Simon Cowell

William Coles

Description

THE POP MOGUL Simon Cowell as you've never seen him before.
Here and in his own words, Cowell spills the beans on his superstar chums, including Madonna, Cheryl Cole and Piers 'Magnificent' Morgan - and not forgetting, of course, his secret passion for Angelina Jolie.
Gunned down by a fan, Cowell wakes up in hospital to find he's got no money, no home and no mates. Worse still, his face looks like it's been through a blender; a tough blow indeed for the vainest man in Britain.
Cowell is on a quest for fame and fortune. But will he ever be able to win back his elusive Mojo - The Sex Factor?

Sujets

• Humorous
• X-Factor
• Piers Morgan
• Black comedy
• Cheryl Cole
• Facteur-X
• Fiction
• Satire

Informations

• Publié par: Legend Press
• Date de parution: 30 avril 2011
• Nombre de lectures: 0
• EAN13: 9781908248145
• Langue: English

Extrait

Bill Coles has been a journalist for 23 years, and was a showbiz reporter in Hollywood before becoming the New York Correspondent of The Sun. He has written for most of the British tabloids as well as for The Wall Street Journal. This is his fifth novel.
Simon Cowell: The Sex Factor
Star-Maker
Heart-Breaker
Dream-Crusher
A Novel by
Bill Coles
Legend Press Ltd, 2 London Wall Buildings,
London EC2M 5UU
[e-mail]
www.legendpress.co.uk
Contents © Bill Coles 2011
1
The right of the above author to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patent Act 1988.
British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data available.
ISBN 978-1-9077564-8-1
eISBN 978-1-9082481-4-5
Set in Times Printed by CPI Books, UK
Cover designed by Tim Bremner
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or trans- mitted,in any form, or by any means electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior permission of the publisher. Any person who commits any unauthorised act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.
Simon Cowell: The Sex Factor is a work of fiction by journalist Bill Coles. It is an unauthorised satire, to which Simon Cowell has contributed not one single word. This novel only purports to be Simon Cowell's personal memoirs and is populated with the names of many real-life characters; however, none of the events ever actually occurred and all dialogue and views expressed are completely fictional.
Praise for Bill Coles:
‘A fast moving and playful spoof. The details are so slick and telling that they could almost have you fooled.’
Henry Sutton, The Mirror
‘A cracking read… Perfectly paced and brilliantly written, Coles draws you in, leaving a childish smile on your face.’
News of the World
‘What a read! Every schoolboy's dream comes true in this deftly-written treatment of illicit romance. A triumph.’
Alexander McCall Smith
‘This is a charming and uplifting read.’
Piers Morgan
‘An outstanding debut novel. A wonderful story of first love. Few male authors can write about romance in a way which appeals to women.’
Louise Robinson, Sunday Express
‘Charming, moving, uplifting. Why can't all love stories be like this?’
The Wall Street Journal
‘A superbly crafted memoir,’
Daily Express
‘Try Dave Cameron's Schooldays for jolly fictional japes. It helps to explain the real Dave's determination to whip us into shape.’
Edwina Currie, The Times
‘A beautiful book, managing to use a simple narrative voice without consequently bland style – honesty, beauty, and passion pervade the novel but so do humour, youthfulness and energy.’
Stuck in a Book
‘My own piano teacher was called Mr Bagston and frankly I don't think any power on earth could have persuaded us to create a scene of the kind Coles so movingly describes!’
Boris Johnson, London Mayor
‘Passionate and excruciatingly compelling.’
Curledup.com
‘A piece of glorious effrontery… takes an honourable place amid the ranks of lampoons.’
The Herald
‘Compellingly vivid, the most sustained description of apocalypse since Robert Harris's Pompeii .’
The Financial Times
Also by Bill Coles
Dave Cameron's Schooldays
By William Coles
The Well-Tempered Clavier
Lord Lucan: My Story
Mr Two-Bomb
To my splendid friend Tim Maguire – wholly different from his repellent twin, Tam Maguire.
PREFACE
Simon Cowell is the ringmaster behind such shows as The X Factor and Britain's Got Talent . Some time ago, he was in New York to pick up a prestigious Emmy award.
Simon received his glittering gold statuette – and threw down the most magnificent gauntlet.
“Whoever said fame, money and success would destroy you is completely wrong!” he told the gaggle of reporters. “Bring it on!”
Well Simon, I have done my level best to rise to the challenge.
For this novel is a satire of not just Simon Cowell and his friends but also the reality shows that he produces.
Just for the sake of the libel lawyers, it should be noted that this book is not in any way related to real life. This satire is not only completely unauthorised, but Simon did not write a single word of it.
Although it purports to be Simon Cowell's personal memoirs, none of the events ever actually occurred.
Simon, as far as I know, is still a multi-millionaire, and still continues to run his TV shows – and nor, for that matter, does he have any designs, carnal or otherwise, on his co-stars.
There are other real-life characters who also crop up in Simon's memoirs – not least Cheryl Cole, Piers Morgan, Tony Blair, Cherie Blair, Gordon Brown, Mel Gibson, Heather Mills and Angelina Jolie.
Again, all the events concerning these stars have been made up. I would be reasonably certain that Cheryl Cole, for instance, continues to possess all of her own teeth and does not have any especial need for a wig.
So there you have it: this is a satire, poking fun at the stars who we continue to worship daily in our newspapers and our glossy magazines. There are a couple of other characters in the book who are not ‘stars’ – though they are stars to me. They are my friends Tim Maguire and Giles Pilbrow. The pair have also received a certain amount of derision, but then that's what I like to do with my mates.
Bill Coles, Edinburgh
Contents
Author
Title
Copyright
prais
also
Dedication
PREFACE
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Dave Cameron's Schooldays by Bill Coles
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
back
Chapter 1
Those evil-weevil journalists always ask me the same question when they're grilling me about my life.
All the bottom-feeders really want to know is this: at what stage did I really feel that I'd reached rock bottom? At what stage did it hit me that things couldn't get much worse?
Doubtless those little weasels are hoping that I'll cry them a river as I recall last year's horrors. And I suppose they may have a point. There were a fair few nightmares to choose from. Take your pick: being nearly shot dead while I was on the very verge of bedding the world's most beautiful woman. Now that – that was vexing. (Just to clarify one point – I used to think she was the world's most beautiful woman. Though not any more – she's slipped way, w-a-a-a-y down the pole. I am so over her. Wouldn't touch her. Wouldn't touch her!)
Other little horrors from the past year? How about, just for the sake of example, losing all my money? Every damn penny of it. A bit of a blow that one.
Losing my fiancée in the most grotesque circumstances imaginable. Another bleak moment.
Losing my looks. Even worse.
And – just to give you one more little taster of what's in store – I reckon that my life reached another pretty low ebb when I was nearly crushed to death in the Sin-Seekers.
All to be revealed in the fullness of time.
But if I had to pick one single moment when I thought things couldn't get much worse, it would have to be when I was fresh out of hospital.
Picture the scene, dear reader: not a bean to my name and my face and body so covered in wounds that it was just this disgusting patchwork of skin and scar tissue.
But not to worry.
I hit the phones.
Started calling in a few favours.
Started calling up a few pals.
And, to put it mildly, things didn't go so well.
That's the tiny, niggling problem about friends, isn't it? Because although it's great to have ‘friends’, how many of us ever truly know who our ‘friends’ are? And that’s especially so when you’re a multi-millionaire, and your only mates are either the hangers-on or other celebs, both about as flaky as each other.
No – as we well know, there’s only one true test of a friend and that comes when the shit hits the fan.
And boy did the shit hit the fan…
Or, as one newspaper described my near demise, ‘It was perhaps the first instance in recorded history of the fan hitting the shit…’
Still – it all turned out for the best. As me and my friends like to say, ‘You reaps what you sow.’ (Note to Editor – is that right? Should it be My friends and me? My friends and myself? Haven't got a damn clue. But what I do know is that, if it’s quite all right by you, I’d really prefer not to look like a moron because of some grammatical cock-up which YOU, with your fancy Double First from Oxford University, can’t be bothered to check up on.)
Chapter 2
Some of my celebrity pals seem to spend their entire lives hiding from the media. They dream of being able to walk down the street without being recognised. They yearn to have a normal conversation with a stranger without said-stranger suddenly turning into a stuttering tomato as they realise they're in the presence of a superstar.
Not me though; not one little bit! I love being famous! When people stop and point at me in the street, or when they do a double take as they spy me in Cinquante Cinq in St Tropez, I'm just purring. I'm lovin' it!
The real bugger though is when they don't recognise you. What the hell do you do when that happens?
This does occur to me occasionally, and all you can hope for is that the penny will eventually drop and that they'll blurt out a breathless apology.
Not this woman though. She'd checked my passport, stared at me for at least five seconds – and had still signally failed to realise that she was talking to a Platinum Grade A-lister.
“Purpose of flight?” she said. Surly she was, about of an age with myself, and yet shall we just say that old Fat