They say the camera adds ten pounds. In televisual terms the camera must add thousands of pounds in sexual currency. For instance there exists living, breathing people out there who find Michael McIntyre attractive. MICHAEL MCINTYRE for fucksake, a man with all the sexual allure and charisma of a cold calling salesman picking his nose. He looks like a man perpetually enjoying a thorough rectal examination. If he served you in Asda you wouldn’t linger long enough to catch his faint whiff of desperation.But put him on the tellybox and he is somehow drenched in sexy lust vibes.

Also, Benedict Cumberbatch – a man who, in his own words looks like an “otter which is vaguely attractive” - admits to being bewildered by the sudden sex symbol status he has achieved. I agree with him and yet if I were to meet him I would lick him all over as though he could jizz vintage brandy. Because Sherlock, right? Jesus.

Put me on the telly please. I haven’t got some for ages. I’m not attractive – on a good day I look like Charlotte Church coming round from an anaesthetic – but I could do with the allure which the gogglebox seems to provide. Problem is I’m not sure I could do with inevitable fall out which my ‘AU natural’ appearance would generate. Any public appearance by me would be blanketed by a general murmur of disappointment as my big moon face loomed into view. I would catch mutterings of “She’s much fatter in real life” and “Nah mate, nah” as I walked past.

My sparkling telly generated charisma would evaporate on contact with the public and I would stammer my way through scripted answers, the smile frozen on my fizzog until I looked like a cryogenic Joker.

“How does it feel to be in Hounslow Shopping Centre?” the interviewer would ask me as the pissed off public melted away from my appearance both public and personal.

“How does it feel to have your new clothing range out?” And I’d look at the acres of stretched neon lycra and acrylic of my bodycon dress – my actual flesh and bone body subjected to so much scrutiny I’d Spanxed and barricaded all my flesh behind steel undergarms – and the flammable chiffon of my fucking sweatshop made creations and I would try not to cry. Then someone would shove their phone in my face for a picture only the angle would be all wrong and they wouldn’t add the right filters and I’d look like a colossal prick and they’d put it on Twitter and I’d have to block the noise of the masses from my feed because I DON’T LIKE ANY CRITICISM EXCEPT MY OWN SO FUCK YOU FAME I DON’T EVEN WANT YOU ANYWAY.