A TV programme briefly transported me back to the early Seventies the other night. That was when Donny Osmond, wearing a purple velvet hat and smiling that wonderful smile, looked down on me from my bedroom wall. He was my first love.

I had all the records, the badges and a Donny t-shirt and scarf. I even wrote him a letter, telling him I was his number one fan. I enclosed a photograph, hoping that the moment he saw it he would realise I was the one for him. But he never wrote back.

Eventually, I moved on. Slade, Sweet and the Bay City Rollers beckoned. And my smiling Donny and his clean-living band of brothers were consigned to one of those happy, distant memories of childhood.

But first loves are special. So as I curled up on the sofa, glass of wine in hand, to watch the Osmond documentary, I imagined I was back there, in those blissful, innocent carefree days when we wore loons and hot pants and sang along to Puppy Love with a hairbrush in front of the bedroom mirror.

But my illusions were suddenly and brutally shattered as Donny and his brothers revealed that their close-knit, happy family image was a hollow sham. Behind the sparkling smiles, their lives were a mess. They felt suffocated, not flattered, by the hopeless devotion of fans.

Donny, gulping emotionally, described the harsh regime instilled by his controlling, disciplinarian father as a "form of child abuse". One brother, weighed down by the pressure of fame, attempted suicide. Another suffered a brain tumour, which he blamed on the stress of constant performing and being in the public eye.

Fond memories faded fast as history was rewritten in front of my eyes Slowly, it dawned on me that I, like thousands of other fans, was partly responsible for their suffering. But why was I only realising this now?

Working from as young as six, the Osmonds never enjoyed a proper childhood. Full of resentment, they talked about their money problems, jealousies and insecurities. For the most part, they appeared wrecked and broken men.

Did other former Osmond fans feel cheated, stupid and betrayed, as I did? Like the brothers themselves, it appears we have all been victims of the cut-throat music industry which sold us all a lie.

I went to bed sad and disillusioned. Puppy love was never meant to be like this.

THE Blairs are being attacked again for snapping up a freebie family holiday. They have been accused of greed and snobbery for choosing to stay at Cliff Richard's luxury villa in Barbados, rather than booking a caravan or bog standard holiday cottage.

But who can blame them? The Blairs on holiday are as hounded by the media as any celebrity pop band. The only way they can relax is to stay in the sort of secure and fortified palaces only the very rich can afford. And every time they leave the compound they will be watched and photographed. I bet there are times when they wish they could enjoy the simple pleasures of a B and B in Scarborough like the rest of us.