It doesn't seem all that long ago since Gary Barlow was writhing round on the floor half naked, having his bum mopped with jelly…

No, kids, not in a deviant dessert-based dream of mine, or at a recent knees-up Chez Tither. But – for those of us old enough to remember the hairspray high of the early 90s – in Take That’s cheeky Do What You Like video. Ah yes, those boys could teach Rihanna a thing or two about kinky videos. Put me off trifle for a while though.

Just goes to show that even seemingly serious songwriters like our Gazza will do anything to get their slice of the spotlight. So, I can’t see the Cheshire-born megastar having the cheek to be too harsh on the next generation of young hopefuls so eager for fame that they’d eat their own eyeballs. That’s providing the rumours are true and he does take over Simon Cowell’s crown to become the next judge on The X Factor.

In fact, I can’t see Gary – with his chutchy cheeks, eyebrows permanently knitted in a look of complete confusion, and endearing yet ultimately coma-inducing comedy accent – being mean to anybody. If they’d sent him in with the Navy Seals to capture Bin Laden, he’d probably have wrapped him up in a woolly blanket and asked him to be a good boy.

I mean come on, he couldn’t even keep up a grudge with Robbie Williams – a man so terminally talentless even he can’t believe he was invited back into the man-band fold.

Which begs the question – what’s the point of even paying Barlow to rock up at all?

Meanwhile, the claws are out across the Pond as Cheryl Cole finally squeezes her ambitious little tush into a judge’s seat on the American version of the show. Apparently, La Cole and her ever-ballooning bouffant have been encouraged to be as toe-curlingly cruel as possible to the contestants. And, of course, a few headline-grabbing catfights with rival judge Paula Abdul wouldn’t go amiss. It’s all piling up into a mountain of press for the dead-behind-the-eyes designer of this whole debacle, Cowell himself.

What’s that? You want to know about the actual acts lined up for this primetime puppetry? We all know that’s no longer the point.

Just like its lame old TV stablemate Britain’s Got Talent, this tired telly format is no longer about the contestants themselves – it’s about judging and being judged.

It’s about unimaginative insults, paltry put-downs and that real ratings winner – complete and utter humiliation. A close-up on the crumpled face of a wannabe breaking down in front of millions – that’s the real money shot.

I’d actually rather wallpaper my eyelids together than tune into either. Nevertheless, the ramifications of all this incessant judgement reach us all.

Years of watching judging panels passing verdicts on vulnerable mere mortals have made us a nation obsessed with doling out damning verdicts. From Facebook status stalking to blogging a load of bile about complete strangers, us Brits have gone from being the land of the stiff upper lip to a breeding ground for big gobs.

So, here’s a judgement of my own. Let Cole, Cowell and co devour their next round of victims if you find it entertaining, just don’t kid yourself you’re tuning in for the music.

I’m over all this fuss about the new Duchess

HANG on a minute while I just rearrange my tiara, but does anyone else think this Middleton mania has gone a tad too far?

Putting aside my hive-inducing natural reaction to both royals and weddings for one second, it’s the fashion front that’s got me feeling revolutionary.

With the high street already churning out copies of the Duchess’s Seychelles honeymoon outfits, one national radio station asked me to track down the royal bride’s wardrobe on a budget. Yeah I bet HRH gets the princess look in Primark.

No, I’m with the Queen (of style) on this one – Manchester’s very own Dame Vivienne Westwood. Asked for her seal of approval, she quipped: "I would have loved to have dressed Kate Middleton, but I have to wait until she kind of catches up a bit somewhere with style."

Now, time for a fresh brew of Royal Wedding Earl Grey in my Kate and Wills mug…

No reason to celebrate this anniversary

TALKING of marriages of convenience, congratulations to that fairy-tale couple Cameron and Clegg – celebrating their first coalition anniversary yesterday. And oh what a year of lows and, well, even lower lows it’s been.

Here in Manchester, we’ve paid the highest cost for this civil partnership, with some of the highest public funding cuts and job losses in the country. So I won’t be shedding a tear now the rosy glow has faded from their great political romance.

I’m already stocking up on Happy Divorce cards for the hopefully speedy split and planning another street party. We could make plenty of bunting with all the P45 slips they’ve helped dole out.

Runners have every reason to be proud

BEST of British to all my fellow amateur athletes limbering up for this weekend’s Great Manchester Run.

I might not be the fastest or the fittest – but I’ll certainly be the most stylish thanks to the British Heart Foundation, who have kitted me out with a vest in the exact shade of scarlet to match my face.

It’s the one day of the year when head-to-toe Lycra won’t have me on the run from the fashion police as it’s about why you’re there, not what you wear.

Those bits of cardboard pinned to participants’ chests are the most amazing accessories of the day, with names of loved ones lost or special causes well worth getting cramp for.

So, for one day only, wear your heart on your sleeve with pride, Manchester.

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