The X Factor overlord's bizarre letter to himself
by Marina Hyde
Friday 2 October 2009
The Guardian
Simon Cowell looks back on his life as he prepares to celebrate his 50th birthday. Photograph: Richard Young/Rex Features
On the north shore of Long Island in the 1920s of F Scott Fitzgerald's imagination, impossibly glamorous guests would descend upon a mansion to attend the gilded parties of a man whom they did not really know, but to whom they had attached quasi- mythical cultural status. Tomorrow night, another party will be held at a country pile, though this one will merely have a 20s theme. It will take place near Barnet in Hertfordshire; it will be attended by the likes of Philip Green and Sinitta, and it will celebrate the 50th birthday of Simon Cowell.
We get the Gatsbys we deserve.
And yet, the ersatz West Eggishness of it all is somehow perfect for Simon, for whom a simulacrum of the real thing is always more desirable than the thing itself. He would far rather listen to an overweight single mother sing a pitchy version of Whitney Houston's I Will Always Love You than he would the original, because he's going to play up the fact that her boyfriend is dying of Hodgkin's lymphoma, and then make it all better with free dentistry.
I do hope you're still in the party mood, because over the past fortnight or so, a series of desperately well-briefed reports have told non-invitees what to expect of this private event, culminating in a weirdly unnecessary explanation of who is paying for it from the great karaoke wizard himself, which we shall come to soon enough.
First, though, you should know that to mark the occasion of his half century, Simon this week bestowed on humanity a precious gift. He penned a specially commissioned letter to his younger self, published in the Daily Mail.
Clocking in at a tantalisingly brief 3,500 words, it addresses the Simon of the early 90s, whose record label has gone bust and who is now back working for BMG. Be patient, Simon advises his younger self, even though he has heard someone at the record company summarise his output thusly: "Whatever is shit in this company, that is what Simon Cowell does."
It seems so unthinkable now, doesn't it, but I assure you there was a time when Simon made crap records with puppet artists. Actual puppets, like Zig and Zag. However, all is about to change. "In an industry where everyone sells their records primarily through radio," Simon writes to 90s Simon, "you are just beginning to work out that if you sell them through TV instead, there could be an incredible business. A very profitable business."
It was then that he invented MTV. Hang on, that happened a decade earlier. It seems Simon signed two people from the ITV drama series Soldier Soldier, causing "virtually the whole company" to turn against him.
"Luckily you trusted your own instinct," Simon purrs to his younger self. "Robson & Jerome's version of Unchained Melody will give you your first No 1 and become one of the bestselling singles of all time. It changes everything for you. But this is all some way off yet. At the moment, Simon, I am afraid, you must continue to suffer."
In answer to your question, yes. Yes, there is much more of this, as Simon distils the lessons of the 80s boom-and-bust into his own personal Andy Hardy movie. "OK," concedes Simon eventually, "it is true that no one is ever going to publish a book called Simon Cowell, My Struggle."
I might, just for the laugh of seeing the German edition. But let us ascend with Simon to his glorious conclusion.
"Next week," he writes to his younger self, "you are throwing a fabulous bash to celebrate your 50th birthday. Your great friend, Sir Philip Green, and his wife, Lady Tina [sic], are organising it for you but, contrary to some reports, he is not paying for it. Simon, you would never let anyone pick up that tab." (Yes, I think we're on the point of absorbing his financial self-reliance at the 38th time of telling.)
"You are tremendously excited about this party," Simon concludes. "When you were a small boy, your parents lived next to one of the bosses at Elstree film studios. You remember peering over the garden wall and seeing the likes of Elizabeth Taylor and Richard Burton at a fabulous party. And what you remember, most vividly, is that you wanted to be at that party. You wanted to join in. Well, this time the party is all yours."
Amazing. Of course, even the longest summers must come to an end, and while Gatsby's was rather finally curtailed, the X Factor overlord will segue unstoppably into autumn. Or "the final 12", as it will be known in the forthcoming replacement for the Gregorian calendar, where the year is merely divided according to which Simon Cowell reality format is dominating the schedules. Already, fewer people journey to see the fall in New England than prefer to travel to London "to see what Louis does with the groups".
And us? What about us huddled masses, for whom the very familiarity of the cycle has become an opiate? Well, I can't help feeling you already know the answer to this one. We beat on, boats against the current, borne back ceaselessly into the past . . .
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