Say what you like about the vanity of us look at me columnists who get paid money to inflict 800-1000 words of narcissistic tosh upon an unsuspecting public, but at least we have the decency to create our monsters behind closed doors before presenting the finished article for Joe Public s delectation.
However, in recent times, the evolution of an even more conceited species has come to my attention: those folk who have decided that their only marketable asset is the reams of talent they clearly do not have.
As I write, for example, 10 people under the age of 40 but old enough to know better are having their every move and utterance broadcast live on the Internet from a house somewhere in London.
Millions watch them round the clock as they play out a game of nine halves in a bid to see who can lay claim to the title of Great Britain s 10th Most Contemptible Human Being a badge of honour second only in prestige and pointlessness to that currently worn by the World s Tallest Pygmy.
Televised highlights of this farrago appear on Channel 4 every night and are watched avidly by devotees whose fervent hope and prayer is that one or more of the Big Brother house s occupants will make all those wasted hours in front of the TV worthwhile by engaging in a depraved sexual act. But unless the chickens are brought in from the cold and given a more active role, it s not going to happen.
Particularly not as long as the house dwellers are unable to afford more drink than is good for them and we continue putting the heterosexual women to the sword. And while many viewers may be entertaining some sort of Big Brother dyke fantasy in the wake of that half-assed peck in Week One, don t believe for a second that one bovver-booted, shaven-headed lesbian clichi and five idiotic we re-mad-we-are men will ever find it within themselves to put on an erotic floor show.
On the subject of fowl birds, Caprice is another who is notoriously reticent when it comes to stepping out of a rolling camera s line of fire. However, on the experimental ALT TV s Being Caprice, the ubiquitous model (who rarely wears clothes) and pop star (who rarely sings) sported a secret camera in the spectacles none of us have ever seen her wear before in order to give us, the voyeurs, a view of life as seen through her eyes.
A lot of people have a misconception of Caprice s world, she explained earnestly at the beginning of the show, seemingly oblivious to the fact that most people couldn t give two spurts of pig s piss what Caprice gets up to from one end of the day to the next.
Like everyone else, though, we stayed tuned in the vain hope of seeing a buck naked Tony Adams come charging across her boudoir with one hand in the air and the other holding his throbbing Donkey-Kong cock.
Sadly, the Arsenal centre-half was conspicuous by his absence from proceedings, and we were treated instead to the sight of two wisps of long, bottle-blonde hair and the sound of an incessant gnat-like whine lamenting the fact that the capricious Caprice s every move is gobbled up by the media.
But enough carping. As you approach the conclusion of this issue s beautifully written, well laid-out, pithily headlined and professionally packaged installment of London Calling, ask yourself, dear reader, if it would have been any better if you d been able to witness its evolution first hand.
For example, would a web cam view of me looking at my watch, smacking my forehead in panic and hastily sitting down in front of a PC have added a frisson of excitement to your reading experience? I think not.
Would your enjoyment of this magnificent piece of writing have been spoiled by a sighting of the unsightly muddle that was my first draft? It certainly would. After all, I think it s fair to say that if there was a market for journalistic out-takes such as misspellings and over-reliance on the Thesaurus as a source of flowery prose, that wily old sage Dennis Norden would have cornered it long ago.
Yup, I think I speak for ink monkeys everywhere when I say that it is right and proper that the publishing industry should attempt to retain as much as mystique as possible, particularly now that docu-soaps have granted Joe and Josephine Public fly on the wall access to the inner sanctums of almost any trade and profession you care to mention.
Any work of art is devalued if you witness first hand the amount of time, effort, blood, sweat and tears that has been invested in it, which is why the seamlessness of my column would be ruined if my many thousands of admirers had the slightest inkling that between starting and finishing it, I managed to consume eight cans of lager and take in Emmerdale, EastEnders, Lamarr s Attacks and that yoke with Bill Bailey and the increasingly famous Ed Byrne on it before reaching this glorious conclusion.
Far be it from me to compare my little corner of hotpress to the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel (oh, go on Ed.), but I would hate for anyone to think that I am anything less than 100% devoted to this fortnightly work of art.
Like Michelangelo, I may spend years on my back and eventually go blind, but rest assured, it won t be from painting.