Or at least there should be at the publication which put this miserable non-story on the front page of their website:
Burn, baby, burn: Simon Cowell battered by Mediterranean sun
Yes, a man went on holiday and got a suntan. Would you believe it? Well yes you would. Ooh yes, he was quite pale, and now he isn't.
As befits a man of his fabulous wealth and talent, Simon Cowell enjoys many of the trappings of the LA lifestyle. But while he has the cars, the mansions, the high-waisted but exquisitely tailored trousers – there is one thing about him that remains resolutely, even defiantly, English: his skin.
Oh really? Stunning. Thank goodness we all know about that. Imagine what a void of knowledge our lives would have been without knowing about the colour of some TV man's skin.
Like his fellow countrymen, the pop mogul seems to be cursed with an epidermis that burns like milk before a flamethrower when he ventures out of the shade.
Epidermis? What? Who says epidermis? Ever? Anyone?
Whatever the cause, his battle scars are all too familiar. First there is the bright pink hue of the flesh, reminiscent of a lobster freshly plucked from the pot but yet to be covered with a cheesy duvet of thermidor sauce.
I feel sorry for the life of this writer who had to churn out this wall of turd, because I'm sure they'd rather be doing proper journalism about real stories - at least I hope they are. But I feel even sorrier because the publication which has chosen to cover this pointless crock of codswallop and put it on their web front page is not the Mail, nor the Sun, nor even the Telegraph (although they may well have done it) but The Guardian.
Christ. How depressing.