Enjoyed reading this far too much.
Every night, [Simon Cowell, creator of The X-Factor / American Idol] paces the empty corridors of his monochrome mansion, worrying whether he has calibrated correctly the mix of trainwrecks/ugly nightingales/Iraq-based backstories, or whether something – somewhere – is askew. Will one mistimed child teardrop in episode three be the Toto that pulls back the curtain, finally revealing that the great karaoke wizard is in fact nothing but a diminutive man working the levers of public taste with a mixture of enthusiastic opportunism and gnawing inner despair at how easy it is?
Absolutely hilarious.
Okay, well, it's sort of sad, too...
Yes, a very guilty pleasure :)