Why our gods must die

Stop all the clocks, cut off the telephone, prevent the dog from barking with a juicy bone. For the next 24 hours I’ll be glued to my television set watching the final moments of Celebrity Big Brother. Admittedly, it hasn’t proved quite as compelling as the first series, but it has been pretty entertaining nevertheless. I’ll be particularly interested to see who wins, because the person emerging triumphantly from the house tomorrow night could easily have been me.

I was first contacted about appearing on Celebrity Big Brother on 2 October by a woman claiming to be one of the producers. Naturally, I assumed it was a practical joke being played on me by one of my friends. It wasn’t until I received a formal letter the following day that my doubts were finally laid to rest. Incredibly, the offer seemed genuine.

My first thought was why me? Forget about D-list. There aren’t enough letters in the alphabet to signify the lowliness of my status.