Pudsey The Dog's 'Britain's Got Talent' Win Proves We Are Fools

We’re idiots, fools and imbeciles, The Lovable Rogues existence proves that, but it used to be our little secret. Now the dogs know.

For some time on Saturday night, I had the queasy, uneasy feeling that €˜The Loveable Rogues€™ would win Britain€™s Got Talent and that our country€™s collective conscious would again be condemned as frazzled-by-familiar-drivel, deemed unfit for purpose and dragged into the same stink of forgotten midnight, to begin another year of punishment in the permanent quest for a primetime icon: a well-deserved penalty, of course, if we were to fall for that isosceles disease, that Trio Ferdibland of ukulele sympathisers. Then Pudsey the dog won. And now I€™m not resigned to more pain, but petrified of our confession. Now even the couch bound crumb lipped masses know that the human race is shit and inferior, the dogs are going to kill us. We. You. I. Someone€decided to choose a member of a different species as the €œmost talented€, as the magnum opus, as the tip-top trendsetter representing our mainstream taste. An animal winning a competition that humans were competing in represents a seismic shift from our usual narcissistic mud fight into something altogether different and though it may not seem sensational now, it will eventually conspire to become the beginning of The End €“ a patronising €˜aww€™ will become a recoiling €˜argh€™ €“ dog€™s aren€™t as stupid as they look, and crucially, we are. I€™ve never liked them. Dogs, that is. They€™re suspicious sniffing carpet rolls with teeth and balls and arseholes and they don€™t like me either. Probably for similar reasons. The only canine who I ever shared any sort of affinity with was a limp mess, a straggling scribble of a pup who yapped at me when I€™d deliver a paper to his owner€™s house. I felt we had a connection. I was delivering a paper of no spiritual or intellectual value in order to get some money to buy some things of no spiritual or intellectual value, and that little scamp wanted to stop me from doing that; so he ripped up the paper and chased me up the path, as if to say €œLeave. Leave at once and pursue something truly stimulating€ except he said it coarser and whilst running head first into PlayMobil cars. That dog probably died whilst choking on a page 13 story about a paedophile P.E teacher. Perhaps I will too. That€™s if I get the chance to self-enforce my termination with the inky zest of regional media, if Britain€™s voting habits are anything to go by, it won€™t be long before we€™re ruled by dogs, and they can get their own back, and kill us off before we get to the letterbox, such is the adoration of dear Pudsey. Patronised and patted, mistreated and occasionally dressed in tartan without permission, dogs have got a lot to be unhappy about, which is precisely why I don€™t trust Pudsey. The joviality of the mop with legs is in profound contradiction to his species plight. He€™s obviously planning something. And now the puppy has the platform, and the dog has had his day, he will look to take the afternoon and the night, too. With his grinning teenage foil, gleefully following his sinister orders (not the other way around as ITV€™s editing would have you believe) Pudsey has so far conducted a master plan built on the cuddling-concept, creating an image and an aura so bubble-gum and raindrops that our saucer eyes simply swim in the fun and swallow the cute €“ before long he€™ll be beaming poisonous sunshine into our agog and goo-goo mouths. Right before announcing that the dog revolution will indeed be televised. With an ITV2 show on an hour later, presented by a slutty poodle. Pudsey€™s victory is one howling error on our part. By the time next year€™s series comes around, David Walliams will have been replaced on the panel by a camp bulldog and the coalition will be close to confirming a new policy to build a country-long dog-motorway; and that€™s just the start, when Pudsey trots onto the stage at the Royal Variety show next year he€™ll be finally ready to dethrone Liz with a guns n€™ bullets version of The Nutcracker. Spinning on his paws before shooting the crown from her candyfloss bouffant and barking wildly for a new world. A bit like the scene in 101 Dalmatians where all the dogs across the world create a soundscape of woofing loveliness and yelping spirit. And guess what? We, the human race, are Cruella DeVil and we€™re going down, spiralling into a sticky end. We€™re idiots, fools and imbeciles, The Lovable Rogues existence proves that, but it used to be our little secret. Now the dogs know. Then it will be the cats. And then the actually scary animals. Start practicing your crawl, you€™re going to need it.
Contributor

Jack is an angry young sod, a football fan, a sneering observer, an ambitious sucker and more than anything; he's a man with girly eyeballs, tired hands, too many ties and not enough time.