They’re used to dealing with the gormless and gullible, aren’t they?
That’s why they think they can get away with it.
The oilers of the X Factor’s publicity machine, attempting to fool us into thinking that Cole and Cowell are daggers-drawn. And that our Chezzer has stomped off home with her bat after being given the boot from the American version of the talent show... it won’t wash.
For, unlike the deluded thickos who, thank the Lord, unfailingly turn up in their droves to auditions truly believing they are the very best thing since Mother’s Pride, we the audience are made of different stuff.
Something far less malleable.
And we are not rising. We know a publicity scam when we see one.
All the will-she, won’t-she stories in the papers; it’s just a game, a cat and mouse-style teaser to alert us to the fact that the best thing to brighten Saturday nights since... since... pilchards on white-sliced is coming soon.
The lass will be back on the box, you watch.
Well wouldn’t you eat humble pie for a reported £2.8million? (I think I’d even eat Mother’s Pride for that).
And what else would she do to fill her evenings?
There’s only so many times you can flick your bouncy hair around and tell everyone you’re worth one, isn’t there?