Question: When the best scene by far in an 85 minute TV show features a couple of urinating dogs, is it a good or a bad thing? Answer: Neither. It’s Britain’s Got Talent.

Welcome to series 11 (count ‘em!) where it’s business as usual at the end of the pier. If you’re the type of person who never tires of the same old tawdry tosh, no doubt about it… this was a decent opening salvo. But if you’re feeling rather fatigued by Cowell’s all too familiar silly circus there was little to revive your interest.

In my ideal world, the four judges of the apocalypse will one day tell the kid comedians the truth. But in the real world, Simon and his simpering sidekicks will continue to assure every dreadful junior stand-up they’re the next Lennie Bruce.

After eight year-old Ned Woodman’s excruciatingly unfunny routine, the patronising panellists adopt their soppy smile expressions and launch into an orgy of the wild overpraising that is bestowed upon all infant wannabes. Cue the Dark Lord’s first “big fat yes”. There will be many more. It’s his favourite cliché.

But there are other contrived sensations to come. Especially, the obligatory overrated teenage singer in the form of Sarah Ikumu from Milton Keynes whose caterwauling version of I’m Telling You remains impressively out of tune from start to finish. With stunning originality, Simon says: “You made it your own song.” She certainly did. But not in a good way. Nevertheless, the great man presses his Golden Buzzer. Next year Sarah will be swapping the Golden Buzzer for the Golden Bell. Pub singer alert.

This is a serious competition though. So back to the weak-bladdered hounds. Here come the warm jets after a mad woman and her terrier Robbie deliver a profoundly pointless performance but – as luck would have it – it turns out that it’s bring-your-dog-to-work day at the London Palladium.

By an amazing coincidence, Ant, Dec, Amanda, Alesha. Simon and his faux gay lover David Walliams all have their pet pooches with them. So they hit the stage for a “doga” (dog yoga) session. To get into the spiritual mood they take their shoes off. Sadly, before they even start, Ant’s laconic Labrador Hurley takes the most enormous pee. Somewhat embarrassed, Ant dejectedly leads Hurley back into the wings. Bad boy! And you, Hurley.

But while Dec dissolves into hysterics, little does he realise that the canine capers are far from over. Not to be outdone, the aforementioned Robbie wanders across to Walliams’ brogues… and proceeds to fill them with amber fluid. No golden buzzer, but certainly a golden shower. If droll Dave ever tells you to walk a mile in his shoes, just say no. Absolutely no talent on display whatsoever – but we have just seen one of the all-time great highlights of a production that sets the bar low.

Meanwhile, we thrill to a procession of standard issue delusional losers, some Dutch dweeb called Niels’ crap magic act, a bloke pulling letters of the alphabet out of a bag and a dud dad dancing copper. All the risible rubbish that has come to define ITV’s most popular programme. Okay if you like this sort of half-way amusing nonsense but if you don’t, try Sky Arts. It’s funnier.

And then suddenly, in the middle of this tidal wave of twaddle, an extraordinary change of direction. Meet the winners… The Missing People Choir. The parents, friends and relatives of loved ones who have gone missing. Not a dry eye in the house throughout a moving rendition of I Miss You as pictures of the missing scroll down behind them. Highly unusual, strangely sombre for BGT… but an excellent way to promote a fine charity backed by Kate and Gerry McCann.

Naturally, Amanda and Alesha burst into tears but it doesn’t mean much because they’re always blubbing for the cameras. But when Ant starts to sob you know that we’ve just witnessed a heart rending moment.

In other encouraging news… a passable mind reading duo and, better still, a pleasing lack of those dismal community dance troupes that rob you of the will to live. Although there’s a disturbingly weird interlude involving a gaggle of oddballs pretending to be cats and mice. No one knows why. Four yeses. No one knows why.

Not too much hilarity at the expense of the useless laughing-stock idiots. But a special mention for Jim The Dancer whose idea of entertaining the crowd is to put customised cardboard boxes on his head before gyrating in an uncoordinated fashion. And not forgetting the two crazy ladies shuffling about while painting a poor quality upside down picture of Mr Cowell.

And finally… a competent musical mimic called Jess who does impressions of Sharon Osbourne and Cheryl Whateverherlatestnameis. A timely reminder that the best thing about Britain’s Got Talent is Shazza and Chezza aren’t on it. We should be grateful for small mercies.