One of the advantages of living so far out of the loop is that it's very easy to avoid the latest manifestations of Celebutardery, although this can sometimes be frustrating. I've missed Myleene's showers ("Hmmm, I wonder, if I stand under cold water, maybe my nipples will show through my bikini, and lots of people will watch..."), the unlikely resurrection of Steve Strange, and a parallel universe in which England cricketers can actually do something right (although not cricket, it must be said). And it would have been nice to have experienced Ken Russell's brief sojourn in the Big Brother house, especially as it gave rise to this thoughtful appreciation of Jade Goody and her family:
"I grew up in the slums of Southampton and we had a word for people like that - guttersnipes. There should be a Devil's Island where we can send these people, they're all going to Hell anyway. I've met people from all walks of life but no-one so vulgar. It's almost as though they've been programmed to be vulgar, horrible and objectionable. They speak in a language which is deliberately limited. They didn't even seem to know how to use a knife and fork."
This from a man who once filmed Vanessa Redgrave getting an enema, not to mention Oliver Reed's genitalia.
Also: something for the Who fans at CiF; a contrarian view of media interactivity from the LA Times (thanks to Wyndham for spotting this); Patroclus needs your blogging epiphanies for the book that's going to make her rich and famous and the scourge of lifestyle journalists everywhere; and The Chasms of the Earth has staggered back into life, although they're still dicking around in the Louvre, and Ian McKellen hasn't started overacting yet.
And please don't talk to me about the Morrissey/Eurovision thing. I'm already experiencing a strange mixture of elation and nausea.