The year is 2041. From the balcony of a crumbling pile overlooking Margate, reclusive media mogul Simon Phillip Cowell sits heavily on his designer commode looking despondently down below at an ice cream van by the gates of his guarded mansion. The tinkling twirl of 'Hallelujah' echos up to the balcony for the hundredth time that day sending Cowell off into a reverie from years past. The image is as clear as the day he first saw it in the tabloids back in the summer of 2013. Ah yes, the callipygous magnificence of Cheryl's rosey cheeks had brought about a warm tumescence to the old timer as he softly whispered the words of that one other thing he never could get his hands on - a decent Christmas number one!
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