The proxy pratfall

I give a lot of advice, for 3 reasons. I know a lot of stuff, am always available and don’t charge.

The advice is trusted because it’s confined to limited areas of expertise. Don't ask me about habit breaking or organic gardening. Do ask what to read or drink or where to drink and read (The Warren View beer garden on a spring afternoon).

Choose your expert carefully. No diplomatic advice from Dr Mahathir. No medical tips from Tomkat.

Don’t look to Kate Moss for anything other than the clothes she wears and all you should ask of Pete Doherty is fewer hats, though, if he could see his way clear, a gram would be triffic. Fanks, Pete. Preciate it.

Having said that, it’s absolutely right to look to footballers, models and rock stars for guidance on how to live. Indeed, society should demand that footballers get dribblingly pissed before driving high powered automobiles. We should delight when sportsmen violently compete for the dimmest girlfriend. Let's applaud minor celebrity sex in public conveniences and honour supermodels for snorting lines on camera. By the way, what about a little understanding? They’ve got to suppress their appetites some how.

You may not watch them, but I say rejoice every time a B-list narcissist abases themselves on the internet, indulging in what, in this century, passes for sex. But for them, there goes (or comes) someone you may really care about.

Who still thinks it would be a good idea to cruise for oral relief on Hollywood Blvd after Divine attended Hugh? What politician still relies on the discretion of a high-class madam (a wonderful oxymoron, that) or indulges in the toilet two-step?

If, after Paris, Pam, Eva, Britney, Dannii and the lesser Macpherson, your sister can be persuaded to let her boyfriend video them in bed, maybe she deserves the humiliation. And if you haven’t learned from these incidents, when you get caught in the boss’s office with bourbon, Bouncy Betty and a bong, you do too.

You can take that advice from one who should know.