I'm a Celebrity Big Brother Deathmatch victim

Now I'm not a great fan of the haunted fishtank but I came home yesterday afternoon after a meeting with my creative team at the Roadie and Strumpet to find my old mum glued to the box. She'd turned it on to get her daily fix of Pimp My Ride and Countdown - two programmes that are easy to mix up if you're on medication. One is a kind of automotive Changing Rooms with a geezer called Xzibit playing the floppy Lawrence role and the other is a series that looks as though it was made in 1957 with a bloke wearing a jacket that even LL-B wouldn't give house room.

Anyway, she was tuned into this Big Brother show which seems to feature two old-age pensioners. One was banging on and behaving like something from the Dark Ages and the other one was that bloke from the horse racing. So I am watching this unfold and I suddenly realise that one of these old ducks is Germaine Greer! Now me and Gerry go back a long way - she was a right goer and no mistake. Having retrieved my jaw from the Axminster, I ask my mum how long this has been going on and why didn't I know about it. Apparently there's been loads of them - in the jungle, up a gum tree and all sorts. Even little Johnny Rotten and that DJ with the syrup** who used to be on Radio 1 have been on one!

So I'm straight on the blower to my agent and I give him a massive rollicking for not expoiting this potential publicity opportunity to the max. It turns out that he's been trying for ages to get me on but they're not interested. Something about corrupting the viewing public or some such nonsense. It's beyond belief, isn't it?

** For the benefit of our Transatlantic cousins: syrup = wig (syrup of fig) Explanations of what a Hampton is will be forwarded under a plain brown cover (only the Brits will get this gag!)