I hold my hand up to indulging in downmarket telly, but even I can’t stomach the ‘dramality’ shows seeping through the schedules like a toxic oil spill.

As well as the Bafta-winning (yes, really) The Only Way Is Essex, there’s Geordie Shore, Made In Chelsea and Desperate Scousewives, all trying to emulate the success of American ‘structured reality’ shows.

A curious scenario of ‘ordinary’ people acting out scripted scenes based around their relationships and social lives, these shows have spawned monsters. Red carpets and panel shows are now awash with orange people in towering heels, who have somehow become not just minor celebrities, but national sweethearts.

I’ve only seen the Essex show – TOWIE as it’s now known – a couple of times and I was left feeling hollow, with a black hole where my soul used to be.

It’s not just that I can’t bear their accents, or their vacuous lifestyles. What is particularly depressing about TOWIE and the whole ‘dramality’ juggernaut is that it celebrates being thick – and promotes it as something to aspire to.

One of the cast was on Celebrity Big Brother recently and during a general knowledge task he couldn’t locate America on a map of the world. “I fink it’s over ’ere,” he said, pointing to Russia.

He’s in his twenties. My nephews could name countries on a map when they were barely out of nappies.

A friend saw some TOWIEs on a festive Family Fortunes and was gobsmacked by their lack of knowledge. We’re not talking University Challenge here, but apparently they couldn’t even think of any uses for leftover turkey.

With their twee charity single and the cutesy ad campaign for the current series, the TOWIE lot are promoted as loveable airheads. What I find unpleasant, and unsettling, is that they’ve become mainstream role models for children, especially girls. Who cares if they managed to get through school without actually learning anything? It’s all about the spray tan, the surgery, the nails and the bling.

TOWIE is just part of an out-of-control popular culture celebrating low-rent celebrity and brain-dead glamour girls and playboys. On TV’s Coach Trip last week, a WAG thought New Zealand was in Germany. “Well, it sounds German don’t it?” she said.

Third-rate reality TV stars are easy targets, but there’s something worrying about them being packaged as inspirational icons. When throwing a tantrum on Big Brother, or showing that you have less general knowledge than a chimpanzee, can lead to a six-figure magazine deal, the idea of getting an education or actually working for a living seems like a mug’s game.