British Public In The Doghouse

I've been getting a bit ranty recently, haven't I?


Well, I'll soon put a stop to that.


So. Britain's Got Talent ended at the weekend, in a thrilling final that brought out the best in all of its contestants. It was very intense- no-one could call who would eventually claim victory. I was frequently on the edge of my seat, cheering as an act I liked did well. It was everything a talent show final should be. 
There was only one problem... a fucking dog won.


Now, I'm sorry but, as talented as the dog undoubtably is, and as good as his trainer is, when the best talent Britain can apparently muster is a dog walking across a desk, you know there's something gone wrong somewhere.
A dog beat Loveable Rogues, a wonderfully jaunty three-man band who will surely have a career after this show. A dog beat Jonathan and Charlotte, two incredible opera singers. A dog beat a literally thousands of other talented individuals and groups to become the ambassador of talent from the Great British public to the Queen. 
A dog. 
a fucking dog.
No wonder we never do well at Eurovision.


It worries me a great deal that this public, the public that has, in the past, voted now-stars Will Young, JLS, Diversity and (sort of) Susan Boyle to prominence, decided that this time, the singers, the dancers, the magicians and the comedians could all go fuck themselves, because they want to see a puppy stand on its hind legs in front of royalty. The obvious reason for this sudden change, of course, is the 'cute factor'. People like cute animals, and they also like tricks, so combine the two, and what do you get? A sure-fire recipe for success, apparently. 
I would have preferred a disappearing act myself, but there you are.
Sure, Pudsey (for that is what this dog was called) is cute, but Pudsey can't synchronised-swim inside a giant fish tank. Pudsey can't sing and play the ukulele and guitar. Pudsey can't do anything that he hasn't been trained to do. I'm quite sure that, given the choice, Pudsey would rather curl up in his doggy bed and go to sleep, gnawing on a nice pack of Dentastix™.


Then again, it could be that Simon Cowell liked the dog act, and so it won. This is one of the unwritten rules of television. It just happens, and no-one questions it.


The point I'm trying to make here is that something happened on the evening of Saturday 12th May 2012 that annoyed me a bit. All these other, very deserving contestants were pushed aside by the voters because they were lost in puppy-dog eyes... literally.
I thought we were made of harder stuff than this. "Fight them on the beaches". "Bulldog spirit". "British Brains". "Don't let a fucking dog win a talent show". Clearly I was wrong. Clearly we are a nation of doddery old dears who have plates with pictures of kittens adorning our gas fireplaces, and who would rather swap a pint of bitter for a cup of tea in a flowery mug and a custard cream. This saddens me.


I would've written this sooner after the actual show, but I was too consumed by depression to vent my anger upon the keyboard. I guess I have now.


Oh dear. I said I was going to be less ranty, didn't I?
Maybe next time.


...


But seriously, a fucking dog?!