Geldof's daughter feels the shame

Poor old Peaches Geldof - there she is, trying to show how supercoolfabulous she is at her 18th birthday party. And then her dad turns up:

She looked mortified as doting dad Sir Bob turned up at her 18th birthday bash dressed as a CLOWN.

The grinning rocker arrived in a tartan costume, daft hat and clutching a bunch of flowers.

We're not sure that actually constitutes dressing up as a clown - isn't that what Bob wore through much of the 1970s?

It turns out, though, that the joke was on Peaches. According to 3AM (okay, we know this is a leap of faith) she had managed to remain unaware that her own party had a circus fancy dress theme.

Still, Peaches should know a thing or two about mortification: a few days ago, she was given a chance as a guest columnist for the Guardian. She turned in a piece about her Mypace, which might have been fascinating three years ago but now looks a little bit like someone telling a joke unaware we've all heard it:

What was MySpace? I looked it up. My mind boggled at the prospects: a place where you could post countless photos of yourself doing stupid, inane poses and write gushing blogs for others to read, where you could speak to close friends and, possibly, make new ones.

Goodness. And this is on this the internet, you say?

You could even "pimp" your profile, I found, with delight (I went for a tasteful black-and-white theme as opposed to Pixie's garish neon).

Did you? Fascinating. Could you speak up a little, please, I can't hear you above the sound of CP Snow rotating in his grave.

This was my dream come true - a place to sit procrastinating (my speciality) with other procrastinators, for hours on end.

Surely, Peaches, to procrastinate, one must have something more important to do that they're putting off?

Peaches then details a childish spat in the comments columns which would have been shameful for a ten year old to get involved in, never mind for a supposed adult to think worth printing in a newspaper. (Someone said something about her stupid dog, apparently.)

Then, having done a quick word count, she found there was still half a page left. So she started to bang on about her dog in more... well, not depth:

And it's always funny taking her to Subway and watching the stunned customers stare as I casually place her next to a same-size sandwich.

They're not stunned that you've got a little dog, you idiot, they're stunned that someone is stupid enough to take a dog into a food store and then put it on the table.

Maybe Peaches found it hard to see Bob dressed up as a clown; it's harder for the rest of us to see her pretending to be a writer.