Celebrity, By Marina Hyde

Tawdry those A-list titbits might be, but if we're being honest, they are pretty entertaining, too...

Those seeking an explanation for The Guardian's historic ambivalence towards popular culture have tended to focus on a puritan strand in British left/liberal thinking that dates back several centuries. The reluctance of current editorial power blocs to get too caught up in that nasty punk-rock business while they were at university has also been cited as probable cause by some contemporary witnesses.

At first glance, Marina Hyde's Lost In Showbiz column – a waspish, weekly digest of the follies of the Anglo-American celebrity caste – might appear to be an extension of this disreputable heritage. In fact, it pioneers an entirely new approach. Rather than setting out to confirm the notional Guardian reader's suspicion that they were right not to be interested in vulgar ephemera, Hyde's willingness to engage with such subject matter as the "looming Malthusian catastrophe" among Paris Hilton's ever-burgeoning pack of Chihuahua helpmeets shows them exactly how much fun they're missing out on.

Lost In Showbiz's great strength is its constancy of tone – a difficult-to-strike blend of world-weary flippancy and righteous anger, of corrosive cynicism and idealistic bewilderment. In the early stages of Celebrity: How Entertainers Took Over the World and Why We Need an Exit Strategy, which is a timely attempt to render her greatest journalistic hits in book form, the author struggles to do justice to that nuanced nature of her own creation. A clunkily demotic introduction suggests vital subtlety is going to be lost in the struggle to create an artefact which might be saleable to those who also enjoy the work of Jeremy Clarkson.

Initially, the challenge presented by resolving this (by definition) episodic enterprise into a single narrative seems to have been comprehensively ducked. It's also a shame there aren't any pictures. But any book with raw material of the quality of erstwhile Spice Girl Mel B's assertion that "You don't tattoo the person's name on your body after three days if it's just a fling" is unlikely to come up short for long.

As Hyde gradually adapts to the requirements of a longer format, her disciplinary forays begin to find their targets; from the perverse etiquette of the celebrity sex tape ("On no account put the footage anywhere safe"), to the suicidal willingness of supposedly reputable international organisations to hitch their credibility to Geri Halliwell's runaway charabanc of self-delusion. ("Ah, UN goodwill ambassadors. They change so much: primarily the definition of goodwill.")

With the footnotes (which initially don't quite work) bedding in, and arguments increasingly structured throughout chapters rather than paragraphs, Celebrity picks up momentum. Hyde's extended studies of the VIP cults of Kabbalah and Scientology, Brad and Angelina's fecundity-crazed subversion of the apparatus of the Angolan state, and the attempts of Sharon Stone and Leonardo DiCaprio to involve themselves in the Middle East peace process, are splendidly sustained pieces of invective. Those ready for further reading are helpfully directed to such compelling sources as Columbia economist Xavier Sala-i-Martin's investigation into "The Negatives of Celebrity-driven Benevolence".

Just as this book is really tightening its grip, however, a nagging question may start to trouble the mind of the attentive British reader. And that question is, "Where the hell are Jordan and Kerry Katona?" One of the real pleasures of the original column is its acute understanding of the warped balance of the international celebrity currency exchanges (whereby at a given moment Danielle Lloyd can buy and sell Bruce Willis or Richard Gere without even having to reach into her Fendi clutch bag). Yet if Celebrity... had an index (which it should have, but doesn't), this vital reference resource would reveal that those of Hyde's usual subjects whose name means nothing on the other side of the Atlantic have been callously consigned to the recycling bin of history.

It probably should not surprise us that such an astute observer of our fame- hungry culture has been willing to water down her own aesthetic in the interests of American publication. To have produced a piece of mass-market satire which can sit happily on the shelves of Barnes & Noble alongside the work of Michael Moore or Al Franken is a considerable achievement.

But those who cherish Lost in Showbiz's uniquely British brand of schadenfreude will be left with that same slight feeling of disappointment as when a favourite comedian signals their determination to make it in Hollywood by appearing with a new set of gleaming-white teeth.