FIRST it was film stars, followed by singing idols. Then George Best came along and started a whole new ball game that refashioned the sportsman into a god. Latterly, the world has witnessed the emergence of opera celebrities - while at the lower end of the food chain, we see countless dumbed-down invertebrates wriggling in the sediment of the showbiz pond.

The only rule-of-thumb these days is that there are no rules. Microscopic abilities receive the rewards that were once earned through hard work, skill and good old-fashioned dues-paying.

Turn on the television and the senses are assaulted by estuary English and people who think East Angular' is an exotic foreign location where the sun does not set and the pie-and-mash never gives out.

My thoughts invariably turn to the injustice that is life whenever I watch a ballet performance. A lot of people have preconceived ideas about this art form, believing in their ignorance that it's a bourgeois pursuit, the province of toffs or those with limp wrists.

Nothing could be further from the truth. Ballet involves disciplines not dissimilar to those required by sportsmen and entertainers of all kinds. First division dancing demands supreme athletic ability, finely-honed interpretative skills and no small degree of wit and elegance.

To observe a pas de deux executed by performers at the peak of their careers is truly a memorable experience and one that equals any other discipline you'd care to mention. So where are today's ballet stars? Since the days of Fonteyn and Nureyev, there has been no one, which is a complete mystery, bearing in mind the increasing popularity of ballet.

I long for the day when the dancer takes his or her rightful place at the top table of achievement. In the meantime, I suppose we shall have to put up with being force-fed the endless mediocrity that now passes for talent.

My generation could teach you about rock

SIXTIES legends The Who have recently been dusting off the gear and giving modern youngsters some lessons in what rock's really all about.

One summer's night in 1965, my friend and decided to go to The Matrix Ballroom in Coventry to see Daltrey and Co. There we were, astride our Lambrettas at the lights on the A45 when we suddenly became aware of a rather snazzy sports car drawn up alongside. There was no mistaking its occupant - the aquiline features and fringe of jet-black hair gave it all away - it was Pete Townsend.

Our mouths were still on the tarmac when the lights changed. Pete shifted gears, winked at us and was gone.

Yes. That's talking about my generation.