The last time Paris Hilton found a supremely important being, it was her missing teacup chihuahua Tinkerbell, whose disappearance suparked a frenzied poster campaign around West Hollywood, before the misunderstood celebutante recalled she had simply left the dog at her grandmother's house at some unspecified point in her packed schedule of gynaecology displays and public vomiting.
This time it's the turn of the father of all humankind to turn up in the last place Paris thought of looking: the iron-barred prison cell which she has described as "like living in a cage". Sometimes similes are all a girl has to hang onto.
"I'm not the same person I was," Paris told celebrity interviewer Barbara Walters down a crackling phone line, presumably while other inmates queueing for the use of the Linford jail's communications facilities drew their fingers across their throats: the prison gesture for "I'm awfully sorry, but I need to make contact with the bent screw bringing my meth in tomorrow. Would you mind winding things up sometime before lockdown?"
"God has released me," Paris went on, before announcing carefully vague charity plans for after her release, including the establishment of a "Paris Hilton playhouse" where sick children would play with toys donated by her associates and others.
This half of Lost in Showbiz is frankly baffled by Hadley's vague scepticism about the project. What's not to love about a kind of Paris Hilton Foundation, where young sufferers can don a pair of Lindsay Lohan's cast-off Manolos and play at falling drunkenly out of the wendy houses customised to look like miniature LA nightspots, or crash their little pedal cars into strategically placed shrubbery, in healing play scenarios that should swiftly make them forget all about their mortality?
