On celebrities. And violent death. And celebrities and violent death

On celebrities. And violent death. And celebrities and violent death

Celebrities. By and large a huge body of wasted humanity.

A huge body of wasted humanity who live for coverage in the Red Tops, and an exclusive photoshoot with one of those celebrity magazines with an exclamation mark in their name.

I take as Exhibit A: Peaches Geldof, offering no further evidence other the complete loss of my will to live after only five minutes with a copy of "Sleb Bollocks!" in a dentist waiting room last week.

If only, I ask, there was something useful we could do with them.

For – if my brush with Sleb Bollocks! is anything to go by – there are thousands of the bastards, most of whom famous only for doing things to the genitals of Premier League footballers.

Such as a war, for example.

You've got to face facts – a good old righteous war against a mad dictator such as our old pals Kim Jong-Il or Mahmoud Ahmadinejad is going to be a wall-to-wall media event with 24-hour coverage across all networks.

And if you've got a massive 24-hour wall-to-wall media event, you're going to need celebrities to keep the public interested in the events on the ground.

Celebrities completely unaware that the sudden death elimination round means exactly that.

Loads of them. Fronting a massive human wave attack against thousands of concrete machine-gun bunkers manned by hordes of Korean worker-soldier zealots, defending their homeland against the decadent western war criminal clique, their hearts swelling in pride at the example of Dear Leader Kim Jong-Il, back at the presidential palace putting a couple of B-Listers to the sword himself.

And leading the attack: Beelzebub in human form. Or, to you and me, Katie "Jordan" Price, at the front of the Third WAGS Brigade, ensuring the camera's getting her good side as Agyness Deyn is fired out of a cannon straight up her mimsy.

War: It's HELL. And after ITV turned down my pitch for I'm A Celebrity, Lock Me In The Cupboard Under The Stairs With Only A Tuberculosis-ridden Badger Corpse For Food, it is only right that we make this the best TV programme the world's ever likely to see. And don't actually show it.

And the great thing is we can hold Britain's Got Talent-style auditions for anyone else who wants to join in the slaughter TV and media event of the year, because the Z-List just isn't anywhere big enough.

Or, if we can't start a war, build a wall around Cobham in Surrey to keep them all in. Then bomb it.

I will, of course, be offering a limited number of "Get Out Of Cobham Free" cards to deserving celebrities.

You may like to argue their case in the comments section. I shall decide on their fate. But, frankly, I don't fancy their chances.