Yes. It's true. The worst thing that anyone could possibly imagine has indeed come to pass. Oasis are no more. The news has sent echoes - no! - screaming jetbursts of white-hot pain bolting through the world's broadband pipes at twice of the speed of demons. And as ever, you've been writing to us in your thousands: for comfort; for a friendly ear; for leadership. You are lost and frightened, longing for direction and purpose. And we will give it to you. But you're not ready yet. You haven't suffered enough. You're too strong. You may resist.

In the meantime, we've gathered together a selection of your emails about the split. Have some tissues ready, because it's moving stuff. Not to mention highly erotic.

So crack open a beer, scratch your arse and prepare to feel the pain of your fellow fans. Let's remember together the happiness that Oasis brought us. Let's remember the laughter and the tears. Let's get a bit emotional in football tops and then act all surprised in two weeks when they get back together. (NOTE TO SELF: edit according to status of band in two weeks)

I can't believe it! I'm knocked sideways! Jolted violent till my joints seized up, mate! Fucking blinded by the light of this 15 megaton nuclear explosion of revelation! Ninja news! Whoosh! Schlock! Decapitation fact, son! Oasis broken up! Totally unexpected! Fuck...

alaindebotton@gmail.com

I remember when Sutho (former NME editor Steve Sutherland) first tipped me off about this new band from Manchester: Oasis. He said, "Alan - they're wank. You'll love 'em!" We had this thing going, me and Steve, we had a thing for dredging up the most uninspiring, mediocre shit we could find and foisting it upon the record-buying public: me releasing it, him writing about it, towers of concrete hyperbole, talking it up like it was going to change your fucking life - Teenage Fanclub's Jangle Revolution! 18 Wheeler Will Destroy John Major! Ride Fucks The Economy! - see if the dull-eyed bovine fuckheads would buy it. And of course, they did! We thought it was hilarious. Did get a bit out of hand later on, though, didn't it? That's why we had to kill the original Liam.

Alan McGee (Creation Records founder)

Everything changed the first time I saw Oasis live in 1994. I remember watching them stand there like waxworks, eyes fixed firmly on their instruments, Liam with his hands behind his back, plodding through their stodge with workmanlike efficiency. And I remember thinking, this is the most exciting live band in Britain today. Why, they're going to rip the music scene wide open like a huge, quivering cock of wrong. And now it's over... And still no-one gives that much of a shit outside Western Europe.

Big Jim, 53, Rochdale

Oasis' lumpen, mid-tempo pub rock gave my life meaning. Noel's vague lyrical platitudes taught me how to be a better person. In a world without their self-absorbed, macho hedonism, there's simply nothing left to believe in.

Yorp

When Noel Gallagher wished AIDS upon Blur's Damon Albarn and Alex James, we were naturally outraged. But now we can see the funny side. Great lads, great days, great music. They'll be missed.

Phil Farley, Terence Higgins Trust

Excuse us while we have a little cry.

Calvin Harris: A Day In The Life

Calvin Harris is having a lovely dream about eating some pancakes but then ding-a-ling-aling! it's time to wake up because it's about ten in the morning and he has to go to the studio today and make some songs that they'll play on the radio and listen to on their MP3 players, so he gets out of bed and goes to the toilet for a wee and then he washes his hands and then he goes downstairs and asks his mum to make him some breakfast and he says, I fancy pancakes today Mum, but I don't know why, so his mum says, you sit down Calvin and I'll make you some lovely pancakes, and she does and then puts them on a plate and then puts the plate on the table and Calvin puts some maple syrup on them and puts lots of sugar on and then he eats them with a fork and they're well nice, then he finishes his pancakes and puts the plate in the sink and his mum tells him he'd better hurry because he has to go to the studio and make some music and not to worry because she'll do the washing up, so he goes upstairs and goes into the bathroom and brushes his teeth and then he goes in the shower but then he gets out of the shower because he's forgotten to get undressed first, so he has a shower and then gets out of the shower and then he goes to his room and he puts on some socks and then some underpants with Bananaman on them and then he puts on his trousers and a t-shirt and some trainers and then he leaves the house and says, bye Mum I'm going bye! and starts walking to the studio and on the way he decides he wants some rhubarb and custard sweets so he goes into the shop and walks up to the counter and looks at the shop assistant and he says, hellooooooo! and he looks at the shop assistant and the shop assistant looks back at him so he carries on looking at the shop assistant smiling and the shop assistant keeps looking back and he wonders why the shop assistant doesn't just give him his sweets but he doesn't worry about it too much so he keeps looking at the shop assistant and the shop assistant keeps looking back and then he forgets what he came in for, so he goes back out of the shop and walks off down the street until he gets back home and he goes in and says, hi Mum I'm home! but she doesn't answer because she must be out or something, so he goes to the kitchen and makes a nice fried breakfast with some eggs and some beans and some mushrooms and some nice sausages and some bacon and some tomato ketchup and a lovely cup of tea, and he eats all of the breakfast he eats it all up and then he goes upstairs to the bathroom and he has a quick poo and then he washes his hands and then brushes his teeth and then he gets changed into his jammies and gets into bed, but then his phone rings and it's the producer and he says, come on Calvin we're supposed to be making some music today for them to play on the radio and their MP3 players and Calvin goes, oh no! it was a such an eventful day today I forgot to go the studio and the producer laughs and Calvin laughs and the producer laughs and Calvin laughs and the producer says, come on Calvin I'll send a car to pick you up, so the car comes to pick Calvin up and Calvin gets in the car and the car sets off to the studio and the driver says, hello Calvin how are you today? and Calvin says, hello Mr Driver I'm a bit sad today actually, and the driver says, oh dear! what's wrong Calvin? and Calvin says, well you know when you like look in the mirror and you look really hard at yourself like really trying to see into your soul and you don't like what you see because you realise that the life you've chosen for yourself is utterly meaningless and it's sucking you dry draining you of all substance and you're like looking at your eyes and you're trying to look through them and you can't see anything there it's just like looking into a void and you can almost feel yourself being sucked into it like you might lose your balance and fall in and get lost forever completely disorientated in the foggy swirl of your own vacuousness and you'll never escape and can you just drive the car into this wall please or off this bridge? and the driver says, no I've never felt like that Calvin have you? and Calvin says, I can't remember now. What was I talking about? And the driver says, I've forgotten hey! we're at the studio now Calvin! and Calvin says, hooooraaaaaaay! and Calvin goes in the studio and makes some lovely songs and they will play them on the radio and their MP3 players.

As you may know, David Cameron - visionary Conservative leader and British Führer (2010-2019) - has, over the past year, been consorting with an eclectic, international set of rightwing politicians, writers and intellectuals. I broke into his house and found this memo:

Conservative policy direction for government?

Gentlemen and ladies,

You may be aware that I have been purring seductively around the heels of a number of dangerous extremists for some time now, and have taken from these consultations a great deal of inspiration re: future direction for our party, post-election. Please review my notes. Comments welcome.

Youth and Community
The 'Broken Britain' meme has now well and truly saturated the public consciousness. With the help of sympathetic elements in the press, we have so successfully reframed the average teenager as an embryonic psychopath that even some liberals have bought it. When your father passes an 18-year-old boy in the street, he fully expects the boy to produce a large bladed implement from his waistband, drive it into the soft flesh at one side of the belly and drag it all the way across, then stand watching as the intestines flop, as if in slow-motion, from the obscene gaping wound, stand barely smiling - so jaded that mere existence is torture, so numbed by ennui that even this depraved orgy of violence, this adventure to the godless far reaches of human experience, is a deadening routine - look into your father's frightened, uncomprehending eyes, then walk away bored before daddy even hits the ground. The city crumbles. Anguished screams echo between deserted tower blocks. Therefore, I expect voters will welcome a compulsory 2-year tour of Afghanistan for all children between the ages of 14 and 19. Posting tertiary citizens (to be defined in further communications) to front lines - ostensibly in support services - should provide a useful buffer for active personnel. (Re: education, we may, under the pretence of a post-election emergency budget, be presented with the opportunity to do away with state-funded education altogether. I'll go into more detail at a later date.)

Economy
It was generally assumed, at the start of the economic crisis, that we would see a shift in the public mindset towards more socialist Utopian ideals. The opposite, however, has proved to be the case. As one immediately becomes considerably more attracted to one's wife when she threatens to leave, so now - more than ever - the voters crave capitalism. Spending continues to rise. After a decade of prosperity, shiny things, house porn and cokestripper orgies, they have no desire to embrace a simpler, less extravagant existence. No-one has a problem with capitalism who believes they stand to benefit from it. Two-pronged attack: 'a Conservative government will make you richer'; while, for the truly hopeless (state-educated, social housing), keep trotting out the trickle-down bollocks. As the economy worsens and public spending recedes, they'll take to the streets: brutal guerrilla warfare: gardening implements; makeshift firearms; cars upending; cannibalism; necromancy; wearing each other's faces, etc. 2 or 3 years of this should help spoon away some of the scum. I believe this is what is known as social Darwinism.

Immigration
Our ultimate goal, obviously, is zero immigration by 2015. Liberal orthodoxy still exerts a stranglehold on British society, however, so this must be a gradual process. A terrorist attack may be useful (consult MI5 and Met re: feasibility, etc... possible ethical issues: IMPERATIVE NO MORE THAN 200 DEAD). Deal with remainder as with Muslims (see below).

Muslims
Softly-softly - even, dare I say it, conciliatory? - approach initially, introducing a non-compulsory programme of integration courses, possible 'amnesty' for fundamentalists and would-be radicals. As time progresses, participation may become compulsory for all practising Muslims, with imprisonment for non-participation or failure. Scope may, over time, be widened further to include non-practising Muslims. Voters should be sufficiently desensitized by 2018 for us to introduce summary incarceration and ultimately deportation for all. Any resulting fuss should be manageable (police: shoot to kill?).

The Jew
My consultations have left me absolutely in no doubt that the Jew poses as grave a threat as ever to British interests. Besides being inherently untrustworthy, self-serving and unhygienic, the Jew has, more specifically, brought the global economy to its knees and betrayed our Lord,

(Several pages missing)

state media, summarily executing dissenters among former representatives of the free press. By 2019, Final Solution should pass more or less unopposed.

As the Iraq inquiry prepares to convene just as soon as someone decides what it's actually doing, we talk to the key players...

Brown
I've come to view Iraq in much the same way as I imagine an artist might regard an experimental work that is perhaps not technically successful, and has failed to capture public and critical imaginations, but whose intent is apparent. It is a brave thing to do. And if we were to the measure the worth of an endeavour not by its outcomes, but by its intentions, then it was very clearly right for us to embark upon operations in Iraq.

The point is that we were duty-bound to try. We weren't, admittedly, sure that Iraq possessed WMDs. We were, I confess further, actually quite sure that it didn't. But it might have done. One might even say that - as with Schrödinger's cat - Iraq, before the incursion, both had and didn't have WMDs, and would have continued to remain in this state until we resolved the matter by observation; by opening up the chamber, as it were.

Reasoning thus, we made the perfectly valid assessment that Iraq posed a grave threat to the wider world. Our observation ensured the non-existence of WMDs. I therefore stand by the Iraq project without reservation.


Miliband
My biggest regret about Iraq would have to be the Despair Bomb. It was very much an experimental weapon - one we weren't fully ready to deploy in a live situation, certainly used rashly; a weapon that unleashed, besides unimaginable destruction, a whole raft of troubling questions, many of which we'd failed to consider until after the fact... Questions such as: what happens to an entire nation drained of all hope? Is it ethical to deliberately bring about this state of affairs?

It was our Hiroshima. History will, I think, judge us with a degree of pragmatism. An atrocity, if you will, committed for the greater good. But examined more closely, our decision to resort to such drastic measures may be harder to defend. We effectively solved the problem of Iraq by destroying Iraq. Anyone watching the news that day will forever be haunted by those images of a country literally consuming itself, collapsing in on itself like a dying galaxy, leaving a vast tract of negative space.

That most of Iraq's neighbours were immediately sucked into the void along with it is something that I must live with for the rest of my days. On the other hand, however, is the world a noticeably worse place for the deletion from reality of the Middle East? 9/11. The Crusades. Our invasion of Iraq itself. None of it ever happened. And of this, I think Mars approves.


Campbell
If you let your bitch run around doing and saying whatever, then sooner or later you're going to wake up hanging from the ceiling by your feet with pasties on your tits, watching the cat playing with something in the corner of the room. After a while you'll realise it's a cock and balls. Soon after that you'll recognise it as your own cock and balls. And your bitch is shagging a vicar in the other corner.

A bitch needs to know who's boss. It needs discipline. Wants it. Iraq was a bitch that wanted a slap across the chops. Simple as. We had no choice. We'd be giving Iran a good kick up the cunt if I was still around.


Straw
I felt no real compunction, at the time, in attacking Iraq. I was, in fact, utterly convinced that Iraq was not actually a country, but rather a loose conglomerate of terrorist organisations. It occurs to me now that I may have confused Iraq with Al-Qaida.

And it was a confusing time. We were at war with terrorism itself. Nobody was entirely sure who the enemy really was. And so we closed our eyes and fired wildly in all directions, reasoning that we were almost certain to hit the culprit eventually.


Blair
Iraq: a screaming, hundred mile-per-hour apparition of a past love; an intense, passionate affair, as thrilling in its violence as it was terrifying. She was my glory and my nemesis. She flies, howling, through my dreams, puncturing the membrane upon entry so that the external world seeps in and the internal one out, intermingling as blood and heroin swirl in the dropper, dancing about one another - a dangerous, erotic dance - until finally they embrace and become one, an unholy union.

Memories: her nails would sink deep into my flesh as we made love, whereupon I would immediately climax in a tremendous rolling crescendo, pumping white sicks of rage, each spasm a punch thrown at her womb...

I lose sight of God in these moments. Catch myself longing to return to her scarred, sinewy arms. Reason deserts me, my will tossed like a carcass to my basest instincts, devoured in seconds. Too far gone to recall the material world. Too late to turn back. All behind me crumbles into oblivion. Two bodies alone in an empty universe...

As soon as it is over, reality floods my consciousness once more. I find myself back in my bed, whole body jerking with dry sobs, searing white-hot barbs of shame lashing at my skin. Cherie sits hugging herself by the door, eyeing me, her face weeping fear and disgust.

I am stuck to the sheets... and so there I lay... silent and motionless... for days...

Tuition fees. Meh. Fucking the NHS with sneaky part-privatisation schemes. Meh. Contributing to global recession by allowing our financial system to run wild and free until it eats itself. Meh. The widest poverty gap since the 1960s. Meh. A steady breakdown in social cohesion. Meh. Abolition of the 10p tax rate. Meh. Weaseling out of environmental commitments. Meh. Massive infringements of human rights and civil liberties in the name of 'national security'. Meh. Illegal war. Meh. Colluding in torture. Meh. Killing thousands of innocent people. Meh. FIDDLING EXPENSES?! Bastards! Bastards! They've gone too far this time!

What are we going to do?

We need to mount some sort of protest... Let's put a couple of racist Holocaust-deniers in the European parliament. Let's insult the memories of everyone who died fighting fascism. Let's raise a jingoistic salute to the flag and shit on it at the same time. Let's break into a British Legion residential home and be sick on the veterans' faces. That'll teach them.

Hello. I'm the British electorate, and I'm a fucking moron.

Look, if this is going to work, you're going to need a daughter. If you don't already have one, and are unable or unwilling to acquire one, I'll have to ask you to imagine her. Take your time over this. Give her a name. A back story. A personality. She needs to feel real to you. What does she look like? How tall is she? What are her interests? What kind of relationship do you have with her? Do you even know? Do you actually care? It may help to write an exhaustive biography and character study; about 150-200,000 words should suffice. After you've done that, come back and read this.

So... We have a daughter. Now I want you to imagine that she's met self-styled saviour of Radio 1, Chris Moyles in, ooh, how about the Hemel Hempstead branch of Games Workshop? And he's asked her to join him for dinner.

Now that's bad enough, you might think, but wait! It gets worse. Let's imagine he's picked her up in his big, fancy, chauffeur-driven car. She's bowled over, as you'd expect. But see, this is where Moyles starts to show his true colours, because less than a mile into the journey he sets about dismantling her self-esteem with ruthless efficiency. Perhaps he says things like, "you'll wanna get them tits done, love," or, "I'll probably do you if I don't find anything better tonight." You might like to imagine that, every few minutes or so, he winds down the window and wolf-whistles at other women, perhaps asking the chauffeur to pull up beside one, giving her his number and telling her, "don't worry about this one," indicating your daughter. "I'm just giving her a do out of curiosity."

Once her ego is sufficiently trampled, he then starts his evil work in earnest. "Come on," he says, "don't be so uptight, let me see the merchandise, eh?" before ordering her to remove her underwear. "It's alright, I suppose," he says, inspecting her with a scowl. "I don't eat pussy, by the way. Keep 'em off, yeah?"

For the next few minutes, as your daughter quietly sobs, Moyles looks out of the window in silence, occasionally turning back to look her up and down, his round marshmallow face shot through with contempt. Eventually, he says, "for fuck's sake, love, cheer up, eh? You're bringing me right down. Tell you what, why don't you eat them panties? Eh? Go on, eat 'em, you silly bitch! It's just a bit of a laugh, innit?"

Hesitantly, she brings them up to her trembling lips. Moyles leans forward, and forces them into her mouth with his stumpy sausage-like fingers, cackling wetly like a malevolent, bloated Sid James might between spoonfuls of thick, rancid cream.

At the restaurant (actually just a Beefeater - "I haven't brought you anywhere posh 'cos it'd be a waste of money"), Moyles makes no conversation and ignores all your daughter's attempts to do so, instead leering at other women as they pass by. To the waiter who comes to take the order he says, "she won't be having anything, 'cos she's already ate. Hahaha! Only kidding, bring her a bowl of wedges. Can we get 'em cheaper without the dip?"

Moyles remains silent for the next hour, but for his chomping and slurping. Your daughter anaesthetizes herself with glass after glass of cheap house white. By the time the meal is over, your baby girl is almost unable to walk, stumbling into the other patrons as her companion drags her out of the restaurant and back to the car, which takes them on into town, tinned misery on wheels.

They stop on a side street. "Come on, skank," says Moyles. "We're gonna get you a tattoo."

He pulls her out of the car into a dark alley, and from there into a red-lit room through an anonymous doorway, throwing her into a chair. "Do a cock and balls on her forehead," he tells the tattooist.

Freshly tattooed, your daughter is led sobbing back to the car. "Let's just drop her off home," says Moyles to the driver. "She's no fuckin' good to anyone, this bitch." About three miles from your home, he tells the driver to stop the car by a young blonde in a tight-fitting dress, walking home from a night out. "Alright, love?" he says, opening the door. "How'd you like a shag off the saviour of Radio 1?" He turns to your daughter - "you can walk the rest of the way, can't you, love?" - and pushes her out of the car with one fat, clumsy hand, pulling the giggling blonde in with the other.

Your daughter arrives home an hour later, mascara intermingled with the dry salt tracks that stain her cheeks. You lay her head upon your chest and hug her, consciously radiating all the parental warmth that you can muster, but nothing seems to bring her comfort. Everything's different now...

Readers: as long as Chris Moyles is permitted to roam free, all of this remains a possibility. He cannot be allowed to get away with it. So please, join our efforts to bring this monster to justice. Boycott Radio 1, write to your local MP, attend our rallies, support us in any way you can. Chris Moyles must be stopped.

But first, if you do have a daughter, go to her and hug her. Hold her tight and tell her that you love her.

If, on the other hand, you had to conjure a daughter from your imagination, it's possible that she's now so real to you that there's a gaping hole at the centre of your being. I'm afraid I can't help you with that. Sorry.

I keep seeing reports all over the internet that the turn-out so far for the Euro elections has been pretty poor. This doesn't surprise me, but I had still hoped, perhaps naively, that enough of the less wrongheaded living among us might've been mobilised to try and make a difference.

It isn't too late, though.

We in the UK can't influence the way the rest of Europe votes, but we can decide who we choose to represent us in the European parliament. Staying away from the polls might not be just as good as putting that X right there by your friendly local racist's name, but it puts the pencil to the page, ready for someone to make the first mark.

If Europe's far right parties do as well out of this election as they hope, then we'll be taking a step into the darkness.

Could fascism become as powerful a force on the world stage today as it did back in the 1930s? Maybe not as quickly, not with the natural checks and balances provided nowadays by the internet and 24-hour rolling news. In fact, it'd be impossible for a first-world, ostensibly democratic government to even begin the slide down that route without enough people knowing about it to make a big fucking noise, all over the world, in minutes.

But what if they took their time, played the long game, and subtly gained the acquiescence of the majority? I'm reminded of an episode of The Simpsons where Marge, watching the TV, says, "Fox turned into a hardcore porn channel so gradually, I didn't even notice." It's a tactic that can work wonders for anyone who has the patience, and it's worked so far for the BNP, which, towards the tail end of the '90s, was still very much a party of bogeymen. Now, at the end of the first decade of the 21st century, it's poised for election to the European parliament.

And we haven't even noticed.

Am I being melodramatic? I probably am, and I hope so. But bear this in mind: 1930s Berlin was not a backwoods wasteland. It wasn't a medieval village populated by inbred dimwits. It was a modern city, a hotbed of intellectual debate, passionate activism, and above all, fraying tempers. A lot of people saw what was coming, and either turned their heads or found themselves being shouted down, or worse. 1933 really wasn't that long ago, but we have very short memories.

I posted this at 8pm. The polling stations are open for another two hours. If you haven't made your way down there today, GO NOW.

Picture the scene... A new world is taking shape against a backdrop of conflict. Seats of power are shifting. The global economy is stalling. Everywhere is uncertainty. Charismatic but ruthless politicians across Europe are blaming the outsiders, the foreigners, the Untermenschen. There are invasions. Tensions are rising. The world is teetering on the brink of war.

Sound familiar? It will. It's now.

Europe's far right, until now a fairly marginal voice on the international stage, is organising and positioning itself for a strong showing in the Euro elections throughout the next four days, making capital out of the global economic crisis and mounting Islamophobic and antisemitic sentiment. Which is why, just this once, I'm going to have the courage of my convictions, step out from behind the veil of irony for five fucking minutes and address you as me. Naked. Mano-a-mano.

Now, I don't know what the geographical make-up of this blog's readership is (assuming it has one), but I'm a British man writing from a British perspective, and so I'm going to assume that most of you out there are fellow nationals.

Tomorrow (Thursday, June 4), it's absolutely vital that each and every one of you goes to the booth and exercises your hard-won democratic right. The British National Party looks set to gain a foothold in Europe as a result of this election, and if they do, will go on to represent Britain in a powerful new far right coalition.

They have a single, but potent weapon in their arsenal: a currently massive disillusion in British politics, as a result of which a lot of British citizens are either going to vote in protest for a non-mainstream party, or stay away from the polls altogether. The BNP has been campaigning hard to pick up votes from the former, and with their small but fanatical and highly motivated support base, they can expect to benefit hugely from a poor showing for the three main parties that the latter scenario will inevitably bring about.

The fact is that nobody really knows what result is going to emerge on Monday. European elections have low turn-outs and are hard to predict at the best of times, but the British electorate at present is a loose cannon pointing in fifty different directions at once. The only way we can be even slightly sure of stopping the BNP from getting represented in Europe is by turning out in force and voting against them.

We're in an unusual situation, in that the most important result this time is 4th place. In fact, the battle for that 4th place makes this probably the most important election, certainly in my lifetime.

If the BNP gets there, if they get even just one candidate into Europe, it'll be a huge victory for them, and the birth of the biggest far right movement that this country has ever seen.

However. There's a ray of hope (and Christ knows, this blog alone is short on those) - if they're unsuccessful, if they lose out on 4th place, and if they fail to get an MEP elected... that, my friends, will be one motherfucker of a mighty blow raining directly down on the soft, malformed top of the BNP's thick, collective head. It'll shatter their confidence and utterly fuck their credibility for years to come.

And credibility is everything to this party. Their entire strategy depends on presenting themselves as a viable alternative to the Westminster elite. It's been under Nick Griffin, with his semi-coherent impression of an almost respectable human being, that the BNP has made such headway in recent years, selling itself successfully to otherwise decent people frustrated with mainstream politics. If he loses this election, he'll be gone in weeks, and the party will be back where it belongs, if anywhere, on the fringes.

So tomorrow: VOTE.

Preferably not for the BNP, of course.

And before I scuttle back under the duvet of sarcasm, I'd like to leave you with this one last thought. There's no such thing as pure British blood. Ours is a mongrel nation. The genes of half of Europe and some of the world beyond are in our DNA. We have one of the most eclectic cultures in the world, and this magpie nature, along with our famous reserve, makes up our national character. All of which is why Britain is rightfully known for being a tolerant, moderate nation. If you don't believe me, consider the half a million of our grandparents and great-grandparents who died in the fight against fascism.

That's what Britain's about. The BNP are completely missing the point. But then they are a bit fucking numb.

Don't let history repeat itself.

Q&A: Simon Cowell
"Death offers no escape"

Simon Cowell, 49, was born at the centre of a raging inferno. He left school at the age of 16 and then did a bunch of other shit before going on to forge a hugely successful career, crushing the dreams of trapped, desperate people. He lives alone and loves nothing.

When were you happiest?
I can't remember the last time I was happy. Or sad. I feel nothing. If, for example, I were to kick a puppy to death right here in front of you, you would no doubt be horrified. But for me, it would feel exactly the same as if I'd, say, stumbled upon the cure for HIV. I'd be completely numb in either case. There's something very wrong with my soul.

What is your earliest memory?
When I was about 5, in a cave not far from my home, watching my best friend Tom disappear silently into the murk of a shaft so deep I never heard him hit the bottom. It's the eyes that I remember most clearly. The pleading eyes, catching the light from the entrance as he spun round to face me - one final glimmer of vitality, then swallowed up by the gloom. Darkness forever. The people who come to my auditions, they have those same eyes. That's why I want to hurt them.

What is the trait you most deplore in yourself?
This disgusting fleshy shell that I'm forced to inhabit. One day, the intangible part of me will break its shackles and merge with eternity.

What is the trait you most deplore in others?
Weakness.

What is your most treasured possession?
If everyone and everything in the world was to crumble suddenly to dust, right before my eyes, it would be of no real consequence.

If you could bring something extinct back to life, what would you choose?
I'd like to know again what it is to feel joy.

What is your favourite word?
Words cannot convey the blankness.

What is your guiltiest pleasure?
My whims and desires are catered for night and day. Whatever I wish for, it happens, immediately and without repercussion - for me, at least. And it all leaves me so terribly, terribly cold.

What do you owe your parents?
I owe them nothing. I paid a very high price for my success. A very high price indeed.

What does love feel like?
It's been described to me. I must say I don't fully understand what it's for.

What was the best kiss of your life?
Kissing is something that men without immeasurable wealth and influence have to do.

Which living person do you most despise and why?
What reason have I to despise anyone? The actions of men are all utterly inconsequential.

If you could go back in time, where would you go?
To that cave, when I was 5 - those eyes wouldn't haunt me like they do if I'd only closed my own.

When did you last cry, and why?
I don't believe I ever have. I'm told I was an unusually composed baby.

How often do you have sex?
Constantly. In fact, I'm having sex right now - cold, joyless sex. It's all just so much heaving meat. And yet I'm controlled by this implacable hunger - it dominates every ounce of my being. I just wish I knew what it was I hungered for.

What do you consider your greatest achievement?
My achievements are all equally meaningless to me.

What keeps you awake at night?
I'm never really awake.

How would you like to be remembered?
Death offers no escape. I'll still be here, in this world, long after all other life within it has been extinguished.

Tell us a joke.
Piers Morgan.

Reproduced with kind permission from The Guardian Weekend magazine