Clearly the entire country is in love with Cheryl Cole (née Tweedy), one fifth of Girls Aloud, Britain's Most Successful Girl Band Ever, one quarter of the judging panel on The X Factor and wife of the footballer Ashley Cole. The Daily Star declared her “only slightly less popular than God” although given that church ratings these days fall considerably short of those of The X Factor, that's a bit of a backhanded compliment.

Imagine the warmth of Cilla combined with the fashion savvy of, well, quite a lot of stylists probably, and it's no wonder that Cheryl is also currently number seven on the list of Female Celebrities Girls Fancy - behind Myleene Klass and Julia Roberts, since you ask, for now anyway. Meanwhile Amy Winehouse has conceded that while she loathes the other X Factor judges, she is rather keen on Cheryl, who, she claims (surely rather optimistically, given the Geordie one's fastidious attention to grooming) “wants to snog me”.

If you want to resurrect a career that's at risk of becoming just that bit respectable-comfy-sofa, you could do worse than reveal that you're having Cheryl's love-child - although you risk the wrath of every other female commentator in the country, since most of them appear barely able to contain their lust.

Now I hate to be the wicked fairy at the creation of a new national treasure, but I'm finding all this girl-on-girl lasciviousness a bit laboured. Not that I don't adore Cheryl. Indeed if I may say, I was an early adopter on the Cheryl front. That stripy sailor shirt (with chic, totally on-trend neck embellishment) kept me tuning in for several harrowing weeks during the summer when The X Factor turns into a dispiriting freak show.

But here's the utterly unzeitgeisty thing: even during the early rounds, when Cheryl's delicately flushed cheeks were at their most tear-sodden, even when she was smiling through her sorrow and calling her cheating husband “pet”, I didn't want to snog her. I can only attribute this to the fact that, last time I checked, I wasn't a lesbian. Obviously this is a major disadvantage for anyone wanting to come across as topical and relevant, but what can you do? I don't want a threesome with Cheryl and Simon Cowell.

However, I do want to know where the strapless coral cocktail dress she wore three weeks ago came from (Matthew Williamson) and the black and eau de nil one (PPQ) and the secret behind that beehive (extensions), as well as where she likes to shop (www.my-wardrobe.com; apparently she buys 15 to 20 pieces at a time) and what she likes to eat (not much, self-evidently, and certainly not meat).

For what's really irresistible about our Cheryl is not that there is a site on Bebo (the social networking group for tweenies) entitled “We Love the Tweed”. It is that she has been on A Journey. Several, if you count the long march to Oxshott, Surrey from the rough council estate in Heaton, Newcastle, where she lived with her single mum Joan and the personal evolution from mouthy brawler (early on in the Girls Aloud trajectory she was convicted of assaulting a nightclub lavatory attendant) to patron saint of little Diana Vickers and the entire British Isles.

But for those such as myself who are primarily interested in the most superficial aspects of celebrity, the most fascinating journey by far has been the one from that motley selection of dodgy outfits in the early days, to the really quite fabulous fashion moments we see every Saturday (OK, last week's white bandage with cut-out shoulders was a bit of a humdinger, but give her a break, she had a cold). Yup, it's the clothes, stupid.

Come to think of it, it's the clothes that keep me - and katrillions of others - going back to Audrey Hepburn's old films to ooh and aah, and, for that matter, Sex and the City to euggh and arghhh. Clothes - and pretty women - are why I'd rather watch a mediocre rom-com starring a bunch of beautiful actresses than a Wim Wenders masterpiece with an all-male line-up (even one that included Brad Pitt and Rufus Sewell).

Women like looking at lovely clothes. Sometimes we like looking at hideous ones. We love to scrutinise and dissect other women's appearances. Perhaps on some level we feel that if we can understand beauty and style, we can also possess them. It's not something I feel particularly proud of. But it is a fact of life. It's called fashion, by the way, not lesbianism.

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