in the background. He was still there as the end credits rolled so I thought it would be funny to clear the studio and put all the lights out for when he finally escaped, but someone with much more sense cut the bag and set him free.

As that escapologist discovered, like Susan you can sometimes be off the Boyle on the night and lose your big chance, but I hope all the contestants this week went away having enjoyed their fleeting brush with fame and putting it down to a great experience. Some of them will make a few bob from opening summer fetes in their villages, others still have ITV’s money making tour to come, while the lucky few will get to make a record for Simon Cowell.

Britain’s Got Talent, and Simon’s Got Money. And now he’s got even more.