Please stop Madonna, you’re just embarrassing yourself – Verity Lush

Madonna in her '80s prime.
Madonna in her '80s prime.
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Oh Madonna. Once upon a time you were the ultimate queen of pop and ruler of raunchy. Then you brought out the Sex book and proceeded to slide down the slippery slope known as Totally Embarrassing Yourself So Please Stop.

Madonna has had a titanic career (including, for all but die-hard fans, the sinking). She was huge-beyond-huge back in her heyday and the likes of Taylor Swift cannot compare.

Her style, her songs, her rock‘n’roll private life. We’d never had a female icon like her and probably never will again.

But there is such a thing as going beyond the limit of decency, and Madonna became a pro.

A twenty-something Madge looked fantastic in a tutu and lace gloves, with ombre hair before ombre became a thing.

But a woman who is eligible for a bus pass and a Saga discount on her insurance simply shouldn’t be marching about with her cervix on display.

This is a woman who’s old enough to travel on the tube for free but who has refused to age with any grace whatsoever.

I’m not suggesting women should dress like nuns – look at Helen Mirren. Stunning in a bikini, stunning with some cleavage, stunning whatever. And that’s because she has something that Madonna has never had: elegance.

There were rough edges to Madge when she was younger and it simply looked cool and sexy.

Alas, at the Eurovision Song Contest last weekend, Madonna looked like Robocop in drag.

There was a sad hint at the once infamous conical brassiere, but who wants to think of 61 year-old nipples encased in something that the Tin Man could have sported as a hat? Not me.

And what has happened to her face?

Filler, that’s what. Perhaps even a mishap with it, which could explain the bizarre and unappealing eye-patch.

It was like Long John Silver Does Eurotrash – as though Madge had closed her eyes, stripped naked, covered herself in glue, and proceeded to roll around in the costume department of Pirates of the Caribbean, only to emerge wearing whatever had stuck to her.

We exist only to serve our feline lords and masters

My cats visited the vet this week, which results in an unearthly cat chorus emanating from the back of the car, where said felines are in their boxes and howling for all they are worth.

As any cat owner knows, the cat chorus is more than the cute little mews they pipe up with at feeding time. My cats hate being trapped in their cat boxes and taken to get needles jabbed in their necks by complete strangers.

Which, when you put it like that, is not wholly surprising.

Our cats see us as nothing but the providers of meals, in existence purely to protect and serve our feline master and mistress, and to pay a small fortune in flea and worming treatment, and exorbitant pet insurance.

Surely there are some good reasons for a bank holiday?

May is the month of bank holidays in the UK but we are lagging sorely behind the USA. In the states, there is a combination of federal holidays, national holidays, and bank holidays.

Approximately 11 of these are federal holidays alone, which makes you consider how behind the UK is with its paltry eight. Surely there are more causes of celebration that we could think of as a nation in order to wangle a couple more days off?

Or, on a serious note, things that we could take so much pride in as a nation that we’d have made them bank holidays years ago.

VE Day for example has no holiday to honour such a momentous occasion, but other countries frequently celebrate patriotic events.