That's what friends are for

Outside of the US, most people's knowledge of college sororities depends on how many times they've been able to sit through The House Bunny or Legally Blonde. According to Hollywood, sorority houses are filled with mean spirited daddy's girls who can't conceive of a world beyond their French tips.

So it's reassuring to discover that, for once, the dream factory is right on the money. It seems that sororities take the conduct, dress and appearance of their inductees far more seriously than any academic pursuits.

This week it was revealed by style website Fashionista that Cornell University's Pi Phi Sorority had issued a six page dress code for its pledges, to ensure that they arrived for rush week fully conversant with the dos and don'ts of student sartorialism.

As well as dictating what brands to wear or avoid, the briefing pack helpfully assesses each style sub-genre, incorporating 'casual chic', 'business casual', 'cocktail' and the bizarre-sounding 'skit and philanthropy' - helpfully explained as "brunch, somewhere cool and chic'".

Denim leggings are appropriate, as long as they're not from American Apparel, flat shoes are tolerated, and satin dresses should be avoided unless you have an eating disorder. Accessories are demanded, but the group's chair "won’t tolerate any gross plastic shizzzz... and demand(s) earrings if your ears are pierced".

Equally frowned upon are camel toes, ponytails and "fuck-me pumps" - so anyone styling themselves on the Pink Ladies need not apply. Strangely though, the brief also explains that the editor is 'weird' about watches. But don't worry, "I will have the time and will keep you informed." she adds. So that's OK then.

The Pi Phi website promises a chance to "meet our wonderful members and learn more about the values and experiences we've gained" as well as "the opportunity to make lasting joyous memories and lifelong friends" - despite the fact that this fashion guide is about as inviting as Warden Norton's welcome address in The Shawshank Redemption.

I guess the most we can hope for is that, as the old song goes, Sisters Are Doin' It For Themselves. Because if this is what sisterhood looks like, they've really got no other choice.

I love to hate you

Call it the fickle finger of fame. One minute you're on top of the world, celebrating the title of 'Celebrity Mum of the Year' with a frozen king prawn ring, the next you're named as the most reviled person in the UK. Katie Price and Kerry Katona (both one-time holders of the prestigious parenting prize) have finished in first and second place (respectively) in a poll to determine the 'Most Hated Women in Britain'.

Voted for exclusively by women, this study is another shamelessly misogynistic attempt at encouraging women to fight amongst themselves. For example, check out today's Mail which features a deceitfully disingenuous article about Elaine Paige and Susan Boyle, claiming that Paige said "Susan Boyle is a virus".

As for the 'most hated woman' poll, a spokesman for the market research firm which conducted the study, said of the winner, "Just when she seemed to have endeared herself to the British public again it has gone wrong. Jordan has put her foot in it time and time again." Funnily enough, I think we're all well aware that it's Dane Bowers who put his foot in it, where Katie is concerned.

To be fair though, the top ten line-up is, collectively, about as appealing as a dose of SARS. With Peaches Geldof, Fiona Phillips, Gillian McKeith and Sadie Frost all vying for the top spot, it's like Sophie's Choice in reverse - Meryl Streep would be grabbing the gun and begging for a couple of extra bullets.

Curiously, the winner and runner-up have also managed to bag the most magazine covers and newspaper headlines in the last couple of years. So why is it that we're all so fascinated by the lives of people we just can't stand? Perhaps they're like cream cakes - we know they'll clog our arteries, but we find it hard to resist.

Look at Katie Price. Despite having all the warm likeability of Dolores Umbridge in bondage gear, she's convinced herself that she's a national treasure because her TV show is the most popular broadcast on ITV2 (I guess that means an audience in double figures). The problem is, she remains oblivious to the fact that the majority of viewers may well be tuning in just in case she happens to fall into a threshing machine.

Maybe once we understand why we're able to exalt and abhor at the same time, we'll be able to explain the greatest mystery of our time - Jedward.

Fashion rocks

Break open the Hennessy and pour yourself a large one, Kanye is back where he belongs - gobbling up column inches thanks to some pretty bizarre public appearances.

After another difficult week, when he was rumoured to have been banned from appearing on George Clooney's Haiti benefit telethon, the egomaniacal eejit is once again on everyone's mind. And he didn't even have to storm a stage to do it.

Instead, he's been out and about with his freaky space-alien girlfriend Amber Rose. You know who I mean - tall, exotic, dress sense that makes Grace Jones look like Hillary Clinton.

Making the most of their time at Paris Fashion Week, Kan-Ber have been seen at every party in town, with Amber sporting an array of outfits so bizarre that even Lady GaGa would think twice before appearing in public.

Last week, the two of them headed out in full length fur coats, making them look like refugees from a Maurice Sendak book. The People For The Ethical Treatment of Animals (PETA to their friends) took exception to this, with VP Dan Mathews stating, "Kanye can't help making himself look like an idiot, whether at an awards show or a fashion show. He and his girlfriend look like pathetic creatures from a shabby roadside zoo."

If Dan thought the coats made them look like idiots, he must have been laughing into his soya latte when he saw Amber's next outfit - a high-vis jacket covered in unhatched Mogwai.

Thankfully though, they saved the best for last. Arriving at the Chanel Spring-Summer 2010 this morning, Kanye settled for a conservative (if rather naff) velvet smoker's jacket, whereas Amber decided on a hooded, gold knitted dress that gave her the appearance of a giant, sparkly dildo.

But credit where credit's due - I take my hat off to anyone who can keep a straight face with that on their arm.

Let's hear it for the boyz

As JLS get ready to release their third single (despite it feeling like they've been around since 1997), it's worth sparing a thought for some of the other boybands who are still diligently beavering away, but without the benefit of rock-hard abs to help them shift units.

First up is Boyzone, a group so resolutely unthreatening they could have replaced their last CD insert with a knitting pattern. They've had a tough few months since the death of little Stephen Gately, and have won the hearts of the nation by being unafraid to publicly grieve for their fallen comrade. But when you're in the middle of a big comeback, the work doesn't stop, so the lads are bravely soldiering on.

Their new single, 'Gave It All Away', received its first airplay last week and somewhat hauntingly features Stephen's last recorded vocals as he sings the line "I will learn to live before I die". Just in case that isn't enough to get you reaching for the tissues, the video shows the remaining foursome remembering their impish pal and struggling to write notes of condolence.

The problem is, their grief is a little too real, too palpable. When we're so used to seeing moments of faux emotion and crocodile tears, there's something deeply unnerving about seeing four grown men sobbing so hard they can barely concentrate on their close-up.

No-one can deny that they're really feeling Stephen's loss. Still, it's a little weird that they're willing to share their pain so publicly in what amounts to little more than a three-minute ad for their new product.

Westlife have also been in the news lately, creating a different kind of media fuss by running the risk of giving their fans seizures. Back in the sixties, boybands regularly knocked out hundreds of women at a time, like they were bystanders in a Pepé Le Pew cartoon. But whereas the Beatles could anaesthetise half of Wembley thanks to their raw, edgy virility, the danger posed by Westlife is more of a standard health and saftey concern.

According to complaints logged with Ofcom, the X-Factor "broke broadcasting regulations with the Irish boyband's lights display because it could potentially have triggered epileptic seizures in viewers. A light effect was used five times faster that the safe recommended level. Three viewers complained to Ofcom about the flashing images used on the show."

It's not known how many people complained to Ofcom regarding everything else about their performance.

Bigging up the runners up

Two blasts from the past are gearing up their promotional efforts to remind the CD-buying public of their existence, and both are showing quite marvellous levels of chutzpah in doing it.

Tomorrow sees the release of Daniel Evans' debut single - a cover of Journey's Open Arms - ahead of the album 'No Easy Way' released on February 22nd. Don't remember Daniel? Maybe that's because he's better known by his unofficial stage name 'Dead Wife'.

During his painfully successful run on the 2008 series of X-Factor, Daniel managed to reference the fact that his wife had passed away every time he came within six feet of a microphone. Of course, Simon Cowell lapped it up, since he understands the value of a good sob story. But he's also smart enough to recognise that what makes for good TV doesn't always translate into solid record sales - which is why Daniel's record is being released independently.

Even though 18 months have passed since Daniel first bludgeoned his way into the nation's tearducts, he's still bashing away at the grief button - even the promotional write-up on Amazon.co.uk begins: "Released in time for Mothers Day and in memory of his late wife Jackie and also dedicated to his mother Pauline..." You know, just in case anyone had forgotten.

But with a tracklist boasting such unsubtle choices as 'To Where You Are', 'On My Own' and 'She's Out Of My Life' - even someone in a persistent vegetative state would find it all rather cynical. Weirdly, the promotional copy describes the album as being "born in the hills of North Wales using talent from the local area", which makes it sound like some demonic chimera, created by a gang bang of Satan-worshipping farmhands.

Daniel says "We are hoping to show that you dont need to be signed to a massive label or a big management company to make good music heard as long as you have realistic expectations and believe in yourself." But just in case his expectations reach beyond his physical capabilities, he's also pledged 30p from every disk sold to the Help for Heroes campaign, which is rather helpfully plastered all over the album's cover.

Speaking of realistic expectations, say 'hello again' to Lemar, the one-time bank worker who came third in the BBC's Fame Academy. With a smoky voice that sounds like someone blowing air over the top of an empty milk-bottle, Lemar has somehow managed to churn out four reasonably successful albums and is currently putting the finishing touches to his Greatest Hits package.

Now, you may be struggling to recall any of Lemar's hits, never mind the greatest ones, but he's in no doubt of his music's legacy. He told the Daily Record "I do feel, while listening to my songs... that I've influenced the sound that you hear in the charts at the moment."

According to Lemar, it's all part of the musical circle of life: "I was influenced by Michael Jackson, Marvin Gaye, Sam Cooke and Al Green then did my thing with it. After you've done it for a certain amount of time you influence other people and inadvertently become a part of musical history."

So there you have it - history has been made by a man beaten into third place by those titans of modern song, David Sneddon and Sinead Quinn. Still, his new song is quite nice in a mid-nineties disco kind of way:

Age ain't nothing but a number

Anyone with an email account has seen those messages advertising Cialis and Viagra, which must account for 60% of all electronic mail. So it's good to know that at least one person is happy to receive them - Hollywood legend and one-time sex addict Michael Douglas.

He's been oversharing with the American Association of Retired Persons (AARP) about how the little blue pills have helped him keep Catherine Zeta Jones satisfied in bedroom. "God bless her that she likes older guys. And some wonderful enhancements have happened in the last few years - Viagra, Cialis - that can make us all feel younger."

Now maybe it's just a coinicidence, but I can't help thinking of battle-of-the-sexes thriller Disclosure, where Michael famously received a series of helpful emails from an unnamed source that helped give him the upper hand over sexy maneater Demi Moore. It's another case of life imitating art, only instead of corporate espionage, the emails are just offering him six hours of unflagging tumescence.

After almost a decade of marriage, Catherine must be a little frustrated that Michael's still wanting to hammer away while she's trying to read all those scripts piling up on her desk. According to a recent interview, Catherine believes that their relationship works because "we’re not vying for equal rights in our careers because he already is Michael Douglas. It works very well with the children, him being at home and me working and vice versa." No-one seems to be too sure about what that work is, perhaps she's volunteering in the local care home.

Pointing the finger

If you subscribe to the Richard Littlejohn worldview (and if you do I can recommend some powerful anti-psychotics), you probably think the world's going to hell in a handcart. You take a look at the youth of today, and you see a general lack of respect, work ethics and comprehensible dialect.

So whose fault is it? Well, obviously not the parents, because that causes some uncomfortable questions to be asked.

It's much easier to pass the buck and blame someone else. And today's easiest scapegoat is reality TV, particularly Big Brother and I'm A Celebrity...

A recent survey of 800 teachers found that the vast majority feel that reality TV shows have had a negative impact on pupils' behaviour. Reporting on this study, the Daily Telegraph rather cleverly picked out one quote from Robert Holroyd, Head of Repton School in Derbyshire, who said that "teachers should encourage pupils to watch the news and read quality papers including The Daily Telegraph to provide a reality check."

According to Holroyd, "An increasing number of young people think that celebrity status is available to everyone, usually through television." But I think he's missing the point. The fact is, celebrity (in its current incarnation at least) has indeed been democratised and devalued to the point that people can be elevated to that glittering status simply by remembering to turn up for work.

Thankfully, not all 'reality' shows are in his bad books - he clearly has some time for Britain's Got Talent: "At least that may make children look at their own performance and think 'what would Amanda Holden or Simon Cowell say about me?'"

So fly-on-the-wall shows are bad, but it's OK for young children to spend time worrying about how that notable icon of talent and tenacity, Amanda Holden, might judge them.

After a couple more well-chosen shout-outs for the Telegraph, the article points out that this study follows "research from the Association of Teachers and Lecturers which warned access to inappropriate TV was turning young children into Vicky Pollards." And that's precisely the problem with studies that are quick to place the blame for these kinds of social issues on popular culture.

The reason Vicky Pollard resonated with TV viewers is that, like most comedy grotesques, she represented a painfully familiar truth. Vicky didn't create chav culture, she simply reflected it.

Whether you're blaming faux-documentary formats for unsustainable ambitions for our young people, or using outdates comedy characters to define society's ills, it's clear that reality is in the eye of the beholder.

Heidi's Hills aren't helping

Some people just can't catch a break. Take poor old Heidi Montag for example. Aside from the fact that she could lose a battle of wits against any animal with a shell, she seems to be rapidly losing touch with her fans.

It can't have helped matters that she's made herself almost unrecognisable, with an astonishing 10 cosmetic procedures all performed in one marathon session. Already blonde and boobilicious even before the surgical overhall, she now looks like something Hugh Hefner's cleaner might fish out from behind a sofa cushion.

She claims that she's not addicted to surgery, despite having more elective treatments than the entire cast of Desperate Housewives in her quest for perfection. The way she sees it, "I see an upgraded version of me. It's a new face and a new energy. It's a new person and I feel like almost all of the things I didn't want to be and who I turned into kind of got chiseled away." In fact, there were enough bits left over to win a supporting role in the next series of The Hills.

But let's not rain on her parade, since she's "very excited for the world to see the new me and a real me." Even if the 'real' her is about as authentic as one of those emails from a Nigerian prince who needs help with his bank account.

Not everyone thinks that Heidi's made the smartest move, with some people questioning the logic of advocating such extreme transformation to young people. But Heidi remains unapologetic, claiming "My main message is that beauty is within..." Like I said, smart moves aren't exactly her speciality.

Thankfully, it doesn't seem as though we need to worry about Heidi's monumental impact on popular culture. Her new album, which coincidentally came out this week, hasn't exactly scorched its way up the charts. She may have spent "over $1 million, almost $2 million" on producing 'Superficial' (seriously, this girl needs some irony classes and quick) but according to early sales figures she's sold less than 1,000 copies.

Perhaps her claims that "within the first week, we will definitely make our money back" were a little ambitious. Then again, Heidi's nothing of not ambitious. She did once confidently state "acting, singing, dancing - it's always been in me. I also plan to win an Oscar."

At least she doesn't have to worry about showing her face in public after such an embarrassing start to her recording career. No-one would recognise her anyway.

When Good News goes bad

Here's something that you probably won't find in Stuff magazine any time soon - a solar-powered Bible.

Although it sounds like a new punchline to the old idiom about uselessness (who even uses fireguards anymore?), it's actually a real thing. And the lucky people of Haiti now have one less item to stick on their Christmas list.

If you've been touched by the plight of the Haitians in the aftermath of the Earthquake, you may have felt compelled to donate money and help out in some small way. After all, if it's good enough for Saint Angelina...

But you have to question the logic of Faith Comes By Hearing, a charity based in New Mexico, which has decided that what the people of Haiti need most, is a solar-powered audiobook which can blast the word of God (in Haitian Creole no less) to crowds of 300 at a time.

In the words of 71-year old quake survivor Jacqueline Thermiti, "Of all the wars and revolutions and hurricanes, this quake is the worst thing God has ever sent us." Not quite, wait till she gets her care package from New Mexico.

Try to imagine it - you've lost all your worldly possessions and are relying on a mound of dead relatives to stave off the hungry rats. Wouldn't you prefer that any available money be spent on things like shelter, drinkable water and maybe some food?

Given that insurance companies are happy to lay the blame for earthquakes at the big guy's door, it's bitterly ironic that, according to FCBH, these audio Bibles "offer hope and comfort that comes from knowing God has not forgotten them through this tragedy."

Maybe they're just regular guys who can't resist a shiny new gadget. Perhaps they've got a whole cupboard full of wind-up mobile phone chargers, dancing flowerpots and plasma globes that seemed like a good idea at the time. After all, who could resist something that's "self-powered and can play the Bible in the jungle, desert or ... even on the moon!" Space gadgets - I'll take fifty!

As with all good Bible stories, there's a moral here. If you want to do your bit to help the poor and disenfranchised, try to pick a charity that doesn't come with strings attached. Giving with an agenda isn't really giving at all.

A pain in the arias

Just when you thought that the dead donkey of reality TV had endured its final flogging, along limps one more attempt at stirring emotional contestants, excitable audiences and humourless judges into a grey sludge of schedule-filling desperation. ITV's Popstar to Operastar (is that even a word?) takes successful pop singers and, well, you can probably guess the rest from the title.

But even though the show itself is as surprising as an episode of The Waltons, its nothing compared with the painfully predictable outcry from the opera enthusiasts who rushed to condemn this bastardisation of their art.

Leading the charge like Braveheart in a cravat, is Telegraph 'culture critic' Rupert Christiansen, who adopts such an elitist air it's likely he'd turn himself away from his own birthday party. You see, Rupert 'gets' opera - he can name-drop Die Meistersinger von Nürnberg, whereas the rest of us have trouble telling Westlife from Boyzone.

The contestants are 'hysterical', the audience 'moronic' and the judges 'mediocre' - but the show's greatest abuse is the way it handles the music itself. Reading the bitter, angry article, you can picture Rupert, indignantly coughing up globs of Foie Gras, as some oik out of Pop Idol butchers that song off of the football:

"All it presents is a few B and C list celebrities singing some familiar operatic numbers, using mikes. There is no attempt to present anything in dramatic context, and the arias are cut and transposed."

Honestly, next you'll be telling me that the celebrities on Masterchef aren't really chefs.

Whatever you do, don't try and tell him that it's about 'bringing opera to the masses' - "I shall explode" he promises. In fact, Rupert believes that the show will put people off opera, "confirming prejudices that it is something naff, cheesy and banal".

I think he's got it wrong. It's the aloof, inaccessible snobbery that people find so off-putting, and the idea that you need to have written a Masters thesis on La cambiale di matrimonio to even be able to buy a ticket. In fact, precisely the kind of supercilious tone that he evidences throughout his critique.

Once again, it's a case of real culture versus popular culture, and for Telegraph readers there can only ever be one winner. Broadsheets frown on 'dumbing down' and the need for emphasis through repetition.

So it's ironic that Christiansen was recycling an almost identical article that he'd published two weeks previously, slating the show for exactly the same shortcomings. Although at least in the former piece he was imaginative enough condemn the series without having actually seen it.