So the dog won Britain’s Got Talent. A part of me always knew that it was going to happen. It wasn’t going to be the Welsh choir with hundreds of dedicated members who had practiced for thousands of hours and sounded like a host of angels. It wasn’t going to be the injured ballroom dancer who overcame agonising injury to compete at the last moment. It wasn’t going to be the young opera singer with a voice as pure and powerful as Pavarotti. It wasn’t going to be the trio of cheeky chappies who are already virtually guaranteed to top the charts in 2012. No. It was the dog. The scruffy little mut who got most, not all, of his routine correct and rounded off his act by sitting on his trainer’s arse.
Simon Cowell did his best to sound happy. He had always said he wanted to find a great dog act but he never really thought it would happen and clearly hasn’t yet thought of a way of getting a sixteen year old girl and a mongrel to record a Christmas number one. But he’s no doubt working on it.
It’s results like this that should make us proud to be British. We as a nation love to support the underdog. Whoever the thought that the underdog would one day literally be an underdog. Oh happy day.