Celebritee-hee

I couldn't have been more than 11 or 12 but I remember this quite clearly. There used to be a TV programme called "Sunday Night at the London Palladium". It was a variety show (sort of like "Britains Got Talent" with jugglers that didn't drop things) and every week they had a big time international star to end the show. On this particular night the headliner was Liberace (for the youngsters thinking WHO? Try this, Alan Carr in sequins, playing the piano with an American accent). Out he flounced, dressed like a Xmas tree on acid and as "camp" as a row of tents. I was sitting with my late Mum, who absolutely loved old Libby.

"Eeeeww Mum, he is such a Homo!" or some equally un-PC comment.

"No he is not! He's just slightly effeminate. It's all just an act"

Well, it was certainly an act but even in those naive days my Gaydar was in perfect working order.

Now, please, please, please don't think this is in any way an anti-gay rant. Not in the slightest, in fact as long as your sexual predilections are consensual and don't involve children or defenseless animals I will stand up and defend your rights to get your rocks off in any way you jolly well choose.

My point is that in the heady days of the first half of the last century the general public were happy to have their entertainment icons sanitised, packaged, protected and served to them in nice little user friendly portions. The film studios and record companies went to great lengths to cover up the truth about such idols as Rock Hudson, Montgomery Clift and Tab Hunter. They were photographed on the red carpet with stunning "starlets", straight relationships were reported in the press and in some cases they even married them off!

Strangely enough, the "Rat Pack"( Frank Sinatra, Dean Martin & Sammy Davis jr), who specialised in womanising, hard drinking and gambling, were almost presented as role models.

Couldn't do it these days though. If the latest heart-throb doesn't out him/herself there are websites that will. If the orgy involving a vicar, dominatrix and a shire horse was meant to be by invite only...forget it. There will have been a paparazzi with a trillion x zoom catching the whole thing for syndication. And if their intake of Columbian Marching Powder was a guilty secret, somebody with a camera-phone will have videoed them hunched over with a straw up their schnoz and on You-Tube within the hour. Guilty yes, secret no.

What really hacks me off is not that our celebrities have nasty habits, exotic sexual preferences or skeletons in the fitted wardrobe but the fact that they whinge about it when they are caught red-handed.

We've all seen the interviews:

"So, Squiffy since you've been successful what has been your biggest disappointment with fame and fortune?"

" Well er, you know. it's like umm, the fact that I just ain't got no privacy anymore. I mean, like, ya know, kinda, I can't go down to the "Offy" anymore in my pj's and hair in curlers without some bleedin' photographer snapping at me".

Oh poor, poor you. Had you never seen Heat, Ok, Hello or The News of the World. Did the whole internet, global information thing pass you by. Did they not have television in Grimly-on-the Mold and was radio a medium only enjoyed by the local Lord of the Manor.

You wanted the fame and fortune. The premieres, designer clothing, holidays in the Bahamas and the house in Essex called "Squiffy Manor" were all on your wish-list. It was all you ever wanted but like everything in life it comes with a price. Whilst most of the world is crunched by their credit don't expect any sympathy

So do us all a favour. When you get round to doing the inevitable ("it was only meant to be a really personal thing for me and my Dwayne") celebrity sex-tape make sure you at least get your hair, make-up and lighting done properly.