What happens to the people who unwittingly find themselves at the centre of a media scrum? From the blogger who inspired a "web hate frenzy" to the Glasgow baggage handler who thwarted a terrorist attack, five people talk about fleeting fame and what happens when the spotlight is turned off

Michelle Dewberry won The Apprentice in 2006. She became a fixture in the tabloids after she discussed growing up in care and the violent death of her sister, as well as revealing her relationship with fellow contestant Syed Ahmed



If you want a job, you go to the appointments section of a newspaper, but what I wanted was an experience. The media attention following The Apprentice took everyone by surprise, so there was no thought of preparing us for it. When you go on a reality TV show today, contestants expect a certain level of intrusion, but I really had no idea it would be like this. I was quite naive, but I can't complain. It opens doors – I can get business meetings with whoever I want, and I wrote my book, Anything is Possible, which I'd always wanted to do.

I found it difficult at first. Once, a journalist asked me a question I didn't want to answer, and I said: "Is that really your business?" And he replied: "I think you'll find it's the nation's business." When I reflect on it, I think he was probably right. I don't think celebrities should be able to say they can only be photographed when they're promoting their perfume line. You become a brand. You can't put yourself on a public platform and then try to keep things private. It's impossible.

Syed was a fellow contestant, so when I had a relationship with him and then lost his baby, people saw it as a natural extension of the story they'd seen unfolding on telly. I had days where the media intrusion was very upsetting. It didn't make me angry, but it made me quite scared, and having to go through these traumatic things in public increased the feelings 10-millionfold. I used to have days where I didn't want to get out of bed, let alone read what the papers were saying about me.

The most difficult thing for me in all of this was that people I felt close to betrayed me, selling stories. Someone told the papers about my miscarriage. It broke my heart. I never found out who it was, but I became suspicious, which led to frictions in my relationships. I was feeling emotional, but didn't know who I could confide in, and for a long period I couldn't trust people. I still question why people want to be my friend. While I have lost friendships though, the remaining ones have become stronger as a result.

When my sister passed away just after my 17th birthday, I made a commitment to her memory that I'd live a life that was enough for two, to do things that were extraordinary. The baby and the show are intrinsically linked for me, and as a whole the experience ticks the extraordinary box. It's made me more balanced, certainly. Before the show I was a crazy powerhouse. The baby made me reflect on what's important. Now I'd choose happiness over riches, which sounds so obvious, but it was the opposite of my earlier mentality.

I worked for Sir Alan for four months after the show, but the great thing to come out of it is that I now get paid to inspire people, which is unbelievable. I've developed a programme for schools, teaching self-empowerment. It sounds dead cheesy, but the feeling I get from that is bloody brilliant. It's not about blagging free nail varnish, it's about putting my profile to good use. And on a business level I've built an amazing network of people who support and advise me, and I feel really blessed by that.

This morning, crossing the road, I narrowly avoided being hit by a bus, but the chap next to me was knocked down. It was awful. But it made me think about how I'd like to be remembered. I'd like someone to go to my family and say I'd helped them. Let's face it: in my life I've experienced domestic violence, my sister dying, my mum having brain surgery, I've lived in social care, I've dropped out of school, been in abusive relationships – and I think: if I can get over that then anyone can. When things were written about my family and personal life, I eventually came to the realisation that it must have helped people who identified with my situation – that's my life, and I'm not ashamed of it.

The Apprentice was part of the pact I made for my sister. So when there were tragedies, like losing my baby, I had to keep going, in the spotlight. I wouldn't wish that on my worst enemy but there was a point to it, a reason. Life's too short to be angry.

Cai Yuan and Jian Jun (JJ) Xi gained fame and notoriety in 1999 after jumping on Tracey Emin's Turner Prize-shortlisted My Bed at Tate Britain in London. One year later, they returned to perform a further work – urinating on Marcel Duchamp's urinal sculpture. They continue to collaborate, and are based in Oxford and China. Cai Yuan recalls what happened

It was pretty much a snap decision for us – we had only planned it two days before. JJ and I had two motivations: we wanted to produce a work of art and we wanted to publicly criticise the art establishment. It was our manifesto piece.

I remember the police arriving. They took us to Belgravia Police Station where we were questioned and checked over by doctors, as the security guards at the Tate had been somewhat heavy-handed with us, and we were told that we might be charged with criminal damage. The White Cube gallery [Emin's dealer] and the Tate were contacted, and when they decided not to press charges we were released. I didn't feel relief when we were released – I felt nothing. Relief had come to me earlier, when we were performing our piece on the bed.

The media attention worked in our favour. We were approached by several galleries to show our work. We were also invited to give lectures at art schools such as Goldsmiths. Tate Modern – which initially banned us – invited us back to show our work and to give talks in 2007 and 2009. Our act gave us a name and credibility. Our work wasn't simply a reaction to Tracey's piece – what we did represented the struggle of a Chinese artist living in Britain.

My life was totally changed by the experience. It changed my way of thinking and my practice as an artist. It freed me from my thoughts on the art establishment and from material culture. As an art student you are taught that becoming a great artist will enable you to sell your work in a gallery. In reality it's not true. The experience also gave me a bigger imagination – now I feel the world is my stage. I don't have to worry about whether a museum or a gallery will show my work. I'm currently performing my One Man Demo – 100 days of performance at various locations in Oxford – and it's going very well.

We never heard from Tracey, but I read her reactions in the newspapers and interviews. I think she regarded us as terrorists. It made me laugh – I thought her anger revealed more about her somewhat limited understanding of art than anything else.

I am very, very happy with what we did. And I believe it is our best work to date, but there is always more to come. The only thing I'm unhappy about is that our act was not recognised as a piece of art in itself by the public. To me, art is not about money – I don't just want to create objects that sell. Art is a tool to make political statements – in many ways it's almost shameful to ask for money in return.

John Smeaton, a baggage handler, became an international hero when he helped thwart the terrorist attack on Glasgow Airport in June 2007. His much repeated quote, "Don't come to Glasgow – we'll set aboot you" became an internet phenomenon and that year the accolades he received included the Queen's Gallantry Medal and being voted third most eligible male in Scotland

John Smeaton. Photograph: Murdo MacLeod

Dealing with the media was one of the scariest things that ever happened to me. I said my piece after the attack and thought that would be the end of it. I couldn't believe what happened – I was on front pages around the world.

There are some things I'll always hold dearly from that time. I've been a Rangers fan since I was knee-high to a grasshopper and the team asked if they could introduce me to the supporters, so I lived that dream of walking out at Ibrox Park and having the whole place shout my name. I also met Gordon Brown and that made a massive impression on me. I worked at the airport for six months after the attack and that kept my feet on the ground. The first day back my mate said: "All right, get your backside over there and lift some bags." I knew my place.

In September 2007 I was invited to New York to the 9/11 ceremony, and that opened my eyes to the world. I met the most inspirational men in my life, and I met my wife, Christy. All the firefighters who'd been lost, 343 in one day: that humbled me. That is unimaginable. While I was there I also went to a Scottish American Society function. Christy walked in that night in a Scotland top and it was love at first sight for me. I'm 33 now, I'd never even been on holiday during my 20s, and going to America was like walking on to a movie set. I realised that life's not just going down the pub and having a fag. I wanted to try other things.

I went back to college in 2008 so I could further myself. I studied for a national certificate in fishery studies and absolutely loved it – fish farming is my passion in life. One morning while I was there I woke up and I didn't feel great. I'm asthmatic and I was a heavy smoker and my chest felt tight, so I drove home to Erskine to be with my mum and dad. That evening I couldn't breathe. I asked my mum to call an ambulance. The ambulance was there in eight minutes, and they got me to hospital and into intensive care and on to a ventilator. But I kept getting worse: one lung collapsed and my kidneys were failing. They managed to stabilise me and I woke from a coma 12 days later. It made me realise I'm lucky to be on the planet, and I keep that with me every day.

I did a show at the Edinburgh Festival in 2009 and I also stood as an independent candidate in the Glasgow North East by-election. It didn't come off, but I learnt an awful lot from it. I felt if you want to comment on things, if you talk the talk, you should walk the walk. But I realised I was good at talking and not good at walking. If I want to have my say I've got my column in the Scottish Sun for that.

Rachael Fountain, a call-centre employee, found herself in the public eye in 2002 when she sent an email invitation for a "porno"-themed party to friends, accidentally inviting the finance director at American Express, her employer, and was promptly sacked

The day I got sacked, I went on a Brighton online forum to have a whinge about my day. A local journalist picked up on what I'd written and asked if he could interview me for a story. It appeared on the front page of the Argus the next day. The Evening Standard ran a story that evening, and the day after that I got a phone call from the News of the World, which offered me £3,000 for an exclusive. They put my boyfriend and me up in the Hilton. Part of the deal I struck with them was to pose for a series of photographs, the first photoshoot I'd ever done, in my underwear. It all happened within two days, and was head-turning, to say the least.

I was fine with all the press attention and I learnt a lot from the experience about effectively becoming public property. The Sunday Sport ran my story, publishing a copy of the invitation in its entirety. All my personal information, including my mobile phone number, appeared in the paper. I got quite a few prank phone calls. When I tried to get in touch with the Sunday Sport for an apology, they weren't interested. The story in the News of the World was never published, but the photoshoot I did with them, in a way, was the catalyst for my future career choices.

The experience kicked me out of the frying pan, and it turns out the fire wasn't so bad. Within two weeks of losing my job I'd signed up to a course to become an outdoor-pursuits instructor, and within six months I was qualified to teach survival skills, archery, climbing and kayaking. After that I fell into promotional work and ended up working for a club in Brighton that wanted to take on Torture Garden, the world's largest fetish club night. It was a great experience, working with all the misfits of society, and I became a fetish model, too.

I'd always wanted to be a dancer, but was never quite sure how to make that leap. In 2004 I was spotted by some dancers at a festival – I was there as a punter, but they thought I looked amazing and asked if I wanted to be a showgirl, and the next thing I knew I was in a cancan troupe. From there I moved into what is my real love: burlesque dancing. My first burlesque performance was in front of an audience of 10,000 in Spain. Since then I've travelled the world, and I'm now living in Chamonix.

I have no regrets about what happened at AmEx. I remember once that I'd told my supervisor that I felt like "just a number". She laughed at me and said: "Of course you're just a number – you work in a bloody call centre." There's still lots of things I want to do – I'd like to travel more, I want to get into theatre production, and I'd like to get better at knife-throwing – but overall I'm very happy.

Andrew Carey became a regular on Chris Evans's Channel 4 talk show TFI Friday, appearing as Andrew the Barman in every episode from 1996-2000. He was also the landlord of Evans's local, the Haverstock Arms, in Belsize Park

Andrew Carey. Photograph: Andy Hall

The Havers is a famous pub in a famous area and famous people used to come in. I always find out who they are, what they are and if they live locally. Chris had an effect on the pub from the days when he was a radio presenter on GLR. He used to finish his show at 1pm on the Saturday by saying he was going to the Havers if anyone wanted to come in to buy him a pint.

I'd got friendly with Chris and Danny Baker before TFI, and I used to go and watch the mocks of the show. It wasn't working and they invited a guy in to redesign the set. They came into the pub with a cardboard box and used one of the tables to look at the set model. They were chatting away for hours and I served drinks, then Chris says: "We've got it. There's going to be an upstairs bar and we want someone to run it. Do you want the job?" Yes, please.

I never had to physically work the bar; I controlled it, like a manager. Andrew the Barman was a break from what I was doing. Even when I got out of my car at Riverside Studios [where the show was filmed], people would ask for autographs. I've been recognised in Spain, France and up and down the UK, and once in New York on St Patrick's Day I ended up having to pull a pint in a bar off Fifth Avenue because I'd been spotted. It was unbelievable how many people recognised me. Even now, 14 years down the line, they do a double-take. One of the nicest people I met was Paul McCartney. They brought some clothes down from the Cavern for me to wear on the show and he autographed my tie. Michael Hutchence was lovely and Robbie Williams was my idol.

In the end, though, it was five years down the line and I was still behind that blinkin' bar. I was getting bored. I wonder how these boys and girls in Coronation Street do when they're on there for a bloody lifetime. I don't miss the TFI days – as far as I'm concerned it was great while it lasted, but it had run its course.

We got loads of phone calls when Chris's friend and the landlord of his new local died in a yachting accident in 2002 – that was a shock: everyone thought it was me. But I don't see Chris now he lives down in Surrey, he's overdue a visit.

I've had a great life: the pub trade has been good to me and I have done a lot for charity over the years, giving a little back. I own the Havers now and I'm hoping my son will take over the business and give father a quieter life. I hope to retire, but I've bought a house two doors away, so even if I'm on a Zimmer frame I'll be able to make it in.

Max Gogarty became the subject of cyber-bullying in 2008 following his debut blog about a gap-year trip to India. Gogarty was pilloried in the comments section, and the blog went viral, becoming a global media event in its own right. Here, he gives his side of the story

Max Gogarty. Photograph: Richard Saker

On Valentine's Day 2008, aged 19, I set off to travel India on my own. As we refuelled at Dubai airport, I turned my mobile on and it didn't stop beeping and buzzing throughout the entire two-hour stopover. I was at the centre of an online furore that would be discussed on the BBC and across the international media. A friend recently gave me an A-board newsagent sign that reads - GAP YEAR BLOGGER SPARKS WEB HATE FRENZY. It sums up what happened perfectly.

What had sparked that frenzy was a 500-word blog I wrote for the Guardian travel website. In the space of 24 hours, it became one of the most controversial and highest hit blogs in the history of e-journalism. I was pilloried for a number of reasons. First, I was nineteen, a junior writer on Skins and had written a 'Skinsy' piece on the wrong platform. Admittedly, it was cocky and provocative, not a piece of writing I was ever necessarily proud of but getting round the cliché of a middle-class kid heading to India on his gap year was never going to be easy.

Second, someone had discovered my dad had contributed a handful of travel features to the Guardian and this sparked accusations of nepotism, even inciting one person to put my name next to Kim Jong-Il under the 'nepotism' pages of Wikipedia. Third, in keeping with British lynching etiquette, class was brought into the equation. I became the posterboy for the dumb, debauched gap-year culture that my pampered, privileged generation were enjoying.

The internet warriors, whose thread ran long and red on the message board, no doubt claimed victory when my second blog didn't appear the following week. The Guardian was in fact keen for me to continue and other offers of work flooded in because of the blog's notoriety. As soon as I realised the extent of the hate, however, I decided nothing good could come from keeping it going so I bowed out, tail firmly between legs, and tried to get on with travelling India.

It took three months' travelling to replace the relentless belly-fear that was the legacy of my blog. Fortunately I was falling in love with India. Meeting so many people who gave me so much and had so little, together with a clearer picture of the absurdity of the blog aftermath, started clearing my head. The fact that something I spent an hour or so writing had caused such a controversy alerted me to the darker traits in web culture, and of course, my own naivety. My dad had an email from a woman with two grown-up children who said she hoped I would die, (which he only told me about recently). That was as bad as it got. My decision not to waste days in Internet café's on Google helped take my mind off the hatred for increasingly longer periods each day.

Like most of my generation, I grew up with the web. For 'screenagers' it is the tool of choice for information, entertainment and communication. And perhaps that is part of the problem. It is the easiest place on earth to be listened to and therefore it is a perfect platform for those who feel cheated to have a voice. This virtual whirlwind – one that will be stored forever – changed my relationship with the net. Seeing travellers more engrossed in their Blackberry than the sights and smells of India, or others come alive when ducking into an internet café, took on a deeper meaning. I felt the crushing force of the Age of Impersonality and disliked having a persona out there that I felt didn't belong to me.

Looking back, India was the best place I could have been to deal with it all. It was probably harder for my hooked-up friends and family back home. For a while I hated the internet. Ironically, on my return to the UK I won a BAFTA for work I wrote for Skins that went out live on that very medium! The BAFTA feting was as absurd as the blog carnage and somewhere in between I had to find a real perspective on myself. I wasn't the greatest writer in the world but neither was I the worst. Since the blog and the BAFTA, I have tried to restore some normality in my relationship with the media, engaging with it in different ways. I needed to take back some control.

There was a part of me that wanted to answer all those critics. I would go on lengthy rants in my India journal about how I did not go to private school, how I was not wearing skinny bloody jeans in India, how I was not getting the trip paid for by the Guardian or my parents. But I realised none of these answers mattered. The mob had written the 'Max Gogarty' script and it had already aired. Of course it continues to niggle away at me. No one wants to be hated. But I do realise that the impersonality of the internet made me a perfect repository for the loathing of both gap-year culture and indeed the middle classes. I think that the gap year, or 'gap yah' as the brilliant YouTube viral has renamed it, is not such a bad thing. In the flat I share at university, I have a friend who drove from London to Mongolia for charity, another who spent two months in the Israeli army and another who spent the year running a school in Zimbabwe. I meet a lot of people who got pissed in Thailand too, but even they have some funny stories to tell. The tales and ideas that circulate our house every night are often thanks to the 'gap yah'. A new form of cultural imperialism it may be, but better to travel ethically and sensitively than sit around playing Gears of War all year or shooting down people on the Internet, no?

Since the blog, I've gone to university, written a couple of short films, worked with some independent production companies and am trying to write a novel. I hope that I am pursuing a sensible apprenticeship as a writer and filmmaker. I have returned to India twice, saving any surplus money for cheap flights back to where I feel happy and productive. Perhaps the whole thing has stunted my career, made me less proactive and willing to put myself out there. But I hope it's made me a stronger person. My favourite extract from my journal is when, after days of depression, I wrote in an inexplicable moment of elation on a sleeper bus that amongst all the real friendships I had made on the road I felt I had also managed to make friends with myself. That is without doubt the best outcome of the whole episode. Perhaps the response from this article will set me back again and no one will hear from me for another two years. If so, you'll know where to find me.