Soon, a seemingly endless parade of lucky nobodies filled our screens. They made it any way they could: flirting on Big Brother, masturbating pigs, marrying stars – or better still, sleeping with stars who were already married. They got drunk, got dumped, and got divorced. They were snapped with lines up their nose and their pants round their ankles. And we lapped it up, every last column inch of it.

But the humiliation of Jade Goody was the beginning of the end. Our girl next door, who had won over the nation just five years before, was undone by the very things we’d grown fond of: her stupidity, her insecurity, and her big, loud mouth. Now, the tragic, sordid death of Anna Nicole Smith, just months after the birth of her daughter, has slammed the final nail into the diamante-encrusted Versace coffin. This joke isn’t funny any more.

Celebrity culture was the creation of a society that was peaceful, prosperous – and bored. After 9/11, in the midst of a bloody and seemingly never-ending war, a bunch of gobby boys and girls having sex and falling over doesn’t seem so entertaining any more.

Don’t get me wrong. When the first reality TV stars came along, they were like a breath of fresh air. Chubby, shy, skint, with crap clothes, they were just like us. It seemed like ordinary people deserved to be famous too.

But sooner or later, fame reveals your true nature. Like stars, ordinary people, aren’t always funny or loveable. We’re often boring, plain, and stupid, and sometimes racist and nasty. But unlike the stars, we don’t have talent or looks to hide behind. Hold us up to the glare of the spotlight, and we just look dirty.

So bye-bye, kiss-n-tell culture. It’s time to start celebrating real star quality – from the beauty of Penelope Cruz to the raw talent of Forest Whitaker. Fame is a precious thing, and we control who gets it. Let’s use that power a bit more wisely in future.

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