Sorry mum, jealousy got the better of me

She seems to believe that a column inspired entirely by my passionate hatred of Natasha Kaplinsky will do something in the way of damage to my reputation.

She is probably right, as is her statutory mothering right, granted as reward for giving birth to me and never telling me to put more practical shoes on.

She thinks I should write a lovely piece about something lovely, and avoid inviting Kaplinsky fans far and wide to pelt me with stiletto-heeled court shoes in the street.

However, her "I told you so" run hit a rocky patch last week with the discovery that her daughter had managed to pass A-level English without actually reading the book, and thus I'm prepared to take the risk that karma (or possibly the big K herself) will come round to give me a good kicking.

The truth is that my abhorrence of Ms Kaplinsky is almost completely unfounded, based mainly on the fact that she has a terrible haircut.

A terrible haircut alone, of course, is more reason for sympathy and possibly charitable intervention (why Nicky Clarke hasn't yet set up a foundation, I am still baffled) than a slagging off; but Kaplinsky is a terrible haircut coupled with the unshakeable belief that she is nothing short of a goddess, and it is this smarmy conceit that makes me want to give her a good happy-slapping.

She's like the girl at school who gets away with wearing trowelled-on make-up while everyone else is sent to the loos with a cleansing wipe.

"Don't hate me because I'm beautiful," she purrs, to which I reply: "I don't. I hate you because you make me nauseous." I know what you're thinking '“ jealousy.

Why, Lauren is clearly jealous of Natasha's collection of immaculate pastel power suits!

She wishes that she, too, could have facial features sourced from The Aristocrats and cheekbones that could carve a Sunday joint!

Alas no, this is not envy dressed up as an irritation; this is an irritation in its purest form, for which there is no pharmaceutical cream available (I've asked in Boots).

Now, Sophia Myles is a different matter. I'll happily admit that my aversion to her is complete, 100 per cent jealousy, of the greeneyed, thoroughly monstrous, "you're-going out- with-David-Tennant-and-I'm-sure-he'd- prefer-me" kind.

At least it was until I found out she pronounces her name "Soff-eye-er", and now I rest assured that I am as justified as she is pretentious.

"You can see us falling in love on screen," claimed Tennant of their Dr Who rendezvous.

I didn't David, I was too busy chucking things at it.

And these acidic outbursts are just the tip of the iceberg.

A glacial lump that also includes Carol Vorderman, Fiona Phillips, Fearne Cotton and at least five cast members of Hollyoaks, my collection of celebrity intolerances is extensive, harbouring the power to sink both the Titanic and Celine Dion with one swift blow (she's also on my list).

I regard it as a healthy exercise for ridding me of the angst that would otherwise be unleashed on my nearest and dearest in a scene reminiscent of the Texas Chainsaw Massacre.

Every minute spent spitting venom at Peaches Geldof is one that spares No2 brother punishment for performing the finale of Cats outside one's bedroom door at sunrise (not a fictional occurrence, more's the pity).

Oh, and what venom this is.

My resentment of Peaches is perhaps the strongest and most enduring of all my peeves.

Maybe because she once pronounced David Cameron "hot", or maybe because my own surname has never procured me an undeserved spot in The Telegraph (though it did get me bullied something rotten for half of year four), there's just something about the "teenage columnist with opinions on the world" thing that gets right up my nose . . . (irony noted and duly ignored).

As I leave the kitchen and walk upstairs to write this, Mum shouts after me "just remember what Thumper said in Bambi '“ if you can't say anything nice, don't say anything at all".

But that would have left you with a blank page, now, wouldn't it?

And though the Kaplinsky fan base of Worthing may be weeping into the sleeves of their lilac cashmere twinsets, I must admit that I feel a whole lot better.