Annual bunfest I'm a Celebrity is back and yet again the general rule seems to be, if someone looks scared, intimidated or upset, is missing her mum and gets worked up into a dizzy sickness at the thought of another humiliating, gruesome trial, the public want to see her suffer more.
If she's young and vaguely attractive the newspapers line up to call her a publicity-seeking desperado willing to do anything to bolster her flagging career (like the series isn't entirely dependent on such types.)
And so wobbly-lipped Helen Flanagan, a girl who's known nothing but the flimsily protective cardboard walls of Coronation Street since she was 10-years-old, has become this year's appointed multi-trialist.
She's clearly ill-equipped for the role, having lasted 10 seconds in an insect-infested underground coffin (10 seconds more than I would have lasted, but having thankfully made my living doing something which doesn't rely on a high profile, I don't lose sleep over the pressure to keep myself in the public eye - which reminds me; why in a time when so many know the terror of losing one's livelihood are we so scathing about actors and entertainers clearly panicking about theirs? But I digress ...)
Watching Flanagan self-consciously holding her arms over her breasts after she'd put on the bikini her publicist probably packed for her, my maternal feelings were jolted.
"I want to go home," she confided to Nadine Dorries. "Go then!" snapped the short-tempered work-shy MP, probably reflecting the views of most of the audience.