Advent Calendar Day 4

Every so often, evolution takes a strange turn, be it the fingerprints of opportunist kleptomaniacal koalas or the octopus's inky sac. Humankind's own path of genetic improvement has, of late, encountered some potholes. The subject of day 4 of the Dystopian Advent Calendar is proof that we, as a species, have started to devolve.

Ladies and gentlemen, please welcome...

... Piers Morgan. Please, don't vomit over my site.

A few days ago, this utter flan of a person joined Twitter. He tweeted once, and soon had 3000 followers. It was at this point that I started to think that what I thought was my species had adopted me.

The man has less fucking substance than fog, and is about as charismatic as piles. How did this turd in a suit end up with the career he has?

Let's rewind a bit. About 15 or so years ago, Piers Morgan was editor of The Sun's showbiz page, Bizarre, where he pretended to be the linchpin of current z-list slebs. He dropped more names than a Sugababes autograph hunter during his tenure, pretending to be "celebrity friends" with everyone, from that one from that thing, and that one from that pop band that nobody remembers. It was like reading copy from a radically narcissistic Andi Peters.

Then, he vanished for a bit, and somehow became editor of The Mirror. He decided to run a front-page story claiming that British troops were torturing Iraqi POWs. It turned out to be utter bollocks, and he was very publicly sacked for his money-chasing lies. Hurrah. That's the end of him.

Except it wasn't. All of a sudden, he turns up as a judge on a talent show. Worse still, he also ends up in the same position on American TV, with the audience being blissfully unaware of his very cunty past. Coupled with his ITV (well, it had to be ITV, didn't it?) chat show, the man's barely off the telly, and it makes me want to weep. I gave humanity far too much credit, but no, there he still is, pretending to be a hard-nosed judge and destroyer of dreams. If he could muster a facial expression, other than self-satisfaction, I'd like it to be the expression of a man in morbid fear of the baseball bat heading his way. But I'll probably never meet him.

In short, Piers Morgan has no more right to judge the talent of others than I have the right to perform bowel surgery with pink plastic cutlery. Cabbage Patch Kid-faced Cunt.

Please come back tomorrow for another (late) window opening of utter shitedom.