The Blog

Why BGT's Pudsey Signals the End of British Cultural Taste

2012 has been a year of outlandish happenings, from the mundane to the absurd. Wikipedia spent 24 hours offline, rendering every University student in the country capable of Key Stage 2 curriculum only.

2012 has been a year of outlandish happenings, from the mundane to the absurd. Wikipedia spent 24 hours offline, rendering every University student in the country capable of Key Stage 2 curriculum only. Samantha Brick revealed herself as some kind of sexual Medusa; her crippling beauty having a near-deadly affect on anyone who clapped eyes upon her, ahem, 'stunning' visage. In the year of the London Olympics, with the world's gaze turning to our recession-haggard city, the best person we could come up with to run the Olympian shindig was Sir Bumble Bikealot von Mophead (AKA BoJo). But finally, and to my mind, most absurdly, a DOG won Britain's Got Talent.

Now, I should be careful what I say on this topic, as I am well aware that the vast majority of Britain thought that Pudsey was, pardon the pun, the dog's bollocks. However, my conscience informs me that the very fact so many of us picked up the phone to vote for this shaggy canine means we need a sit down and a good talking to, Britain, because this bizarre turn of events can only be a sign of disturbing times for the British entertainment industry.

I have three theories as to why Pudsey prevailed as the most talented organism in Britain according to the disciples of Cowell. I shall start with the most mundane: Cowell's disciples are, largely, under 15 and therefore not to be held accountable for their lack of cultural awareness and taste. BGT is undoubtedly low-brow, Saturday night, fun-for-all-the-family entertainment. It's the new-age Waltons... just devoid of emotional, educational or cultural worth. Yet, despite its deficit of artistic merit, I can appreciate the platform it provides for potential talent, and how valuable that can be to an industry that is poorly funded and difficult to break in to. What I cannot appreciate is every twelve year old in the country picking up the phone eight times a second to vote for the cutest contestant, be that Pudsey, or Harry Styles, although they're both quite shaggy and probably prone to sexually-immature dry humping. These pre-pubescent phone perverts are limiting the commercial success of the entertainment industry to those possessing puppy dog eyes, be they metaphorical or literal, and in doing so, bulldozing over contestants that may equal or exceed those blessed with cuddlability.

The second theory is that perhaps (if you are feeling particularly cynical) a dog truly IS the most talented organism in the country. Don't get me wrong- in no way is this something to be proud of. If BGT has truly anointed the King of Talent in Britain: Pudsey the dog, if his jumping and lolloping is honestly the best we can do, the very embodiment of artistic virtuosity... we have got some very big bloody problems, folks. If I were you, I'd steer well clear of the theatre for the next few months- particularly anything showcasing undiscovered talent- because at the very, very best, you can expect a farting canine bouncing on his hind legs to outdated spy music, as the room fills with the stench of damp wellies and Pedigree Chum. This is what we deem appropriate to demonstrate to our Monarch just what a jolly talented bunch we are... oh no, Ma'am, not us personally, we are lowly compared to this here dog- behold it's obedience... such... artistry! Needless to say, I shall not be tuning in to the Royal Variety, but enjoy, Lizzie dear.

My third and final theory is that the result was, quite simply, rigged. I couldn't count on my fingers the amount of times Ant or Dec, or both in telepathic tandem, reminded the jaded viewers that a dog had never won Britain's Got Talent. 'Too right!' I thought, in my silly naivity. Britons will never be convinced that this ball of mucky fluff warrants their quid-a-minute phone call more than a living, breathing person. We couldn't possibly, as a nation, eschew those beings who have honed their artistic crafts, poured their souls, their emotions, their creative innards on to the stage for a pup that responds to Scooby snacks? Could we? It's no secret that Cowell loves the doggies (insert crude joke about Simon's unmarried status here), and it is quite possible that the appeal of a first-time win and Mr Cowell's personal preferences being satiated was more than enough reason to diddle with the final result. At least, I hope it is. Because if we, as a nation, have ordained the King of British Talent- without adhering to one of the above excellent excuses- Pudsey, the bob-along spy dog, then the entertainment industry is surely, irrevocably Cowell-ised beyond salvation. R.I.P., culture.