This was not supposed to happen. With its miserable early viewing figures, Fame Academy was meant to be the final straw for pop reality shows. However, as if to prove that the British public can never be underestimated, Fame Academy became a roaring success, spawning a number one for its winner, David Sneddon, smaller hits for its runners-up and now a concert tour.

Yet an air of craven desperation hangs around, as if everyone concerned has realised their 15 minutes is almost up. This concert could be no more efficient in parting parents from their cash if the Fame Academy students leapt from the stage and started snatching wallets at knifepoint. The audience are cajoled into a mobile phone vote for the song they want to hear. Your every step is dogged by someone trying to flog you something: programmes, T-shirts, Fame Academy opera glasses, glowsticks, popcorn, candy floss. It is like being trapped in a vast souk, except you're not allowed to haggle.

The endless cover versions struggle to be heard over Mammon's roar. Lemar Obika has the best voice, but the only contestant with something approaching a personality is Ainslie Henderson. His schtick involves pretending to be a confused indie boy, who has ended up on a manufactured pop show by mistake, perhaps after taking a wrong turning en route to see Yo La Tengo. He sings, without much interest, You Really Got Me. Proximity to Sneddon makes him look like Iggy Pop. Then again, proximity to Sneddon would make Oliver Letwin look like Iggy Pop. On stage, he is as devoid of charisma as it's possible to be without someone reading you the last rites.

As Sinead Quinn belts out Avril Lavigne's Complicated, it all becomes clear. Fame Academy is 2003's equivalent of those early 1970s Top of the Pops albums, which featured the hits of the day performed by game but faceless session musicians. Like those albums, it's shoddy bargain-basement stuff, destined for history's dustbin.