How Big Brother destroyed my life

When I was evicted from Big Brother two years ago after eight weeks in the house, I had no idea I would emerge as the most hated woman in Britain. I had taken part in the very first series and, along with the other contestants, didn't seriously believe anyone was watching - our routine of knicker-washing and tea-making seemed too mind-numbingly boring to have attracted an audience.

Occasionally, we would hear crowd noises from the other side of the fence, but we assumed it was either taped, or made by rent-a-mob. When I came out of the house and found out I was not only famous, but had come across as some sort of she-devil, I went into shock. It was completely unexpected. And I can't help but still feel bitter about it.

On the Friday night of my eviction, I wasn't remotely worried; I was thrilled to have made it to the last four, and was so looking forward to seeing my mum and my friends that I couldn't wait to pack. When I walked out into the bright lights, I was excited, and a bit nervous - and then I heard people booing me. I couldn't believe it - what had I done? I walked towards Davina in a daze, and I could see from her face she felt a bit sorry for me.

My chat with her in the studio went by in an adrenaline-fuelled flash - I was shown my "best moments", which included numerous shots of my bottom, and me kissing first Andy and then Tom - and before I knew it I was whisked away to a grotty Portakabin to face endless discussions with various producers about what would happen to me over the next couple of days.

It wasn't until two hours after the show had finished that I was allowed to see my ex-boyfriend, who was going to stay the night with me in a secret hotel in London. By this time all my friends and family had gone home and I hadn't even seen my mum. My first night in the hotel was a huge blaze of excitement. I was free at last, and we stayed up chatting until five in the morning. Naively, all I wanted to know was how my friends and family were, what they all thought about the programme, and what was going on in the world. I phoned my mum, but nobody had the heart to tell me I wasn't exactly flavour of the month. I found that out the next morning.

When I tried to leave my room to buy some hair conditioner, I realised I wasn't as free as I'd thought. I had been assigned two bodyguards, who wouldn't let me out of their sight, and they duly accompanied me to Superdrug. I couldn't understand why I needed protection, and I began to feel as claustrophobic as I had in the house. Later that day, I was seen by the show's psychiatrist; he warned me that the Press would ask about how much I had flirted inside the house, but didn't give me any advice on how to cope. I was sat down with a press officer, who coached me in the art of avoiding awkward questions. "You came across as a bit of a man-eater, Mel," he said. Man-eater? Me? I've only ever had five relationships in my life, and I've always been faithful. During that first weekend out of the house, I was shunted from one stranger to another, I wasn't allowed to go home, and I was starting to feel anxious and lonely.

At the press conference the next day, I was asked: "How does it feel being labelled the black widow and the praying mantis?" I thought, what the hell are they talking about? It started to dawn on me that something sinister was going on. I began to panic, and wanted more than anything to go home. What had my mum gone through and what was she thinking? I still hadn't been allowed to see what had been written in the papers about me.

Two days after my eviction, when I was finally escorted home, I was greeted by the sight of reporters and photographers camped out on the doorstep of my mum's home in north London. I was terrified, as they seemed aggressive and hostile. In pure Hollywood style the bodyguards hustled me inside under cover of an umbrella. All I could do was bawl my eyes out and I didn't even know why. For the first few days of semi-freedom (the Press were still on my doorstep) I stayed indoors to catch up on exactly what had been going on. My mum was incredibly supportive (although she told me off for swearing and smoking in the house), and told me I shouldn't read anything, but I couldn't help it. I was upset not only for me but for what my friends and family had been put through. My mum had had to watch her daughter being demonised for eight weeks - she had a really tough time while I was inside and hadn't been able to get through to the production team for help, even though she was the one with reporters on her doorstep. Some other friends and ex-boyfriends had been hounded with lavish offers to sell their stories. Luckily for me, most of my friends were loyal and supportive.

My mum had kept some of the newspaper clippings and I began to sift through them. I couldn't understand why I was so disliked - I was described as a tart, a bitch, a Scary Spice lookalike who liked to strip naked and perform sex acts - and so I resorted to watching tapes of the programme. Over and over again was the sight either of my bottom (in a bikini, in knickers, being squeezed into a pair of shorts, in the shower), or of me kissing all the boys. What they didn't show was me saying to Tom, "I can't go kissing all the boys when they leave, now can I?" I wasn't the only housemate to give and receive massages - anyone up for eviction would be indulged - but I was the only one who was broadcast doing it over and over again. I can't believe they even showed me tidying my bikini line. No wonder women everywhere loathed me and men thought I was easy. I had been portrayed as a total flirt, someone who was completely self-obsessed; a bit of a shameless hussy.

I spent the next few weeks hidden away, determined to get back to normal. I had decided not to return to my very well-paid job in IT, but what next? I turned down every offer to sell my story because I knew I would be portrayed as some kind of sexpot. I was now drowning in regret - what the hell had I got involved with? I spent about two days sobbing my heart out, petrified to leave the house. It would be at least another two weeks before I would find out. The first time I went out on my own I decided to go in at the deep end and get on the Tube, armed only with my Gucci bag and a pair of dark glasses. I was followed onto the train by three large boys, who shouted ?Come on Mel, show us your arse?; it got so bad I only lasted two stops before I got off. They followed me up to the road and I could only escape by jumping in a black cab. When, a few days later, I tried to go out for a few drinks with my best friend, we found ourselves being chased down the street; people were shouting and generally being intimidating.

Every time I went out, people were constantly coming up to me asking questions or for an autograph; some of them would grab my arm to stop me and show their mates, as if I was some kind of sightseeing attraction. It was horrible. I took to wearing a baseball cap and I became a bit of a recluse. I felt like public property.

I couldn?t understand why people were being so cruel: ?Mel you slag, you slapper? are just a couple of the comments I can repeat, but there were many that were much worse. I wasn?t equipped to cope with the abuse, but I didn?t know where to turn. I?m quite shy and reserved, but there were a few occasions when I resorted to a shouting match in the middle of the street; I couldn?t take it any more. I dread to think what will happen when Jade has a similar encounter.

I went into Big Brother without knowing what I was letting myself in for. I can?t imagine why Adele or Jade or any of the women would want to put themselves through it. I don?t think Jade should have been fuelled with alcohol and allowed to strip naked. She needs protection, but, in the battle for ratings, perhaps the vulnerability of some contestants doesn?t matter.

Two years on, men are still hanging out of white vans to make lewd comments. I have the same loyal and supportive friends that I had before I went into the house, but my best friend didn?t stick by me ? she was jealous, and wasn?t happy for me. But, as bad as I paint the picture, there are some wonderful things. My new best friend is Anna, whom I met in the house, I have just bought a gorgeous flat near London Fields, and I don?t work 9-5 in an office. I got some great jobs in TV, presenting Chained on E4 and BBC Holiday, and have started writing for glossy magazines.

Do I regret having done it? I would say to anyone considering auditioning for the next series, especially if they are female, don?t. Your 15 minutes of fame will come at a very high price.