One of the truisms of media is that sex sells. The more scandalous it is, the better. Whether it’s stories of the sexual antics of royalty, politicians, film stars, musicians, the sporting elite, or those bizarre celebrities who are famous simply because they are famous, sales of newspapers and magazines will increase. Such prurient gossip is healthy for certain bank balances, and enlivens breakfast, commutes, or time spent in waiting rooms. A good many people deplore it, yet a good many people read it.

The latest scandal of the sort is that concerning that obnoxious creature, who can’t decide whether he’s a wanna be comedian, a strange faux guru, or a Poundshop David Icke, the odious Russell Brand, following a joint investigation by The Times, The Sunday Times, and the Channel 4 programme, Dispatches. Just in case you are unaware, dear reader, some of the women interviewed in this investigation have alleged that rapes and other sexual assaults were perpetrated by Brand. Subsequently, a police investigation has begun.

Not unnaturally, the reports have spawned a plethora of further articles. One which caught my attention was a broader reflection on the way that the BBC views its most popular presenters. For a time, Brand was one such presenter.

The premise of the article was that the BBC treated these presenters as gods. They were deferred to, and behaviour which would have been rightly considered unacceptable in ordinary mortals was tolerated, or even indulged. Behind the genial, reassuring masks of high profile presenters, there can be found bullies and sexual predators. Yet because all broadcasters wish for ever higher ratings, disgraceful conduct is rarely called out.

But this isn’t a problem unique to the BBC, or even to broadcasting. It is much broader than that. People have the idea that their heroes and heroins can do no wrong. The initial stories of bad behaviour are merely scurrilous rumours. Because they sing nicely, or make us laugh, or act well, or play whichever sport amazingly, or manage to combine warmth with gravitas when they read the news, or write our favourite books, or share views with us, or simply look beautiful, those scurrilous rumours can’t possibly be true. Until it turns out that they are. And then we get to enjoy the downfall of the great and the good.

We are rightly shocked when this or that entertainer is revealed to be truly depraved. We are similarly right to be appalled when we find out that a publicly agreeable personality is privately very disagreeable. But why do we put these people on pedestals in the first place? What does it achieve, apart from reinforcing a sense of entitlement for the celebrity, and making the fans look silly?

Perhaps it is time for us to stop worshiping at the shrine of Celebrity. If we do, the BBC and other media outlets can stop deifying famous personalities, and then, maybe, newsreaders, actors, musicians, sports stars, comedians, and even Poundshop David Ickes, can learn to behave like decent human beings.