In November last year, television fitness expert Angie Dowds killed herself jumping from Beachy Head. Last week's inquest reveals that Dowds, who'd previously struggled with addictions, had toxic levels of alcohol and drugs in her system at the time of her death. She was also anxious about work and had split from her partner, to whom she sent a text: "My heart is broken, my spirit is broken." Such a sad story, and one which requires no embellishment. Why, then, was the fact that Dowd was a lesbian deemed so intrinsic to the tragedy? When a human being feels so beaten and lost that only suicide is the answer, what does their sexuality have to do with it?

In reports at the time of Dowds' death, and the time of her inquest, if her lesbianism wasn't mentioned in the headline, then it usually made it into the first few paragraphs. If you don't think this is jarring and unnecessary, verging on salacious and exploitative, then try substituting other headlines or statements and see how odd they look. "Heterosexual man jumps under train". "A woman committed suicide after splitting from her straight male lover." Doubtless this would provoke confusion, even disgust.

What possible relevance does their sexuality have, you'd ask. Yet, for gay people, especially those in the public eye, this is routine. Whatever else is happening, they are first, last and always labelled "gay" – even, it would seem, after their death.

Some might argue that, generally speaking, for lesbians, a bit of hyper-visibility isn't always a bad thing. It might occasionally irk Mary Portas that, whatever she achieves in life, and however much she hates being labelled, she will always be described in variations of "lesbian presenter" and "lesbian clothes guru". However, at least she is getting the "L word" out there, in a strong, forceful, high achieving way. It could be taken as a positive sign that lesbianism has become part of wider society, and isn't still stuck in some sinister "Sister George" ghetto that dare not speak its name. However, with regard to Dowds' suicide, there seems no point in over-emphasising her sexual orientation. She didn't commit suicide in a "lesbian" way (whatever that might entail), and she didn't commit suicide because she was gay.

In life, Dowds appeared to be an open and proud lesbian. In death, this all changed. Suddenly it was almost as if her sexuality was deemed implicit in her lost battle with mental illness - part of the problem, on a par with the intoxication problems from her past and with previous threats of suicide, in a way that made no sense.

While all this was going on, a real story was trying to get out. Dowds' brother feels that his sister was failed by the health service, after she was allowed to decline treatment for her mental health issues, and a follow-up appointment wasn't made. An inquiry has been set up to look into it. Hopefully it won't be headed "Lesbian suicide". Dowds was a lesbian, but her suicide was not lesbian. Dowds had a sexual orientation, but her death didn't.

Ironically, in times gone by, it wouldn't have been outlandish to cite "being gay" as a cause of death. Not only because of death from attacks, but also on account of the suicides of men and women in despair because of their sexuality.

Even today, there are still times when people's sexuality has a direct bearing on their death – such as the ongoing persecution of gay people all over the world and the recent spate of suicides of bullied gay teenagers. Sometimes a death, or a suicide, truly warrants being defined as "gay" or "lesbian". Angie Dowd's didn't, and the rush to label it makes me wonder just how much we've really moved on.

Oh, Johnny! You have just made yourself cheap

Oh dear, Johnny Depp. Depp was long "He who it is the Law to fancy". There is usually only one in each generation, and it is a sacred calling. However, since splitting with Vanessa Paradis, the trapezium-faced male beauty has been looking like a desperate Three Musketeer-bearded fool. The problem is those rumoured dalliances with younger women, some of whom look quite interesting. But. That. Is. Not. The. Point. Depp has broken his vow of unavailability with his fans.

Celebrity rules of attraction evolve with age. Boy band members must look perma-available for their young fans ("Tru luv 4ever!"). With older family guy celebrities this goes into reversal, and fidelity (hence unavailability) becomes key. Paul Newman was forever desirable because of his love for Joanne Woodward. Once Fidelity Icons start putting it about, they start looking seedy, and, worse, ordinary.

Depp's unavailability became him. Now that he's become "available" – I use that term loosely, and bitterly – he's destroyed the delicate eco-balance of his appeal. The curtains will part, the "Wizard of Hot" will be revealed as, after all, just a man, though one with a rather nice bum. A sad day for all.

Wayne, you should change the locks

After his headed goal against Ukraine, was Wayne Rooney more pleased about scoring, or about the hair gel in his hair – or indeed the hair in his hair?

I once mistakenly used that type of super-strong hair gel (borrowed by Rooney, it seems, from Andy Carroll). It was akin to pouring a mix of treacle and quick-setting cement on to your head. Washing it out, panicking, I half-expected to find a seagull trapped in the gunk.

In Rooney's perfumed slime, you could almost see his £30K hair plugs struggling to survive, like tiny saplings strapped to stakes in a shockwave tsunami. But you could also see how delighted he was to be using hair (hair!) products at all.

Once again, I'm bemused. Why do men worry so much about the bald thing, when I've never known a woman worth her salt who cares a crock? In my experience, it's a female blind spot. We're not even being kind and understanding (what's that, then?). We simply don't care. Personally, I'd rather a balding close-cut guy than someone wearing so much wet-look gel they look like they've been liberally KY-ed for some unspeakable sexual practice.

Yet here's Rooney, a multimillionaire sportsman, proving yet again how soul-destroying it is for men to lose their hair, how they would do anything to get it back and, should it reappear, they view it as some kind of biblical deliverance from male pattern evil.

That wasn't gel on Rooney's head – that was a giving of thanks, a heartfelt "hallelujah!" to the transplant gods. All of which is truly a guy thing, but done in such a vulnerable anti-macho way it's strangely touching. Rooney comes across like the worst kind of conceited oaf at times. The hair thing softens and humanises him.