I really don't care a fig about Carol Thatcher. She's just another Prince Phillip act-a-like who has run into one of those all-too-few, 'gets what she deserves' situations.
In brief, a bad egg masquerading as a good egg.
Same applies to Jonathan Ross, who let's be honest, is dull and well past his sell-by date.
Chuck Jeremy Clarkson into the same pot. Oh, and also that tosser who writes just about everything in the Sunday Times. Who cares if he didn't like his lunch?
But I am upset about Jade Goody.
She was on some TV programme, was taught to scream in pain for the viewers - and now seems to be dying for the benefit of some newspaper editor and his circulation figures.
I'm fortunate. Mostly these people don't impact on my world. I don't see them, don't know them and usually, don't care. I live on a different island.
For the most part these people are professionals who take their chances and take the money. If at some stage they get caught in bed with Frank Bough or John Major, well that probably gets turned into cash and paid into their pension fund.
That's not Jade Goody.
Certainly no role model. God forbid. But this woman will not be paying much into her pension fund. And even less will she have the opportunity to enjoy the fruits of her fame and notoriety.
Are there any of us who don't believe that her illness is a direct result of her last few years? Of being turned over, laughed at and buggered by 'the editors' into whose clutches she fell. OK, leapt.
She is no innocent and the racism parallel with Carol Thatcher is not lost on me. But the Jade Goody story fills me with terror, with horror.
For, on a day that cervical cancer vaccine became available for all teenage girls in the UK, it seems that women like Jade Goody still can expect no protection from the media men.