In case you've spent the last month on another planet, or going cold turkey from the cathode ray, ITV's Popstars is the latest in an increasingly long line of Darwinian reality-TV programmes; a kind of Stars In Their Eyes meets The Weakest Link. The basic premise is this: last winter some 3,000 youngsters were auditioned for parts in a new pop supergroup selected by a team of showbiz industry pros including PR guru and Billie Piper manager Nicki Chapman and seasoned TV producer Nigel Lithgow.

The selection process was pretty merciless, with Lythgoe in particular distinguishing himself as the latest small screen villain after Nasty Nick and Anne Robinson, dismissing sadly untalented teenage wanna-bes with a kind of blow-dried ruthlessness. Lythgoe, coincidentally, has also been assigned the task of developing Survivor - Bob Geldof's huge US triumph-of-the-fittest series - in Britain.

Popstars reached its climax recently with the unveiling of the group's line-up, plus revelations that one of those chosen, Kym, is the mother of two small children - no bad thing itself, but one wonders if she'd declared it from the beginning, would it have influenced the judges' decision?

Let's ignore, for the moment, the willingness with which the contestants threw themselves into the maw of this machine, happy to be ridiculed in exchange for a shot at the title. More unsettling is the way creativity of any kind was relegated so low on the list of priorities, with the auditions consisting of competitors parroting vacuous ditties by the likes of S Club 7, Ricky Martin and Elton John. The prime requirements of these kids were that they could sing, dance, look pretty, keep their mouths shut and do what they were told. Consequently, the game was always going to be rigged: as the camera panned across the rows of contenders, you could immediately spot those who were never going to make the grade; the ones with puppy fat, bad hair, bad skin, any defect which might preclude them from conforming to the criteria of the judges.

Even creepier was the intolerance of any form of assertion, let alone insubordination, on the part of the candidates. One Scottish girl who, let's face it, was never going to get through on account of not being tall, slender or cosmopolitan enough, was blackballed by Chapman for having the brass neck to argue over which part of a Celine Dion tune she wanted to sing. It was hard to tell which was more excruciating - the poor girl's off-key performance, or the told-you-so briskness with which she was dismissed. Another callow lad could barely speak, let alone sing, he was quaking so badly, having forgotten the lyrics of Robbie Williams' 'Angels'. Perhaps worst of all, yet another girl was disqualified for being outside the 18-24 age limit (she was 30).

This is cruel stuff. It's also symptomatic of how pop has become PR. The judges maintain that personality is important, but we can only assume they mean the kind of personality that can be manipulated by record industry svengali figures. You could of course argue that these kids are asking for it, having entered this circus of their own volition. But nevertheless, there's something a little rank about people being belittled for entertainment, be it the violation of privacy in Big Brother or Anne Robinson's Thatcher-esque battleaxe shtick. The insinuation that if you dangle enough cash and fame in front of the proles, then they'll subject themselves to any amount of ritual humiliation, is too Orwellian for comfort.

There were of course, a few moments of glee to be gleaned from the whole dog and pony show, not least the dismissal of a ponytailed twerp by the name of Darius, who obviously fancied himself as a kind of George Michael-meets-Craig David smoothie, but came across more like an Up With People reject. Even there though, the reasons for his red card were somewhat spurious - he had the temerity to sing one of his own compositions and to take liberties with the arrangement of Britney's 'Baby One More Time'.

As it stands, the final five selected from a shortlist of ten are set to release a single within a month or two, while record companies are sniffing around the remaining rejects with view to putting together a rival band (not a bad idea, given that the judges rejected perhaps the most promising star among them, a girl by the name of Michelle).

If nothing else, perhaps Popstars serves as a barometer of how chart music has deteriorated from being a means of expression for the working class cut-up into a finishing school for toothy androids spouting tepid platitudes, sucking corporate Coke and generally brownnosing their way to the top of the ladder. By the time the winners' handlers are finished effecting the inevitable makeover process, five feisty youngsters will have been replaced by some ghastly genetic recombination of WestClub7Zone: obedient clones with perfect pitching and absolutely nothing to declare.

But perhaps the most offensive thing about Popstars is the way the creators automatically assume their charges will become a successful pop act, as if the tastes of the public are merely incidental, and once you're guaranteed massive TV exposure, a hit single's a done deal.

Well, music industry pros should know one thing: pop is fickle, and a high profile never gave anyone a free ride in the charts - just ask Nicola from Big Brother. Already the chimes of doom have been sounding for the pop boomers, with cracks appearing in both the Spice Girls and All Saints' foundation, and allegations that S Club 7 haven't sung a note on their recordings. Not that the alternative - the soft rock of Coldplay and Starsailor or the dunderhead nu-metal of Limp Bizkit - is much solace. But let's face it, anything's better than another Westlife.