At The Bar With… Simon Cowell

Your ability to be a good conversationalist is absolutely terrible.  I really cannot believe how absolutely terrible you are at talking.

Nash Herringtonby Nash Herrington

Every Friday you will join me in Bar Fiction, a magical place where the rich, famous and/or beautiful come to drown their sorrows after a long week spent in the spotlight. This week we’re joined by Sony bigwig and circus ringmaster Simon Cowell.


You: Wait a second, is that…

Me: *Sigh* Yes, that’s Simon Cowell.

You:  No, I’m talkin’ about this girl that I used to bang sitting at the bar over there – “Hey Lucy! It’s me, remember?” Look, she’s waving! Oh wait, that’s not a wave. Sorry, what were we talking about?

Me:  I was just telling you that Simon Cowell is –

You:  Wow. Lucy. What a blast from the past. She was a freak, man. I remember this one time, in college, we were fooling around in her room, and she pulled out this set of anal beads –

Me:  AAAAANYWAY, as I was saying… Simon Cowell is sitting over there.

You:  Who cares.

Me:  What, wait?

You:  Who cares.

Me:  I heard what you said, but I’m a little shocked. He’s one of the most famous men in the world.

You:  So? I’m not taken in by the bright lights of show business. I’m a free-spirit, man, I ain’t no corporate shill sucking the d***s of the fat-cats in Hollywood.

Me:  Just last week you were chasing a bald guy down the street because you thought you recognized him from an episode of Deal or no Deal.

You:  …that was the old me. The new me isn’t interested in all that showbiz glamour.

Me:  So I take it you’re not watching X Factor, then?

You:  Do I look like a 17-year-old girl to you?

Me:  That was a bit of a generalization.

You:  It’s not a generalization, my friend, it’s a FACT. The only people who watch TV talent shows are 17-year-old girls and their Moms; Wikipedia it or something.

Me:  This has nothing to do with your failed audition, does it?


Me:  I’m just sayin’, maybe the fact that you didn’t even make it into the live auditions is the reason behind your resentment…

You:  It’s too soon, OK? The wounds haven’t had time to heal.

Me:  I know man, I know.

You:  Look at him. Sitting over there, with his smug, mahogany face. I bet he doesn’t even know that I exist.

Me:  Well, probably not considering he’s never met you…

You:  But I DO exist. I exist, and I’ve got the singing voice of a thousand cherubs, frolicking in the Garden of Eden.

Me:  Err…

You:  That f***er will never know what beauty he let slip between his British fingers!

Me:  Umm…

You:  I need to go over there and give him a piece of my mind.

Me:  That’s a bad idea.

You:  I’ll be the one who finally knocks some sense into that Limey douchebag!

Me:  Please don’t…

You:  Don’t even try to stop me!


5 minutes later…


Me:  Well that went even worse than I had expected.

You:  Sorry I got us kicked out the bar, man.

Me:  Did you really have to burst into a Phil Collins medley? Couldn’t you have just punched him?

You:  I don’t know what came over me.

Me:  And then the bit where you took off your shirt…

You:   Yeah, about that…

Me:  …and then you started squeezing your nipples…

You:  …

Me:  …d’you wanna talk about it?

You:  Let’s find another bar.


Photo Credit: Patricia Schlein/