Will The Insecure Publicity Whore Please Come To The Diary Room?

Well, it couldn't last. There was a brief time, just after Christmas, when it seemed our airwaves were unsullied by reality shows. Then Celebrity Big Brother comes along and tramps muddy footprints all over our nice clean media hallway like a big filthy dog.

Chillingly, the makers of Celebrity Big Brother have gradually honed the programme so that the nastier elements are brought to the fore. They looked at the bits that people really remembered - the horribly public breakdown of Vanessa Feltz and Les Dennis - and said, "Now that's what we need more of." So they select a range of public figures as close to the edge as possible. Hence we get Michael Barrymore nervously eyeing the swimming pool, Jodie "damaged goods" Marsh lashing out at anyone within range, desperate attention-cravers like Pete "gorilla suit" Burns, and George Galloway just in time for a truly bizarre mid-life crisis. Put them all in close proximity, add some ritual humiliation and see who becomes the gibbering, whimpering husk first. Psychological cockfighting, that's what it is. Might as well poke them with sticks.

The trouble is, not all of the potential train wrecks on the list are available, so in order to make up the numbers the tabloids are trawled for Z-listers with time on their hands. Used to be one of the less memorable Baywatch Babes? Come on in! Singer in a third-division indie band? Why not! Ex-wife of seventies cop show actor? Where's her number? Actually, the genius bit this year is Chantelle, the non-celebrity. With such non-entities in the house, clearly nobody in there has heard of each other. She has to convince the others she's famous - which is, of course, exactly what all the others will be doing. Brilliant. It's as if the show is satirising itself.

It's compulsive viewing: compulsive in the sense that washing your hands till you bleed is compulsive. Watching it certainly isn't an enjoyable experience, you know you'll regret it, but you just can't help yourself. Because it encompasses all that is deplorable in the human condition, and you just hate yourself for enjoying it. You feel you'll never get clean again.

And you know that ultimately, the world will be a poorer place for it. The ropey second Ordinary Boys album will sell more copies than it deserves to. Chantelle will become an actual star, proving TV eats itself in the end. And as the taste envelope is pushed in pursuit of enthralling a public which is increasingly harder to shock, the stars they choose will get ever more contoroversial. Next year: Gary Glitter?