What do you think most people in Britain really want to do? Have a proper debate on the important issues? Or look at Kylie’s bum in the latest edition of Heat? This crucial, Manichean debate has been opened by the man most likely to be our next prime minister, Gordon Brown, while on a trip to meet George Bush in Washington.

Gordon thinks they would like a proper debate about the important issues. “I think we’re moving away from this period when, if you like, celebrity matters, when people are famous for being famous.”

To support this interesting thesis Gordon pointed to the growth in book clubs and the excellent attendance at literary festivals. Call me a cynic, but I’m not certain that this clinches the argument. The sales of vapid, mindless celebrity gossip magazines continues to rise unabated — almost 3m of us buy one every week. It may well be that we all despise the array of unattractive and talentless people within their pages — Jade Goody, Piers Morgan and so on — but we still like reading about what complete arses they’ve made of themselves.

Truth be told, whenever a politician announces that he believes people want a serious debate about the issues, you know he’s trying to pull a fast one.

I suspect Gordon was indulging in a spot of wishful thinking, having tried the celebrity thang himself with excruciating consequences. In an attempt to soften his image and add a bit of sparkle, he has recently sidled up to Kylie’s bum and, inexplicably, the velvet-tongued Sixties singer Dionne Warwick. Trouble is, I suspect he would not know quite what to do with Kylie’s bum, nor what the point of it is.

Gordon may finally have realised he is not cut out for hobnobbing with airheads when at a function recently he approached Halima Jackson, the unknown Afghan wife of Jermaine Jackson, Michael Jackson’s big brother, oozing sincerity, growled: “Good to see you, good to see you, I really like your work.” She doesn’t do any work, aides explained and pointed him in the direction of her husband, whom he had ignored entirely.

Contrast that with the faux pas committed by his present boss, who upon espying Ian McEwan at a social gathering bounded over and told the novelist how much he admired his paintings. If Blair had been at the Jackson do he would not merely have known who to say hello to, he’d probably have started singing Blame It On the Boogie and done a spot of body popping.

The only hope for Gordon is that while we all read Heat, we like to pretend we don’t — much as when researchers ask us what our favourite TV programme is and we reply “Panorama” when actually it’s Celebrity Dog Island or some such. Maybe Gordon is going for the disingenuous, aspirational vote.

- Scientists have discovered a method of growing human sperm cells from bone marrow, meaning that men are no longer forced to have sex with women in order to procreate.

This is terrific news and although the treatment is at an early stage, one imagines there will be queues of men stretching around the block. The process involves sticking one of those very thick needles into the lower spine to get at the juiciest globs of bone marrow; an unpleasant business, but rather less expensive, tiresome and humiliating than escorting a woman out to dinner and pretending for endless hours to take an interest in her views on the terrible situation in Darfur, or the merits of Gabriel Garcia Marquez — a prerequisite, these days, whenever we men fancy a quick stab at the act of procreation. Now we can just lie back and suffer a mere 30 seconds of excruciating pain instead.

Some have worried that this development will render men superfluous to the human race; that in future women will have large buckets of male bone marrow, perhaps extracted from us while we sleep and from which they can take a spoonful every time they feel a bit broody. Perhaps — in which case, to paraphrase the recently late Kurt Vonnegut, “so it goes”. But who, in this monogendered sunlit upland, will assure women that they’re really not that fat?

Madonna’s new adoption gambit

Congratulations once again to Madonna who is reportedly buying another little black African kiddie for her nice home near Cranborne Chase. She will soon have two, one of each sex, presumably so they match up nicely on her mantelpiece. Or she could use them as bookends, I suppose.

Grace is three years old and — like Madonna’s first purchase, David — hails from the troubled state of Malawi. So maybe it’s a “buy one, get one free” deal like Asda does with Toilet Duck. Certainly this latest addition will nudge her forward in the game of Celebrity Top Trumps she is playing against the likes of Angelina Jolie, Ewan McGregor and Meg Ryan. Angelina soared into an early lead by getting her first Third World kiddie from Cambodia, Meg fought back with a baby made in China, while Ewan kept the British flag flying with a canny adoption from Mongolia. Madonna has set the bar still higher; if she buys two more she’ll have wiped out the Malawian national debt.

Some reports say Madonna is to choose her latest child from 10 toddlers, but she will still have to go to Malawi to collect Grace. Malawi should get with the game and start a home delivery service, like Ocado.

The world’s favourite airline is BA - blinking awful

Coming back from Israel last week I was on the same British Airways flight as the director-general of the BBC, Mark Thompson. He had been upgraded into club class, he said — a remarkable achievement: I have only ever been downgraded by this awful airline and was once kicked off a flight because, through greed and incompetence, it had overbooked.

Our flight was 40 minutes late and the airline blamed disabled people — there were altogether too many old codgers in wheelchairs on the incoming flight, so it took a long time for everyone to disembark. Trouble is, I was on the same flight a week earlier, that was an hour late and the contingent disembarking at Tel Aviv seemed disabled-free.

When you arrive at the hell of Heathrow you will not be surprised to discover your luggage is in Riyadh — BA has the worst record of any European airline for losing your bags.

Given a choice I would rather fly with Somalia Airlines with David Blunkett as pilot than endure any more misery at the hands of BA.

- Mark Thompson was returning from Israel having tried to find out more about the abduction from the Gaza Strip of the BBC journalist Alan Johnston. He’d had no luck.

Palestinian media are reporting that Johnston abducted himself in order to claim the insurance, or something. If we were being charitable we might blame the Israeli occupation for the fact that Palestinians seem the most creative liars on earth when it comes to exculpating fellow Arabs from wrongdoing — Jews blew up the World Trade Center; Johnston abducted himself. Every day or so, during the Hamas “ceasefire”, rockets are launched at Israeli villages. Who is firing them? I daresay Palestinians will have an original answer — Jews.

You just pray Johnston has safe passage home.

Times Recommends

• Navigating the new global archipelago
• Comment: McCain isn't Bush and voters know it
• Religion's history of self-inflicted pain