This is already shaping up to be a vintage year for celebrity deaths. First Heath Ledger, then Jeremy Beadle. In both cases I first heard of the sad demise through the miracle of text messaging. Friends clearly felt compelled to be the first to break the bad news: in Ledger's case this was probably because his death came as a shock (an especially tragic one, given his age), and in Beadle's ... well, my theory is that everyone in the country secretly loved Jeremy Beadle, but kept it quiet because the general consensus seemed to be that he was "hated". And when he died, we all felt slightly guilty that we hadn't piped up sooner. There was a palpable sense of "awww", because whatever your views on his TV shows, there was little doubt we'd lost a real character, and somehow, we'd failed him.

Anyway, having my mobile beep twice in a fortnight, like a coroner's pager, made me feel as though I'd unwittingly subscribed to some kind of instant deathwatch service. Which isn't a bad idea, actually. Let's brainstorm.

OK. It's called "eVulture". You sign up for free on a website, and choose the category of celebrity you're interested in. This being an age of dazzling consumer choice in which the customer is routinely indulged like a spoilt medieval prince, the whole thing is super-configurable. You can decide to ignore everyone but the biggest Hollywood star, for instance, or specialise in minor characters from half-remembered TV shows, the sort of person whose passing probably wouldn't be mentioned in a mainstream news bulletin. So if you want to be contacted the moment one of Blake's 7 shuffles off this mortal coil, or the Milk Tray man winds up in a box of his own, this is the service for you.

Meanwhile, back at eVulture HQ, a team of dedicated researchers monitors the news feeds, scans the death notices in local papers and, if necessary, phones around to ask if anyone's seen that bloke who was in that thing lately. GPs are bribed to report any celebrity who dies on their watch (at the end of the year, they receive a hamper full of cakes and wine - the quality and quantity depending on the number of tips they passed on).

As soon as a death is confirmed, the relevant subscribers receive a text alert, which arrives with a discreet little advert attached (that's how the money rolls in). Anyone receiving a deathtext is likely to feel slightly depressed for a few minutes: an ideal condition for advertisers, because you're talking about people with their guard down here. Research suggests that messages for comfort products such as chocolate or alcohol should perform particularly well under these circumstances. There's also scope for some revenue-generating user interaction, too, such as an option to send flowers, sign a virtual book of condolence, or order a rush-released DVD boxset containing the deceased's greatest performances.

Future plans include a scheme in which celebrities are voluntarily fitted with microchips that monitor their current health status, and automatically transmit a personalised farewell message to fans the moment their heart stops beating. At present, we can only offer raw text messaging, but soon hope to provide a full range of MMS-epitaph features such as animated icons, background music, and CGI video clips of the star in question waving goodbye and ascending to heaven.

That's the business plan in a nutshell. I've copyrighted the idea, but if someone else wants to set it up, I'm more than happy to let them. You work out all the complicated stuff; I'll take 25% of the profits. Actually, scratch that. Under that setup, I'd soon find myself looking forward to celebrity deaths - willing the cast of Hollyoaks to die so I could buy some new gold fittings for my yacht or something - which probably isn't good for the soul. Plus it'd make good business sense to go around actively bumping people off. No. I can't do it. Plough my share into wind farms or something. That should help eVulture subscribers assuage their guilt, while simultaneously providing a fitting tribute to the deceased. Perfect.

Incidentally, in case you're appalled by the idea (on the flimsy grounds that it's monstrous), it's worth noting that despite its name, eVulture only steps in once death has occurred. Not before. The tabloids already have the ghoulish-rubbernecker market sewn up, as evidenced by the hand-rubbing coverage of Britney Spears' increasingly tragic predicament, or the extended hounding of Amy Winehouse, all of which strikes them as a tremendous paper-shifting wheeze.

If Spears appeared on a window ledge tomorrow, a fight would break out below. Half the press would scream at her to jump, and the rest would urge her to go back inside, but remain as tormented as possible. One or two might offer professional help, provided that it resulted in an exclusive. And in the resultant coverage, the mob itself wouldn't even be mentioned, none of their shouts or cackles recorded, as though they had exerted no influence at all. At best, a few detached smartarses might mutter something boneheaded about publicity-courting celebs bringing it on themselves. And then the lot of them would vanish into smoke, to reappear at the scene of the next inexplicable meltdown.

Under the circumstances, eVulture looks positively acceptable.

· This week Charlie spent far too long playing Burnout Paradise on the Xbox 360: "A bewildering combination of utterly compelling car-smashing gameplay and infuriating design decisions, which means that playing it is simultaneously fun and irritating, like eating a delicious cake with the occasional drawing pin in it."