There is much on television that is daft but is anything so daft as perfume adverts? It’s that time of year when we are bombarded by women who float, or strut, or swim about, heavily made-up and draped in chiffon or similar semi-transparent materials.
Some of these women are in ponds (ponds, I ask you!) with their friends, and a few floating petals for bizarre measure.
Others smile slyly to themselves, as though passing wind but having laid the blame successfully at the door of another.
Occasionally, an equally nonsensical aftershave advert appears on the screen.
Johnny Depp is one example, randomly burying questionable jewellery items in the desert, because that is the one activity that I always feel an overwhelming urge to indulge in whenever I get a whiff of Sauvage, the Dior scent for blokes that is only one consonant away from sausage. Again, questionable.
Given that we cannot scratch and sniff the screen, a name that has connotations of fried pork is surely not conducive to flogging aftershave?
The reality of life would presumably not be up to selling this stuff. Eau de Mad Mother is simply not Coco Mademoiselle, is it? Nappy Stench Bomb is not Flowerbomb.
Clearly the waft of working mothers sweating their backsides off, shouting at their kids, and hiding behind the kitchen door to make rude but invisible gestures at their frustrating offspring, is not something the nation wants to smell of.
You don’t see Gucci channeling some bog divers sporting snorkels in a gigantic swamp that resembles liquid faecal matter do you?
Even festooning the bog with petals isn’t going to pull that one around.
And so we must endure the never-ending parade of ridiculous adverts, some complete with actresses who should know better, uttering words of waffle that they should have vetoed from the script, before handing over their bank details for their easily-earned pennies.
Which come from us, the paying public, who think the adverts are ludicrous but who, nevertheless, don’t want to smell of bog.
Repulsive Randy Andy is more doughboy than playboy
Prince Andrew has finally done the right thing by stepping down from public life.
It is sickening that we, the public, funded his so-called ‘playboy’ lifestyle – despite the fact that he has always more resembled the Pillsbury Doughboy.
He has been outed as not only befriending paedophiles – though only very rich ones – but of also being a ‘racist’, too enamoured with the trappings of his own privilege to realise he is just one of us mortals.
A lowly and repulsive one for that matter, a bottom-dweller who, far from being part of the upper echelons of society, is actually lower than the cost of discount toilet roll in Poundland, only just as transparent.
The whining from the minor royals is just too irritating
What with Meghan and Harry having thrown their Tiffany-hallmarked silver rattles out of their royal pram this year, and Prince Andrew now having firmly disgraced himself, the royal 2019 must be leading to an interesting Queen’s Speech.
The whining, over-privileged attitude of some royals is too irritating to bear. When a person is living day-to-day life, full of stresses, financial worries, health concerns, and working life, how can they be expected to feel sorry for the likes of Meghan, Harry or Andrew?
Being a new mum is hard, but try it on your own, with a poorly baby, with no money to feed yourself or your child. I only hope their six-week ‘break’ is unpaid.