Society is only three meals away from revolution. I can see that, but for the spoilt, desperate saddos who take part in Celebrity Big Brother, missing even a single meal is out of the question.
For professional reasons, I endured two and a half hours of this boring show. The only laugh I had was seeing how easy it is to break a so-called "entertainer's" spirit. The programme failed to please on every count. First, the celebs in the house couldn't behave normally and treat us to a peeping Tom experience because no drugs, agents or hookers were allowed in; and second, who really wants proof that fine homes and fancy friends don't make you happy? What is the point of it all if that really is the case?
My idea of a "reality" show about TV personalities and pop stars would have Big Brother hiding four wraps of cocaine, a case of vodka and some painkillers in the house. The voice would then announce: "You keep what you find. You must not share with others. Go!" Imagine John Leslie, Angus Deayton and Whitney Houston scavenging among the chickens or reaching round the U-bend for those celebrity stocking-fillers - now that's what C4 used to make: cutting-edge programmes.
Keith Allen, the actor, told me that he would consider taking part in the series. The idea disgusted him at first, but, having watched the latest turgid drivel, he was having second thoughts.
"Imagine taking off your clothes and hiding in a cupboard. Then, when Anne Diamond arrives, you leap out and scream 'Bleeaarhgh!' Fantastic. Or how about staying naked the entire ten days? Just subvert the fucking show . . . don't let them [the production team] mess you about."
His eyes were getting wild. "Pretend to wank under the covers every single night . . . walk around with a hard-on . . ." There was more, and all of it good stuff. But something tells me the producers will be having second thoughts about asking Keith now.
A couple of years ago, when I was having my own delusions of celebrity grandeur, I enrolled on a 36-hour survival course in the Brecon Beacons, in midwinter, to get "back in touch with reality". Quite how eating baked beans in the rain would help me to stop behaving like Lily Savage on speed I had no idea, but off I went with my Bergen and my little lock knife.
At 8pm, the group arrived at the Lamb Hotel in Penderyn; three women and nine men - mostly firemen, who were there for "a bit of a laugh". Our commander was billed as an ex-Special Forces "nutter" who had lived in the jungles of Borneo for years in between single-handedly ending the Falklands and Gulf wars. Our first briefing consisted of necking as many beers or doubles as we could before closing time. Then it was into the howling, rainy dark for an hour's hike to a muddy field and our moth-eaten tents. After six hours' shivering rest, we were tucking into sausages and beans in the icy morning air and trying to make sense of the maps and compasses we'd brought along. All in all, I felt pretty smug. At 2pm, 18 hours into our Survivor-style journey, I had already shared the bottle of port and giant bar of chocolate I had smuggled in with my comrades, and was now suffering a sugar dip and a hangover.
"Ginge", our commander, gave us tasks to complete, then pissed off to the pub and left us to suffer. "If you want to eat, here's the food," he said, throwing rabbits, carrots and potatoes down. "If you want a place to sleep, build a shelter."
Did I change in 24 hours? Yes. I reverted to Stone Age Lauren. I made a fire and drooled while skinning a rabbit. I fought the firemen for domination of the leaping flames. And as for them, well, they did what firemen do best; every time my back was turned, they managed to extinguish the flames, which completely ruined my casserole.