I BLAME fame. Not the abstract concept of popularity but the 1980s television series, Fame. Ever since dowdy British viewers were dazzled by the sight of American teenagers star-jumping off car roofs and being told that "right here is where you start paying", a ghastly toll has been extracted from society. One day science will prove a link between the donning of the first leg-warmers and the unstoppable lust for stardom.

There can be no other explanation for the wall-to-wall talent shows on television, including X Factor, Britain's Got (No) Talent, and I'd Do Anything, Including Eating My Dog's Ear Wax. It gets worse. Hundreds of Scots pupils are threatening to pass up the chance to revise for their Standard Grade English exam, and perhaps even miss the test itself, to attend a mass audition for X Factor at Hampden Park this Monday.

Teachers, understandably, are outraged. The general secretary of the Headteachers' Association of Scotland said: "It is extremely regrettable that no cognisance was taken of this clash in dates - someone obviously did not do their homework." Nice soundbite, sir.

The programme-makers have far more important things to worry about than children's futures. For a start, there's finding a way to increase the amount of dosh taken from phone votes, currently £400,000 an episode. In any case, said a spokeswoman, successful applicants can attend a second audition on an alternative date, and they must be accompanied by a parent. So if it's okay with mum and dad, it's fine by Simon Cowell and the lawyers.

A responsible adult should at this point shake the head and mutter about the state of modern Britain. But you can't blame youngsters for being mesmerised by showbusiness when so many adults have lost the plot, too. Even BBC newsreaders, supposed to be paragons of journalistic virtue, are unable to resist opening the door when the opportunity for cheesiness knocks. Kirsty Wark is on Doctor Who tonight. Fiona Bruce, last seen posing in fishnets as a character from Chicago, has come over all Emma Peel in a trailer for the Antiques Roadshow.

There is a very un-Scottish part of me that bids good luck to anyone turning up to Monday's auditions (as long as the little beggars have done their revision first, of course). Who knows where this country might be with a little less conversation about our national shortcomings and a lot more action on the showing off front. I was impressed this week by reports of George Bush's last White House Correspondents' dinner. Bush himself turned on the usual frat boy charm, just about managing not to sound like a dim Martian, but the biggest hit of the night was Craig Ferguson, late of this manor and now the host of CBS's Late Late Show. Though it was a tough crowd - this lot kept a straight face when hearing Bill Clinton's Lewinsky statement - Ferguson had them in stitches.

Someone clearly failed in their duty to tell this particular son of Glasgow he should stay at home and be another victim of the Scottish cringe. I'd call for an immediate parliamentary inquiry but I hear MSPs are going to be busy at Hampden on Monday. They've got to be good at something.

OUTRAGE is the only response to the news that radio stations once imposed a covert ban on playing Cliff Richard. Outrage and a single question to which all right-minded citizens demand an answer: which devil took it upon themselves to lift it?

I'D like to apologise to the driver whose cab I jumped into the other day for being a woman travelling under false pretences. It all began innocently enough. Hearing the radio was tuned to the Rangers match, and being a polite sort, I asked about the score. Unfortunately, he took this as a sign that I was both interested and knew something about football. To my horror, a full-blown sporting conversation began. Never one to let soaring ignorance stand in the way, I was soon pronouncing on relegation prospects, the best tactics in European championships ("At that stage it's all about defence"), and Artur Boruc's chances of entering the diplomatic corps. On the down side, I can never use that cab firm again. The upside? BBC Sport has offered me £5m a year to sit on a sofa beside Alan Hansen, the captain of England's cricket team.