I guess The Osbournes started it, this horrible monster we’ve created. This hellish brand of reality TV that scrapes the barrel for the most vacuous, irritating celebrities on earth and shapes an entire TV show around their vacuous, irritating lives. Twenty years from now, fake-tanned TV pundits will probably call The Osbournes “seminal” on a list show entitled “100 Greatest Reality Shows Where Nothing Happens”. What the fuck did we all like about that show so much, anyway? Was it the way Ozzy was so charmingly baffled by normal household appliances, or the fact that he regularly retreated into a corner to quietly piss himself in a brain-damaged stupor?

And of course, that was only the beginning. MTV pulled its classic marketing move, entitled: “this show’s making us money, let’s spin this out until either this trend shrivels and dies or our viewers tear out their eyes in desperation”. So we got Newlyweds and Meet The Barkers. We got Hogan Knows Best followed by the even less interesting Brooke Knows Best. Also watch out for Calum Knows Best, possibly the first time that a celebrity has secured his own show because his surname fits the pun of the title. And now, with Super Sweet Sixteen and The Hills, the shows aren’t even about the boring lives of famous people, we’re happy to watch the boring lives of anyone. As long as they’re rich and have a big house, they matter to us.

And if America puts its thickest celebrities on screen, Britain’s sure to follow. Jordan and Peter Andre have apparently sold their children to ITV, with about five separate series following them around so that we can get the maximum entertainment out of Jordan’s horrific bleached teeth and Peter’s over-productive sweat glands.

Who or what do we blame for this televisual detritus? Well, there are a bunch of easy answers like America, Paris Hilton or The Devil Himself. But in the end, when those scapegoats prove unsatisfying, we have to aim our scorn at a broader evil. Reality. It’s our lousy sense of reality that spawned all this crap, and I don’t know about you, but I don’t want it represented on our screens any more.

But it doesn’t have to be this way. Because for every celebrity show that America shits out in front of our eyes, it puts out a witty, original work of fiction. Yeah, fiction. As in, an idea that started in some lonely dude’s head and ended up in front of our eyes. The kind of TV that requires a genuine plot and interesting characters. There are tonnes to choose from, and most of them have got a lot going for them.

All varieties of escapism are catered for. Wanna experience the Old West-via-Shakespeare? Try Deadwood. Or how about the seedy world of crime and punishment? The Wire and The Sopranos are both good places to start. Battlestar Galactica or Firefly should satisfy your space-faring wanderlust. Veronica Mars is a high school drama with a twist. Or, if your funny bone needs tickling, there’s South Park, Family Guy, Curb Your Enthusiasm and Arrested Development amongst many others. And with the likes of The Office, Life On Mars and Spaced, Britain is holding its end up when it comes to TV fiction (although, seriously, fuck Dr. Who and all Dr. Who-related spin-offs).

So, if you want reality, watch the news. If you want escapism, escape into a fantasy that’s actually entertaining, rather than one that seems to revolve around celebrities cleaning up when their small yappy-type dogs shit all over the rug. Because great TV shows really need us at the moment. Whenever I see A Shot At Love with Tila Tequila, it makes me sad that shows like Arrested Development and Firefly have been unfairly axed.

So fuck reality. Give us glorious fiction. Or at least some form of reality TV that involves obese celebrities being hunted by velociraptors. Oh, and there would have to be a comedy sound effect when a raptor bit Kerry Katona’s head off. I’d watch that.