I think it's finally happened. I've got a bad case of reality TV fatigue.

Hey, you know me, I'll pretty much watch anything, especially if it's got the type of celebrity' in it who once appeared in a dog food advert on telly in the early Seventies and is now so desperate for work that they'll eat un-set concrete as part of some dubious challenge' so that the viewing public will vote for them to stay in the show for another week so they can eat more concrete and allow the whole process to start all over again.

There are people I work with who have far more intellectual TV pursuits, if in fact they haven't sold their telly and replaced it with a huge statue of Sylvia Plath carved out of the actual Tree of Knowledge.

These people watch BBC4 or the Dull Documentary Channel, where penguins cavort and Napoleonic battles are re-enacted and millipedes perform intricate mating dances without fear that Ant and Dec will pick them up and make some old trout who few people have ever heard of swallow it whole.

I inform these people with their lofty TV viewing habits that a huge proportion of the T&A's readership does actually enjoy this type of programme, so it is my duty as a journalist to tap into the zeitgeist and establish a rapport with the people who keep us in a job.

But the real answer is, I love reality TV shows because I think they're a wonderful signifier of our society and I like watching Z-list slebs trying to force grapes up their own noses.

However, I have of late, but wherefore I know not, lost all my mirth. As I believe someone said on Celebrity Big Brother last year. I have been sitting there for a week-and-a-half on the sofa, waiting patiently to get drawn into I'm A Celebrity...Get Me Out Of Here, and it is completely and utterly failing to entrance me. It's the same old rubbish, repackaged with different faces for a viewing public who the TV execs must believe have the memories of goldfish.

And even the bosses must be twitchy, or they wouldn't be putting out five or ten minutes of footage every night comprising lingering slo-mo shots of Mylene Klass taking a shower under a waterfall.

Well, they have to do something since David Gest proved to be boringly normal and not the freakshow-colliding-with-an-asylum-breakout that they must have been hoping for.

I can pinpoint the exact moment the rot set in for me: that celebrity show-jumping thing. I can't really be doing with horses at the best of times, and seeing a bunch of slebs trotting round a sawdust-floored auditorium with exactly zero chance of killing themselves (why didn't they put spikes on the fences? Piranha in the water jumps?) just left me cold.

Next came Celebrity Scissorhands, which is slebs cutting people's hair, and which I haven't even seen a trailer for, let alone watched. It's all just depressingly banal and not in the least bit fun.

By the time I'd watched Make Me A Supermodel on Five and watched the bundle of twigs which were the other contestants and judges bitching about a Wigan lass who happened to be a size ten or something I just felt sick.

And I realised what had gone wrong. They'd let slebs in. This wasn't reality TV any more - what's real about Jan Leeming sticking her hand in a barrel of snakes? Reality TV was Maureen learning to drive and Jeremy getting his knickers in a twist about someone having too much duty free, Mervin on Skint wondering where his next quid's coming from and Mr Trebus shouting: Get off my rubbish! It is my rubbish! Find your own rubbish!' The answer, it seems to be, is simple: Let's get rid of the celebrities and get some entertainment back on telly.