Let Coleen give Trinny and Susannah a run for their money. Coleen McLoughlin herself has gone from slapper to superstar at warp speed.

The more bitter amongst us may wonder exactly how arduous that journey is when one is not only very young, but incredibly rich. A brief flit through the fashion magazines . . . usually managed whilst standing in the newsagents . . . suggests that such expeditions are not as simple as they sound.

Now Jordan (love her) and her husband, whose name for some peculiar reason is Peter Andre, have been signed up to present a chat show. To which the only reasonable response must be: 'Hoorah! A bit of life injected into earth-bound television.' After all, television isn't that hard.

Good television, like anything good, is very, very hard. But on the whole television isn't terribly hard.

Our television really begins in Britain.

There hasn't been an original television format generated in this country since, er, The Lyrics Boardwas born. So it is worth watching the tabloids for sightings of the new uber stars of television, like Jonathan Ross and Ant and Dec. Or, as Bill Nighy once memorably called one of them, "Ant or Dec." They didn't seem to mind.

As viewers we will never be ready for what really goes on behind the scenes. Let's hope we never find out what Ant and Dec, or Wossie, are really like in the comfort of their lovely homes.

Or, worse still, backstage. To hell with it anyway, we don't care. The three of them have enough cheekie chappie charm to swindle any amount of banks. Notwithstanding Jonathan Ross's love of Savile Row tailoring, the new style of male television megastar seems to be a stranger to the tie, if not to the whole suit.

Female superstars seem to be young girls struggling with their image. Where Charlotte Church (love her as well) went down in flames there are millions of young women, all photographed by Heat! , who are more than willing to follow.

As Jordan talks about getting her breast implants taken out . . . now there is a career move, if you like . . . and Jade Goody is rich enough to make a television programme about finding herself the perfect personal assistant . . . young women with a yen for a television career would do well to leave full-time education and invest in hair extensions, plastic surgery and possibly a pram.

That makes it sound like a bad thing, but this is not a bad thing. The sooner television leaves the controlled catatonia of the green room the better. Television was never meant to be fronted by university graduates with a growing taste for fine wines; it was only the university graduates who thought so.

The most vibrant, viable medium we have should be plucked from their cold, dead hands right now. Television is a circus, and an annual whirl with the Rose of Tralee doesn't quite fulfil its Big Top potential. No indeed. You need a lot more anarchy, a lot more energy to keep it alive.

My only worry about these lovely young people . . . and I include Seoige and O'Shea in this, although they don't really deserve it . . . is that they are too conservative. This is my big problem with Jade and Ant and Dec, who just want people to be nice to each other and at the same time would have their grandmothers eviscerated on prime time . . . or Prime Time . . . if it nudged the ratings up a millimetre. It's not that I doubt their ruthlessness, or the ruthlessness of Coleen or, God knows, of Jordan. They are ruthless. It's just that their ruthlessness is misplaced. Still, they're all we've got.