The minder put my case on the bed, opened it and noted down the contents. He came across three printed verses and a picture postcard of an Old Master, which he confiscated because of possible copyright infringement.

“I doubt that the Lord’s Prayer is in copyright,” I protested.

“How about the old man and the mother and child?” he retorted.

“I think we should be all right with the repro of the Holy Family,” I replied.

“I understand the artist retains copyright for at least a hundred years,” said the minder.

“Then we should be pretty safe,” I said. “It was painted in 1576.”

Being on Big Brother last year was strange from the outset, and watching the show this week has reminded me of the whole bizarre experience. The night of my entrance into the house the car stopped and my door opened on to a stormy night. Before me was a spectacular kaleidoscope of audio-visual fireworks. I blinked and took my first step on the sodden red carpet. My squelching footsteps were drowned in wild cheers and popping flash bulbs.I spread my arms and lifted my rain-splashed face to the heavens and broke into an all-singin’, all-dancin’ version of Singin’ in the Rain.

The crowd went wild. Gene Kelly I was not, but for an overweight, overdressed OAP, I was certainly a spectacle. To momentous applause I mounted the stairs towards the great unknown. I was greeted by a smiling stranger who bounded forward and jokingly ruffled my hair. It was Donny Tourette from the band Towers of London. He became the first to escape – over the fence, a few days before I took my leave.

To start with, life in the house was a breezy enchantment. We were a diverse group from showbiz, literature and the arts – Jermaine Jackson of the Jackson Five; the TV actor Dirk Benedict; Ian Watkins (“H”) of Steps; Shilpa Shetty, Bollywood princess; Jo O’Meara, the pop singer; Carole Malone, the journalist and Cleo Rocos, the comedian. The only exception to the heavy-on-the-arts-and-entertainment bunch was the former Miss Great Britain Danielle Lloyd, but she was sweetly charming.

When in the house you soon lose consciousness of the fact that every comment, every action, every breath is being recorded. Even with 37 cameras (some visible, some behind mirrors) – with no sign of crew, you soon forget the Orwellian scrutiny. Despite initial caution, you become carefree, gung-ho, almost defiant.

Apart from an inadequate larder and a distinct lack of booze, Big Brother had a benign face. Minor discomforts were too petty to mention. There was always something to do, and no one interfered with anyone else. We played games, sang songs, shared the cooking, exchanged experiences and hopes. I felt really at home. The only thing I was sorry for was my snoring, which seemed to keep everyone awake. (My wife uses noise-reduction headphones filled with the sound of ocean waves.)

The announcement suddenly came from Big Brother that three of us were to be adopted by a “famous family” into a life of luxury. The unadopted would be condemned to servitude below stairs, required to cater to the famous family’s every whim, waiting on them hand and foot.

Famous family? Who could it be? Posh and Becks? Madonna and Guy? The Day-Lewises? The door to the outside world finally swung open to reveal three terrorists dressed all in black. We all froze. Were we to be taken hostage? The two groups sized each other up. What we housemates saw was a rather butch-looking young woman, an older tattooed woman who instantly broke wind and a stubbly faced young man. They smiled – we relaxed. Terrorists don’t smile, I thought (erroneously).

“We’re the Goody family,” said the top-heavy young lady. “I’m Jade. I was voted the 25th most ‘infilential’ person in the world.”

One morning Jade ran past me in the garden with mascara streaming down her face and retching violently. She’d just had yet another upsetting row with her foul-mouthed mum. So, by the time she blew her top over my breaking the rules (by helping myself to a couple of cheese crackers), she was like an overheated boiler ready to explode. And she did, treating me to a nonstop stream of top-of-the-lungs abuse that was both unwarranted and obscene.

I saw the writing on the wall and left. Nightly I watched the telly, appalled, as Jade vented her uncontrollable wrath on the most sanguine person in the house – the divine Indian Bollywood star, Shilpa. Three things saddened me particularly. First, that Jade Goody was an icon to millions of teenagers. Secondly, that racism spread by example and imitation. Thirdly, that even perfectly rational human beings – honestly appalled by the mindless and relentless persecution – sat on the fence and did nothing.

Ms Shetty, bless her heart, won the final vote by sheer courage, dignity and graceful intelligence. And what did we, the public, get out of it? Could it be that we have turned into a sadistic bunch of gloating voyeurs, encouraging the dysfunctional behaviour of yobs?

From what I have seen on this summer’s show, it seems the show has sunk even deeper into the pit of depravity. Bex did calisthenics bare-breasted and licked Luke’s armpit, Mohamed invited Dale to rumble, Kat wore her underpants on the outside.

It seems that instead of putting together a happy band of brothers and sisters, the powers that be are keener to stir up trouble, and to do it they use such things as the nomination game, where the contestants are encouraged to slag each other off. I’ve also noticed that the so-called celebrities of my day, marginal as some of us may have seemed, have given way to a sad group of the near-mentally and physically challenged. Mindless nudity, heavy petting and crude sexual innuendo are now the order of the day. Where will it all end, as the show becomes more like Bedlam every day?

When I suggested to the producers that for a gag I should return for a brief visit with my good friend Faye Dunaway, they turned the suggestion down flat. “Faye Dunaway?” they exclaimed. “The kids have never heard of her.”

You get the message.

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