It’s been revealed that Jordan, aka Katie Price, failed to gain a ticket to the most prestigious British sporting event of the year, the Cartier Polo International, held last weekend and attended by Prince Charles.

Now, our Katie’s not known for giving up on these high-profile opportunities. So after being told there were no tickets available to the VIP Champagne and designer-food luncheon for 600, she tried to buy a table at the nearby China White marquee. But surprise, surprise, all 1,700 seats had already been sold. The rumour is that the organisers didn’t want Miss Price to hog the limelight, as she has a habit of doing.

Katie’s recently had a boob-reduction and dyed her hair brunette but it’ll still probably be a long time before her various Reality TV exploits will fade from the public consciousness. It seems we are entering the age of the New Puritans.

It’s also been reported that actress Sienna Miller has gone into hiding in New York after frolicking topless with a married father-of-four. Fellow actress Lindsay Lohan may be in danger of losing her lucrative career, according to some sources, as her private life continues to be front-page tabloid fodder. And Rolling Stone Ronnie Wood has embarrassed himself and his family with an alleged fling with a cocktail waitress young enough to be his granddaughter.

The media used to revel in salacious stories like these, but as we lurch towards a possible recession, the tolerance of the greatest excesses of showbiz seems to be on the wane. We used to be fascinated by tales of private jets and week-long parties and saucy bed-hopping. But now the tables are turning and the glossy magazines may find sales faltering as utility bills soar.

I have to say, as someone who would need months of therapy to be able to rock up to a book launch in silver leggings and a matching bra, I’m almost disappointed to see Katie Price being turned away from the VIP venues she longs to conquer. It must be great to have so much self-confidence, or indeed so little self-awareness, that you think it’s a good idea to strip off and hijack the various long-standing fixtures on the British social calendar. I mean, apparently Katie doesn’t even write her own books, but boy, does she promote them. They don’t always get glowing reviews either but people still buy them by the truckload. Katie is reportedly worth £50m, thanks to her bouncing implants and her determined personality.

But now there’s a distinct whiff of intolerance in the air for the nouveaux riches and their bad-behaviour antics. I have mixed feelings about it all. I’d have trouble turning down Katie’s alleged fortune, I must admit. If I had the courage to do what she’s had to do to get it. But perhaps the gravy train of titillation and tawdry kiss-and-tells is slowing down at last?

Boy George is running a T-shirt stall to make ends meet. Sarah Ferguson’s TV comeback has crashed and burned. Heather Mills has already spent millions of Macca’s divorce money on two homes in North America but even the Heather Chronicles are losing their power to shock. Relentless poser Victoria Beckham is beginning to look old and tired as her husband continues to look, well, like a sporting icon. Nobody cares about Tom Cruise and his sofa jumping any more.

Nobody cares about Madonna’s mysterious marriage, or whether she still owes her decorator brother Christopher a few thousand quid. Nobody really cares about Kerry Katona and J-Lo and Brangelina and their various nanny woes. Maybe if they weren’t all trying to be slim and beautiful and flogging us their perfumes, these famous names might be able to look after their own offspring for a while.

It might sound as if I’m jealous of all these jet-setting celebs. And maybe I am: I’m not really sure. I don’t envy them the constant media scrutiny they have to endure, though. And I definitely don’t envy them their paranoia or their social isolation behind security gates and giant-sized bodyguards.

Maybe the media and the public alike have actually begun to tire of these personalities who party for a living. Will anyone tune in to watch Calum Best as he attempts not to fornicate for 50 days? Will anyone cheer if Dale and Jen from BB9 get it together at the after-show bash? Will anyone buy the memoirs of arm-candy-turned-serious-actress Abigail Titmuss? It remains to be seen.

But I’m hoping that most people will save their hard-earned money for gas, oil, electricity and fresh fruit and vegetables. Yes, we’ll still need something to talk about over our elevenses. But here’s a thought to get the chattering classes, well, chattering: if Scotland votes to leave the Union, as seems entirely possible, where will that leave us here in dear old Ulster? And will anyone care? Or will they be too busy reading Miss Titmuss’ self-congratulatory diaries to even notice as the Union flag is finally hoisted down after only three centuries?