'I was too scared to tell my parents I was going on Big Brother so I told them I was going on Countdown.'

I feel sorry for David Laws. I am sure he never meant to steal or lie. For all his cleverness, his double first, his banking directorship, his glittering future, his cocky walk he lacked one vital ingredient for survival in the public arena. Gall. Remember all those politicians who so recently got caught stealing from our purses? Imagine, if you will, that someone breaks into your house and steals your television. Caught at home watching it, they say, 'Never mind, I'll give it back.' Perhaps they do but you never see it again. That is how it is with most politicians. Except Mr Laws, who after all just got into a muddle as to when a landlord becomes a lover and when that embryonic relationship needs to become public knowledge, had some tiny seed of guilt in him that others lack, and had to hold up his hands and take the responsibility. As well as stealing from the public he was guilty of wishing to keep private something that is none of anyone else's business, except the security service and his family. Is it any wonder that he became confused? The rest of the world jostles and barges in front of the media to sell its dirty linen and intimate stories. You can't open a newspaper these days without seeing some pregnant woman's stomach bared for our viewing. It is cutely called a 'bump' and we are expected to be interested. This week sees the launch of the final series of Big Brother, the programme that people love to hate. In fact those who have never seen it hate it so much I wonder where they will turn next. Big Brother had a sort of hideous honesty about it. There were no secrets being hidden there as contestants and producers alike gave the media, and therefore the public, what they craved. The only thing banned was secrets. The 'successful' Big Brother contestants are not the ones with the most to hide but those most prepared to turn over the little stone that is their life and show the ugly creatures beneath. A lazy journalist scraped around in my past and all she could come up with was the lie that I was born in Canterbury. Ouch. Now that would be something to keep quiet about.