I have zero sympathy for Simon Cowell

Usually, I try to be sympathetic to people in the public eye when the public is eyeing up personal matters they'd rather draw a discreet veil over. But reports of Simon Cowell's misery in the face of Tom Bower's biography, Sweet Revenge: The Intimate Life of Simon Cowell, are my exception that proves the rule. I won't be reading the book, or the extracts that have caused a furore. But I can't help thinking that the man is finally getting a taste of his own medicine. Cowell's career has been built on thrusting all sorts of people, many of whom seemed psychologically ill-prepared, into the open arms of a gossip-hungry media. Until now, Cowell has always given the impression he believes any publicity to be good publicity. He seemed, in particular, to be perfectly comfortable with Sharon Osbourne's vulgar, outspoken, take-no-prisoners style – until he became its target. What's sauce for the goose, in this case, is vsauce for the gander.