Ahh, little Brian Harvey. Can someone so tiny be a criminal? Apparently so.
Harvey has had a depressing couple of years, all in all. Ten years ago, he and his band of prancing plasterers (and a slightly embarrassed-looking Tony Mortimer), were storming the charts, hot on the heels of Take That.
East 17 were the alternative to faceless herds of prissy stage-school ponces that made up the boy bands of the day. They were like us. Well, some of us, anyway.
None of these boys were good-looking, they couldn't dance and one of them never said anything ( - which, judging by Terry's impromptu, and ill-advised, rape gag on The Word, was almost certainly strategic).
And contrary to almost everything, they were an amazing success. And none more so than Little Brian.
Having racked up a small fortune in residuals, Harvey then let his girlfriend Daniella Westbrook Hoover it all through her celebrated mono-nostril, leaving him bankrupt.
Dumping Westbrook, he then married one of East 17's dancers, and had a baby girl with her. They almost immediately separated, leaving Harvey fighting for custody.
Desperation set in last week, as it became clear he didn't have the strongest case - being a man with no job, credit problems, who had admitted to a 'not unusual' course of 16 pills whilst partying. It was then that Harvey hit upon a masterful plan. Bumping into one of his ex-wife's ex-boyfriends, he asked him 'do him a favour...'
It was a simple, yet brilliant, ruse. Harvey gave the almost complete stranger class A drugs, a bundle of used notes and a disposable camera. The plan was to get his ex-wife 'pissed on wine' and then take some candid photos of her snorting the cocaine - thus ruining her chances of retaining custody.
However, the man went straight off to tell the News of the World all about it, who promptly wired him up - getting the entire debacle on tape. Oops.
To paraphrase Mike Reid - 'what a wally..'
How did you spend the millennium? Like most people, you probably spent the time crammed up against a steaming wall of limbs, desperately trying not to spill your over-priced drink. Not Gary Glitter though, he went down the less pedestrian route and spent the big night on suicide watch at Horfield prison - without even his big wig for company.
But then Gary's clearly not the sharpest tool in the box. And this was highlighted to alarming degree, when he took his child-porn-crammed computer down to a highstreet firm of engineers to fix. Not surprisingly, the lads in the shop wasted no time in fixing the machine and then have a quick pry - well, you would, wouldn't you? And thank goodness they did.
Although, and let's be honest here, it can't really have been that much of a surprise...
Subsequently, Glitter - now back to plain old Paul Gadd - hasn't really enjoyed the Gadd Life. After serving his four months in prison and losing his sparkle, he has since been tailed across the world by various British tabloids - all hell-bent on squeezing more juice from this unpleasantly soiled news rag. The Sun took delight in showing 'greasy Glitter' living the sweet life on a yacht. And The News of the World masterfully alerted the Cambodian authorities to his presence in their great nation. Which is apparently the sex crime capital of the world.
Curiously enough, Glitter's on-line site is still up and running, and remains one of the few places that you can still buy his music. It also contains the jaded star's 'official life story', which wisely skirts over much of his recent 'career'. Wanna be in his gang? What? On the sex-offender's register?
Oh dear, oh dear. Is it a case of twisted face, twisted mind?
Jonathan King recently got sent to jail for seven years, which has led to much (not wholly unjustifiable) speculation that he must have broken a mirror at some stage.
What compounds this man's terrible villainy is that he seems completely unsure still of what he's done wrong. Is it self-assurance? Is it arrogance? Whatever it is, it's pretty baffling.
To his own mind, he is the 'new Oscar Wilde'. Which, of course, he isn't - but there you go. Wilde was a literary genius who had the misfortune to be homosexual in a less sophisticated, less tolerant world. What he wasn't, was a failing DJ with a taste for school boys and multi-colour Afro-wigs.
Will the literary merits of De Profundis be, one day, mentioned in the same breath as Johnny Reggae? Think it's doubtful.
Like most men, King had his own pulling-technique, which he imagined would give him some degree of success if properly implemented. Unusually, King's involved elaborate props...
When police raided his house, they found piles of King-brand pre-printed questionnaires, which gave him the chance to discuss sex with little boys - for purely sociological reasons, he claimed. A dozen or so of his victims were not so sure.
Rather embarrassingly for King, was the evidence of one of his - now grown-up - targets, claiming the Singer-DJ has a very small penis - and under oath, mind you.