Is there any more terrifying sentence in the English language than: "Billie Faiers flaunts her curves in a gaping bright orange swimsuit on holiday in Marbella."
The answer, in case you're wondering, is no.
It's not that I've got anything personal against Miss Faiers.
Oi. I didn't mean it like that. Stop that sniggering at the back.
But as far as I can tell from the frenzied tabloid coverage of Miss Faiers's holiday in Spain, her main contribution to civilisation is ladling herself into a succession of DayGlo bikinis and pretending she can't see the phalanx of paparazzi taking pictures of her.
Nothing wrong with that, per se.
I'm fully on board with Benny Hill's Professor Peach, in The Italian Job, when he declares "I like 'em big. Big!"
But Miss Faiers's personal charms aside, I just can't understand why we – as a nation – should be remotely interested in what colour her bikini is or how it's flaunting her curves.
I went to Scarborough last weekend and sat on the beach for a while flaunting some impressive curves of my own, but I'd be appalled to think that anyone – other than the Greenpeace bloke who was trying to drag me back into the sea – would be remotely interested.
It's just not news. It's the celebration of the nauseatingly dull and unimportant.
It's putting the feebly untalented and unremarkable up on a pedestal and smashing the national consciousness repeatedly in the face with it until we accept that fame for the sake of fame is itself something worth aspiring to.
It's telling the glassy-eyed readers of such celebrity-driven drivel that somehow this nondescript woman is something to be envied because she's able to put pants on in the morning.
I can put pants on in the morning. Give me a TV series. We all can put pants on in the morning. Give us all a TV series.
But it's not just Billie Faiers's latest swimwear conundrum – or staged nightclub fumble – that we're subjected to.
Her little sister Sam and the rest of the "cast" of lobotomy central – or The Only Way Is Essex, as it's also known – are in on the joke, too.
One national newspaper breathlessly reported that Jess, Ricky, Joey, Sam, Gemma, Arg and Bobby had all jetted in to their holiday destination – probably shortened to Marbs because none of them can spell a three-syllable word like Marbella – ready for two weeks of partying.
Another paper nearly exploded with excitement when Towie's Lucy Mecklenburgh looked "seriously stunning as she made her way to filming at the Beach Club in a white one-piece".
Really? Oh I am glad.
Not to be left out of any publicity-seeking frenzy, former X Factor judge Tulisa also jetted into Marbs.
Tulisa, who I think once had about two chart hits, showed off her new "Lucky You" tattoo above her nether regions – which just about sums it up, really.
At the same time, about 1,043 miles north east of Marbs, Kimberley Garner, of pretend-posh reality rivals Made In Chelsea, was pretending to be something to do with the 66th Cannes film festival – while "sizzling in a white swimsuit" on a yacht.
And on it goes.
Day after day. Page after page. And millions of readers lap it up – sitting there in their grim flats, grabbing on to any brief scent of glamour to vicariously liven up their dour existences.
I think we should launch a fightback.
If the newspapers think "reality" is so exciting, we should start bombarding our national newspapers with pictures of ourselves "flaunting our curves" on the beach at Flamborough, falling out of a nightclub down Witham or lounging around on a yacht in Hull Marina – at least until the owner comes back and chases us off.
I think a three-page picture special of "Fat Bob totally rocking a gaping bright-orange mankini on the harbour at Brid", is just as interesting as some brainless s'lebrity pretending to have an unscripted romance in Marbs.
In fact, you send me your real reality on the beach shots, and I'll run them right here in my own celebrity gossip special page. Dare you.
