In which it's probably not who you're thinking it is...

There are few groups of people that I’ll write off as totally useless to humanity, but without a doubt, those who top my list are tabloid journalists (not an entirely useful opinion to hold when one’s in PR, I’ll grant you). That category categorically includes the imbecile from Sky, who recently mangled one of my press releases beyond all recognition and got an earful of abuse until he conceded that turn-of-the-century polar explorers probably didn’t make coconut ice cream out of snow on their expeditions. Moron. But even worse than tabloid journalists are wannabe tabloid journalists.

Since reading the first volume of Piers Morgan’s diaries, The Thespian’s deepest ambition has been to be Piers Morgan. And whilst Piers might be, by all accounts, a pretty loathsome person, he’s a very good journalist. Like that other scraping on the bottom of the barrel of humanity, Martin Bashir, Piers can charm people into forgetting they’re on the record, and get them to spill truths, as if to a friend. The Thespian cannot; having him watch whilst you sneak an extra sugar into your coffee makes you feel like you’ve just divulged state secrets.

So, obviously, since I’ve known Minor Celebrity, I’ve not been inclined to say anything about him, us, the state of our relationship then, and our friendship now, despite TT’s best efforts.

“Not a chance, Thesp. I’m not telling you anything. It’s none of your business,” was a refrain for many months.

“I bet you would, though. I bet you’d do it for enough cash.”

“Not for all the shoes on George Street.”

I battled for many, many months until I came to the conclusion that the easiest thing to do would simply be to stop speaking to TT. His attempts to pump various friends for information elicited nothing, and he was stupid enough to believe Best Mate when she said I didn’t tell her anything.

So, when MC appeared in the papers a while back, it didn’t occur that TT would be so stupid as to get involved.

“Bollocks,” I said to BM, after I’d had a text come through informing me of the beginnings of the media maelstrom. We sat, drinking our coffees, and dissected just how wrong the media’s take on the situation was. The phone bleeped with alarming regularity as people picked the story up from TV, radio and various editions of the papers. Messages to MC were met with despondent-sounding pleas to see me, and to be with people he trusted - something I couldn’t do because of the paparazzi outside his house.

When I saw TT’s name appear on the screen, I ignored the call, not in the right mood to deal with any sickly gloating.

“Don’t say that.” BM chided, giving me a just and reasonable ticking off for jumping to the worst possible conclusions about him. And then the text message came through.

Hi Blonde. Don’t know if you’ve heard; MC’s in the papers for XYZ. I’ve been onto a contact, and News of the World will pay you £20k for your story. Think about it. It’s a lot of money.

Incensed doesn’t come close to describing the blind rage. The anger was palpable; my heart was thumping and irate tears welled in my eyes. BM was no less angry that, despite her valiant attempts always to be on his side, TT had let her down, royally.

I still don’t know which bit of the situation makes me most angry. I’m wild that TT can’t empathise enough with other human beings to see that, to me, MC as a brand, and MC as a person are two separate things. The public bit might well be public property, but the man’s still human - he drinks tea out of his favourite mug, and has pictures of his family and friends up in his house like anyone else.

And then there’s watching someone you care about go through a tough period. It’s hard enough at the best of times, but to see someone go through a tough patch, to know that very few people know the facts of the story, and watch whilst the press mauls from the speculating sidelines is not much short of horrific. And as if that weren’t enough, to be offered money so you can profit from someone else’s misery is a vast insult, the depth of which is difficult to convey.

Of course there are cretinous little scumbags who’ll profit from such situations. But the implication that I’m one of them isn’t something I’ll forget, or forgive, in a hurry.