Look around you. Idiots, everywhere. Loudly blathering about the finer qualities of the bit of fluff found in their navels, with their phones aloft, a testament to the unshakeable belief they are of any interest whatsoever. Five fine contenders for being drowned in their own Cornflakes can be found on Shut Your Facebook (Monday, 10.50pm, Channel 4), which takes a look at the sorriest and most self-obsessed social-media fiends and the online dickery around which their lives revolve. The show aims to embarrass them into changing their ways, but there's a point of no return for redemption, and these people are way beyond it.
Sweetly gurning inane questions at this bunch of C-U-on-Twitters is Chelsee Healey (of paparazzi fame) and a naked man called Naked Bob. Ostensibly, Naked Bob is there to deliver naked truth with percentages and stats and that, but in reality it's more like the makers had £20 left over in the budget for a low-tier male model and an educational box to tick.
But back to the conveyor belt of twerps, featuring Christian, Charlie and Braden, or vacant plots 1, 2 and 3. Christian's life is documented through reams of knob-themed pictures: him clutching a giant inflatable knob, with his knob out; his knob as a filling in a knob sandwich, etc. In fact, anything to fill the void where his personality should be, which is as bare as ground zero at Cher-knob-yl. Next along is Braden, who can't go a second without refreshing his various feeds. Even during a romantic meal he barely makes it past the prawn cocktail before groping for his phone like a drowning man for driftwood. Then comes Charlie, who pulls a stupid pose every time a camera is pointed at her. This, if your worth is quantified by Facebook, is serious business.
This lot are benign, good-time idiots. They're doing what people have always done, but more publicly, and with more vividly coloured alcohol. It's towards the end that the show begins to descend into the dark depths of humanity before eventually plummeting face-first onto Satan's musty carpet. They ease us in gently with Domonique and her virtual swarm of thirsty men, who want to put their penises in, on or near the taut golden body she posts thousands of pictures of online. On Instagram, she looks like a Kardashian exiled from the klan for being too fit. IRL? Er, a little less so. Chelsee diplomatically suggests a more honest approach might be to create a profile that shows her "character" and "interests" and all that other stuff which is about 4,000 times less attractive than her pneumatic bosom. Unfortunately, Domonique can't hear the advice over the white noise of her own augmented ego.
Caolan is Facebook-famous: the star and creator of an online show following him and other Facebook celebs (a sale rail of teen narcissists) around hotel rooms and champagne bars. Those Instagrammed cocktails don't come cheap, and were funded by £5,000-worth of payday loans. Caolan is entirely unbothered; his reality is so distorted he can't even fathom his debt as real, justifying for the first time in history the existence of violent bailiffs.
It's all terribly sad; if only these lost souls could see their true worth, what unique snowflakes they are. Just kidding: their beings are so easily enveloped by hollow posturing and other equally moronic pursuits because there's nothing else there. It's empty space. The depth of their idiocy, combined with their eagerness to bare all for anyone who'll watch must have programme makers giddy with excitement, particularly when you can drown out any cries of exploitation with a thumping soundtrack. Is this wrong? No. The people on-screen are idiots.
• This story was amended on 11 April 2014 to remove language inconsistent with Guardian editorial guidelines.
