I have a confession to make. No, this isn't part of my declaration to be more open. This is something far more embarrassing: I am hooked on reality TV. The cheaper, the tackier, the better. I've taped every episode of Model Behaviour. For anyone who's not seen this yet - what are you waiting for? It's hysterical.

"I have the same personality as Geri Halliwell," said one big-haired midget, lips a-quiver, "I have something to prove. I didn't have many friends at school... I don't know why. Sometimes it makes me cry. But look - I can jump into the splits!" Which she then demonstrated, with ball-clutching vigour.

Then there was the pasty-faced peroxided poodle-haired bimbo with the photo album of dodgy "glamour" shots. "My bruvver did 'em on the compyootah." Heartbreaking. Or the square-jawed Iranian housewife: "I tink I verry ekspressif for de kameraa."

And we were glued to the final of Soapstars on Saturday night. I'll admit to having a tear in my eye as the young Scottish cabbage-picker won a part in the soap. Why? Lord knows. I don't watch soaps. The last time I saw Emmerdale, it was called Emmerdale Farm.

But even I have to draw the line somewhere. Yesterday's TV schedules included a programme called Soapstars Dogstars, in which viewers were invited to choose the soap family's dog. That's just one reality TV too far.