Someone has just sent me a fascinating document. It’s the application form for the American Gladiator reality television show – for “weekend warrior types that are BIG, bad, and athletic” (www.nbc.com/American_Gladiators/casting/).

The 28-page form involves serious personality profiling; it’s probably easier to join a merchant bank or the priesthood. Should you want to go on telly and mindlessly abuse your fellow man, you need to complete the following gladiatorial tasks: draw a picture of yourself, write a poem or rap in a few lines, and answer the question, “What is the weirdest thing about you?” The show’s producers are also keen to know your hat and glove size, and how much time you’ve spent in jail. Oh, and whether there are any restraining orders against you. And did I mention that you should list special talents – “funny voices/impressions, acrobatics, parkour, putting your legs behind your head, etc”? (The “putting your legs behind your head” thing threw me too, because I could think of a number of friends who might make great gladiators until I saw that.)

The application piqued my interest in a future in reality television (what other future is there?). What would I have to offer to get on Wife Swap, or How Clean Is Your House? Or Big Brother, or Supernanny?

All the British shows’ websites have a nice big “apply” button. Wife Swap just wanted to know who did the cleaning, housework and shopping. “The kids, of course,” I answered. “I’m mostly drinking.” Now I’m waiting for the call. Supernanny wanted the children’s ages and a description of the “issues” which might take us to the Naughty Step. “For our family, the Naughty Step is a home from home,” I wrote, hopefully.

The forms for the British shows are short, whereas the questions for American Wife Swap go from your name and number straight to the nitty-gritty: “Who wears the pants and why?” “Are you willing to be judgmental and opinionated?” And – perhaps this is for Postgraduate Wife Swap – “What is your household philosophy?”

Big Brother USA asks you to describe your relationship with your mother – and gives you two lines. I filled two pages. Other killer questions include: “When was the last time you threw something in anger?”, which also required extra space. In Britain, BB requires a live audition, and apparently these have been rather sparsely attended for series nine this year, perhaps because they select people who “stand out” in the queues and suggest that you wrap up and bring food because “it may be a long day”.

Once you fling yourself into the public humiliation ring, the opportunities are endless. Casting agencies list the new shows and possibilities opening up this season. I am not eligible for Blow the Budget Wedding or Pregnant Bride-to-Be, but ITV is looking for material (preferably of the saggy, gross sort) for The Great British Body. “Are you a Mr Knobbly Knees or a Miss Lovely Legs? Do you have the biggest beer belly or love your bingo wings? Do you have a lived-in face?” I’m qualifying on a lot of fronts here.

I reckon the programme I stand the best chance of succeeding at is Police Camera Action!, which is looking for atrocious drivers in the following categories: school-run mums, travelling sales reps, boy racers, white van men and oldies. They bring a car round to check how crap you are.

But wait, here’s a dead cert: on Bad Parents you can confess wrongdoings, or complain about the wrongs perpetrated upon you as a child. Feuds, a new BBC show, also has its attractions.

If you can’t exploit yourself, why not exploit your family? Channel 4 is keen to know whether my kids are addicted to television, and there’s another programme looking for budding kiddie entrepreneurs. There’s also a call for child models who want to participate in American beauty pageants.

But this season, fat is where it’s at: there are free places at fat camp for families with overweight toddlers, and the search is also on for “plus-sized families” for a positive documentary – “Are you big and proud?”

It’s best not to think about what reality TV tells us about ourselves. What’s interesting is the importance now of casting, that programmes are advertised on extras websites, and the same people try to get on show after show. Such self-consciousness will not mean the death of the genre – reality TV was never real anyway, but now it’s getting more polished. It’s gone from happy-slapping TV to become our national moral compass, leaving no topic unturned. How did we manage all those years without it?

kate.muir@thetimes.co.uk

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