I went to the hospital today because I wanted to see the surgeons gliding around with rock hard abdominals, chiseled jaw lines and hair that flops over their misty eyes. I nearly fainted. My grandmother collapsed too, but it turns out she’s got a heart problem or something.

This got me thinking about other people who belong in a ward. I concluded that those jumped-up monkeys on Britain’s Got Talent need therapy. The contestants shouldn’t listen to their opinions. What a bunch of festering retards. But i’ll talk about the audience another day.

You’ve got Simon Cowell, Amanda Holden, Simon Cowell’s wife and Alesha Dixon. She tries to look all pink and perky like Cheryl Cole but you, Mr Walliams, are not fooling anyone. I want to stomp on your shiny forehead. Your amicable demeanor and open countenance remind me of my gran, and look where it got her. If I wanted to watch kind and generous people with charming smiles give members of the British nation a sense of purpose I would just flick on an Oxfam advert.

I expect brutal and cut-throat judgement in my reality TV. I crave callous remarks that eviscerate peoples’ dreams into bloodied shreds, leaving them broken and defeated human beings. Alesha Dixon, those judges on Strictly must’ve really done a number on you. There is no plausible reason why you would wriggle in your chair like a disabled Parkinson’s patient every night, heaping praise upon people who are clearly doomed to remain working in their local community centre. “That was so good Jonny, so so good, only next time, try not to drop the guillotine on your assistant’s head before the safety catch is on. Apart from that, you’re a star in the making.”

And Amanda Holden. Just sleep with him already. The sexual tension between you both is sickeningly palpable. I’m sure Mr Cowell would oblige; his charitable acts are internationally renowned.