I'm turning to Jerry Springer for high-brow, scandal-free entertainment

11:57am Thursday 6th March 2008

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WHEN popping into W H Smith the other day I noticed, just behind the Richard and Judy Book Club section, a puzzling section of books, enigmatically named the 'Tragic Life Stories'.

I investigated further - how can you resist tragedy? - and discovered row upon row of almost identical looking books, all boasting a cover of a blonde child accompanied by titles such 'Abandoned', 'Damaged' and 'Wasted'. 'A childhood stolen. An Innocence Betrayed. A Life Redeemed' read the blurb. Blimey, this isn't what's replaced The Famous Five is it?

Hopefully as a cheeky joke, or merely a mistake, a sign advertising 'the perfect gift for Mother's Day' was kicking about next to the books. But given their prominent position, their wistful blurbs and their pastel shades I'm more inclined to believe the sign was there on purpose.

People are devouring tragedy as if it's going out of fashion. Other book shops may dress it up as the 'real life stories' section or even, 'popular narratives' but they're all basically cashing in on a nation's morbid fascination with 'pervs and paedos'.

Of course, child abuse isn't something to be taken lightly, still less sneered at, so I'd like to make it clear that I take no issue with tragic lives.

People can enjoy their tragedy as much as they like in their own homes, down the pub, or on Jeremy Kyle. But somehow, the hallowed form of the book gives the stories a new gravitas, and gives readers a new hysteria.

The sheer volume of literature on the topic seems to suggest that a horrific childhood is par of the course for the average would-be author - 'when I grow up I want to write a tragic life story with a lucrative publishing contract', for instance. Or is there merely a machine that churns it all out, replacing key relatives (mother/father/ 'call-me-Uncle-Pete') and selecting gritty northern towns for the action to take place in?

Now, I'm not looking to judge the readers of this publishing monstrosity - I, after all, was only there to purchase this week's Heat, a concise encyclopaedia of the world's most tragic lives.

But when their misfortunes start to encroach on floor space that was formerly dedicated to the classics, then I get a little worried.

That's right, the classics, those bastions of the cheerful and the mundane. . . oh hang on. . . well, there was Oedipus, who suffered homicide and incest all before his 21st birthday. He certainly sold his story.

Or Hamlet, remembered as one of the earliest victims of an unconventional family.

And what about Harry Potter, locked in a cupboard for most of his formative years and emerged thinking he could fly?

Doesn't get much more tragic than that.

What on earth's wrong with us! From now on I'll be looking to Jerry Springer to provide my high-brow and scandal-free entertainment.