Advert Rant 2: Lust, Luxury - and Laundry?

It's been a while since I saw an ad that made me go all Gordon Ramsay - swearing and cursing at the screen, howling with derision at the idiots who produced it and the even bigger idiots who will doubtless be influenced by it. But this one left me temporarily speechless.

It's for a new 'Super Premium' sexed-up range of fabric conditioner, by Procter and Gamble, marketed under their familiar Lenor brand. The product steps right away from the usual Spring Meadow Summer Fresh type of fragrance that we're all used to, and brings out the dark sensuousness of wash day with delights such as Black Diamond & Lotus Flower, Ruby Jasmine, Amethyst Rose and Sapphire Violet.

Leaving aside the fact that three of those names sound like something that a Spice Girl might name their baby daughter - if the advert is to be believed, using these products will turn us all into irresistable, seductive temptresses, to be found dressed in slinky black nightgowns and writhing in orgasmic frenzy on our clean sheets.

P&G are very proud of their innovation. Their Trade Communications Manager, Paul Lettice would like us to know that

"We are confident the launch of Lenor Infusions will help to make the task of washing a more glamorous, invigorating experience for consumers with the 'infusion' of premium fragrances and sumptuous softness of Lenor.

In answering consumer demands for environmentally friendly products, the Infusions range not only invigorates and softens clothes to the highest Lenor standards, but is also more sustainable, using up to 70% less packaging per wash when compared to regular Lenor, which in turn means fewer lorry loads on the road. Lenor Infusions is a great opportunity for retailers to boost their laundry profits and drive incremental value.”

Oh fuck off.

Only the most deluded corporate bullshit merchant could contrive to weave a sentence which runs seamlessly from 'the task of washing' to 'a more glamorous, invigorating experience'. I note that he is also a man, but I'm not going any further with that one - draw your own conclusions.

As far as I can ascertain, the only way you could possibly combine those two wildly disparate concepts is to dress up in your best lingerie, set the washing machine to spin and...

...but as this isn't that sort of blog, I'd suggest coming to one's own conclusions with that one too.

This is a laundry product. There is nothing glamorous about laundry. Unless P&G can come up with a product which transports me to a place where I get to share a hot tub on my own terms with 5 inhabitants of my choosing from the Lost island, after they've actually done my laundry for me, I will not allow any further talk of washing and sensuousness.

And if you're likely to find yourself swayed by the environmental credentials of this product, please don't. Go out and buy some Dryer Balls instead. If you don't believe in tumble drying, I suspect they could also double up as a serviceable sex toy.

Reduce, Re-use, Recycle. And all that.

Calling Dr Rorschach

It's recently been brought to my attention that a mother from Ashland, Kentucky has had her knickers in a twist over a packet of fun-shaped straws that she bought for her three-year-old girl.

The little girl chose a heart-shaped straw for her drink, which is just lovely. However, her mum was not at all impressed by the next ones to come out of the packet. Wal-Mart are on record as saying that they are clearly supposed to be rocket ships.

What do you think?

I need to ask because I've seen a number of messages posted on forums suggesting that this mother clearly has a depraved and filthy mind, and needs to take a good look at herself. But I can say with some certainty that she's not alone.

So - innocent space rocket, or phallic filth? Answers to the usual comments box please, I'm off to wash my depraved and filthy mind out.

All dried up...

I am sorry to inform that you that I am currently addled with both hormonal nonsense and chronic insomnia. And as a result, I can barely string a sentence together, and I've got nothing for you. Nothing.

However, the thoroughly lovely Gypsy recently stumbled across a fine example of the 'Vitriolic Open Letter' genre that I am so very fond of myself. It's old, but I've never seen it before, and as a quick bit of Googling revealed that the lady in question, Wendi Aarons is a Blogspot blogger herself, it seemed appropriate to give it some more publicity. I laughed my tits off...she is hilarious.

---


An Open Letter to James Thatcher, Brand Manager, Proctor and Gamble

Dear Mr. Thatcher,

I have been a loyal user of your Always maxi pads for over 20 years, and I appreciate many of their features. Why, without the LeakGuard Core™ or Dri-Weave™ absorbency, I'd probably never go horseback riding or salsa dancing, and I'd certainly steer clear of running up and down the beach in tight, white shorts. But my favorite feature has to be your revolutionary Flexi-Wings. Kudos on being the only company smart enough to realize how crucial it is that maxi pads be aerodynamic. I can't tell you how safe and secure I feel each month knowing there's a little F-16 in my pants.

Have you ever had a menstrual period, Mr. Thatcher? Ever suffered from "the curse"? I'm guessing you haven't. Well, my "time of the month" is starting right now. As I type, I can already feel hormonal forces violently surging through my body. Just a few minutes from now, my body will adjust and I'll be transformed into what my husband likes to call "an inbred hillbilly with knife skills." Isn't the human body amazing?

As brand manager in the feminine-hygiene division, you've no doubt seen quite a bit of research on what exactly happens during your customers' monthly visits from Aunt Flo. Therefore, you must know about the bloating, puffiness, and cramping we endure, and about our intense mood swings, crying jags, and out-of-control behavior. You surely realize it's a tough time for most women. In fact, only last week, my friend Jennifer fought the violent urge to shove her boyfriend's testicles into a George Foreman Grill just because he told her he thought Grey's Anatomy was written by drunken chimps. Crazy! The point is, sir, you of all people must realize that America is just crawling with homicidal maniacs in capri pants. Which brings me to the reason for my letter.

Last month, while in the throes of cramping so painful I wanted to reach inside my body and yank out my uterus, I opened an Always maxi pad, and there, printed on the adhesive backing, were these words: "Have a Happy Period."

Are you fucking kidding me?

What I mean is, does any part of your tiny middle-manager brain really think happiness—actual smiling, laughing happiness—is possible during a menstrual period? Did anything mentioned above sound the least bit pleasurable? Well, did it, James? FYI, unless you're some kind of sick S&M freak girl, there will never be anything "happy" about a day in which you have to jack yourself up on Motrin and Kahlúa and lock yourself in your house just so you don't march down to the local Walgreens armed with a hunting rifle and a sketchy plan to end your life in a blaze of glory. For the love of God, pull your head out, man. If you just have to slap a moronic message on a maxi pad, wouldn't it make more sense to say something that's actually pertinent, like "Put Down the Hammer" or "Vehicular Manslaughter Is Wrong"? Or are you just picking on us?

Sir, please inform your accounting department that, effective immediately, there will be an $8 drop in monthly profits, for I have chosen to take my maxi-pad business elsewhere. And though I will certainly miss your Flexi-Wings, I will not for one minute miss your brand of condescending bullshit. And that's a promise I will keep. Always.

Best,
Wendi Aarons
Austin, TX

My Anti-Valentine

I had just got my Valentine's Day rant perfectly planned out, when Charlie Brooker went and wrote this, which, whilst brilliant, has made me feel hopelessly inadequate in the area of vitriolic invective. So, I had to rethink, and this is what you get at short notice...

I firmly believe that much of our day-to-day malcontentment is caused by a gap between expectations and reality. Nowhere is this more apparent than in our approach to Valentine's Day.

If you are single, then the whole thing is unbearably awful, for obvious reasons. You just want to go about your everyday business, yet every conceivable shop plasters itself with hearts and teddies, desperately seeking some red-hot Valentine-fuelled spending action. It's as though the whole world belongs to a club to which you are denied access, and it's not funny.

If you're in a relationship, then you have several obstacles to negotiate. Over the last few days, some of my favourite bloggers have been describing the awfulness in brilliantly graphic detail. Charlie Brooker's rant covers the expectation gap perfectly; Ms R provided a hilarious account of competitve rose-hauling between the girls in the office, whilst Maria over at Just Eat Your Cupcake nearly made me spit my tea with her account of the nonsense that her daughter's school are insisting on...

Where I live, Trophyism definitely rules supreme. A woman who keeps herself within the 'thin, blonde, tanned and manicured' parameters of the Essex Trophy Wife template expects (no, deserves, she would insist) no less than a brand new item for her Tiffany collection and dinner at The Ivy.

The wise and well-trained husband would do well to take note that in this case it's definitely the thought that counts - not his thought, no - the thought that this will show all those posh cows from Surrey at his City office that their flirtations with him are in vain, meaningless, he's hers dammit, and she's got another Tiffany ring to prove it...

This year, The Husband and I have concluded that, since we are still fortunate enough to have more sense than money, we're boycotting the whole thing. I fully expect that this will be the nicest and most relaxed Valentine's Day I have had since February 14th, 2002.

In 2002, I was working in an office that had a particularly strong anti-Valentine's vibe going on, due to the number of women there who had recently suffered a painful screwing over. I was one of them. No competitive comparisons of roses were permitted in our department that year - anyone who found themselves called down to reception to return with flowers faced a barrage of obscene hand gestures over the cubicle screens, accompanied by a lusty chorus of 'Oh, Just Fuck OFF!

No exceptions were made on the grounds of age, seniority, gender or sexual orientation...the smugger they were, the harder we jeered. It was fun.

When I got home that evening, I poured myself a gin and sat down in search of a TV programme unrelated to Valentine's Day. Before I found one, my flatmate H arrived home. H's luck with men had been just as awful as mine recently, and I think we'd both reached the stage of waking up on a Sunday morning wondering what kind of of manky specimen we were going to find in the kitchen this week...anyway, he said exactly what I needed to hear. 'Fuck them all darling - we are not staying in feeling sorry for ourselves on Valentine's Day, let's go out to dinner'.

A quick change of clothes later, off we went. We had a lovely meal in a Persian restaurant in South Kensington, where we scoffed at the poor mugs buying over-priced roses from the restaurant table muggers. We drank far too much wine, and then decided to test H's theory that you can say almost anything you like to a soppy couple on Valentine's Day as long as the man looks as though he is on a promise for an excellent night that might include a little extra something that he doesn't normally get. Our reasoning was that he's not going risk his luck by getting into a fight with a drunk gay man and his equally sloshed 5' 3" female companion.

Cheap pleasures admittedly, but still - so much more satisfying than getting a crappy 'joke' card and box of Ferrero Rocher. Or even worse, a creepy card or e-mail from the ex that you'll always be ex-directory for...

So, if you find yourself wanting to shout something other than 'Get a Room' at sloppy, slurping couples this Thursday, might I suggest the following for starters.*

'That's OK, you carry on, you clearly need the practice'
'No diamond ring? Oh bad luck...but still, it's a leap year you know.'
'I've had him - he was crap'

Happy Anti-Valentine's Day.





*Melissaria accepts no responsibility for any injuries sustained as a result of the above.

Corporate Cowpat Awards 1

From time to time, I fall into the inevitable trap of feeling as though I am very much 'stuck' at home with my boy and longing for involvement in the outside, adult world of work. This is thoroughly irrational, because I only ever had one good, music-related job that I enjoyed - all the rest have made me feel as though I was about to lose the plot...

Still, every so often, an absolute gem of a Corporate Cowpat flops down from the sky, and makes me realise that I'm far better off where I am, because work is clearly where a lot of very stupid people hang out...

Last week, the Golden Cowpat award went to UK high street retailer Woolworths, for trying to flog a little girls' bed by naming it Lolita.

It's not so much the unfortunate brand name that made me laugh, nor the flustered ruffling of feathers that it caused among the mums' internet forum whose complaints led to the product's eventual withdrawal. It was the following explanation given by a spokesperson for the company.

"The staff who run the website had never heard of Lolita and to be honest no one else here had either. We had to look it up on Wikipedia. But we know who she is now."

Well thank goodness for that.

Perhaps now, the newly-enlightened Woolworths staff, and uptight mums' forum users might care to take a second look at this Bratz 'twin baby doll' product still on sale in Woolworths. Yes, you read it correctly. Twin BABY dolls. With matching twin buggy & sexy lingerie, slutty make-up, and frankly filthy pouts.

Once they have done so, perhaps they would tell me if they still believe they picked the right sexualised product to get all het up about?

Whilst I'm on the subject of corporate horseshit, here's someone else who should be sacked immediately; the person responsible for corporate communications at Percepta. They recently ran a job ad in our local paper containing the following delightful examples of contemporary jargon:

'Percepta UK is an innovative and progressive customer relationship management organisation who are seeking key people to champion our values and whose primary focus is to deliver quality customer service'

Well that was snappy - I'm hooked already, do tell me more...oh, I see, you want someone to be responsible for...

'Designing, developing and delivering operational learning solutions aligned to business objectives...'

Ah. Someone to do your training then...why didn't you just say so? I'm still not sure what you actually do, although I'm getting a very good picture of the type of employee you're looking for.

In the meantime, please step forward to receive your Corporate Cowpat Special Award for 'The Week's Best Bit of Buzzword-Loaded Bollocks'.

My sincerest congratulations to these shining examples of how to reach the bottom of the business barrel and keep on digging. Ricky Gervais is probably writing a brand new BAFTA, Emmy & Golden Globe-winning script in your honour as we speak.

What Men Want: Debunking the Myths

When I wrote What Men Want. Part 1: Boobies back in December, I promised to follow it up with Parts 2 & 3, Blow Jobs and Beer. As these are 2 topics on which I am never knowingly under-opinionated, a brief discussion will follow shortly. Very brief - this isn't one of those filthy sex blogs, you know...

A common theme has emerged from this week's blogs and papers - a theme of women being lied to and generally mis-led on the subject of what is expected of them, and more specifically, what is expected or desired of them by men.

I'm not absolutely sure how these silly myths end up in mainstream consciousness, sending young girls and grown women alike rushing out to grab the blonde hair dye and fake tan, and booking themselves in for a french manicure and boob job to prop up their resulting non-existent self-esteem. I suspect that porn and advertising will be to blame somewhere along the way. But I am sure that most of it is utter bollocks.

I am sure, becausae I've discussed it with a lot of honest men. I have observed inconsistencies between men's reactions to real women and, the images of women we are told are attractive. I have asked direct questions and had direct answers. The knowledge I have gained has been liberating and priceless, and it genuinely upsets me that so many women cause themselves unnecessary grief and loss of self-worth because they either don't know or refuse to believe it.

So, before this starts to turn into a serious essay, I bring you my Top 5 Myths: What Women Seem to Think Men Want And Why They are Wrong.

1. Big Breasts. There is no getting away from the fact that men like breasts, and an enormous pair of hooters is always going to be an attention grabber. But for the overwhelming majority of men, it's quality, not size that matters. Of course men enjoy looking at pictures of women with big boobs, but they really do like looking at pictures of women with small ones just as much. As the Lancashire lads used to tell me 'Anything more than a nice handful is a waste...'

2. Revealing Clothes. 'Less is more' is a nonsense statement on more than one level. Again, we are lulled into the idea that because men enjoy looking at the sexy images that lads mags and porn present, we must reproduce those looks to be found attractive. Not so. A man who is simply out for a sexual conquest, will be looking for the magic combination of maximum ego-gratification/minimum effort and is therefore likely to hit on the most sexually obvious woman in the room. But how likely is he to call her the next day? I think we all know the answer to that one. Emphasising one's best bits does not mean hanging them out like meat on a butcher's hook.

3. The Domestic Goddess. You can try, but unless you are the genuine article when it comes to effortlessly cleaning like a fantasy Swedish au pair girl, whilst cooking like Nigella, in all her buxom, spatula-licking glory, then attempting it is futile. In reality, you'll end up nagging him into oblivion about every little misdemeanour, and will be no fun whatsoever. I will make an exception for three issues - wet towels, dirty shoes, and opened post. Any man who leaves them lying around the house every day deserves everything he gets.

4. Manicured Nails. I just don't get it, and neither do any men that I know. Especially French or American manicures - they're just all wrong. Apparently some women have this done to their feet too. Why? I suspect this one passed me by because I spent my formative years amongst aspiring musicians. You simply can't play most musical instruments with great long talons, so no-one had them. It didn't hold us back, I promise you. As long as your nails are clean and not bitten, you haven't chewed around the tops of your fingers, and your hands are not covered in hair, warts or callouses, you'll be just fine. (Unless you want to date Tad Safran, but then I would have to question your sanity...)

5. To Feel Needed. Possibly controversial, but I say no. Men like to feel wanted, loved and desired and (this is crucial), useful. They do not want to feel as though you would crumple in a pathetic heap if they were to leave you to it for a few weeks. It's a subtle difference perhaps, but I cannot over-emphasise its importance. It's one of the biggest contradictions going - women are often told that men like to feel needed, men often cite neediness as one of the least attractive traits a woman can have. It can be a fine line to tread - treating him like a hero for fixing a shelf will serve you well, crying into his shirt because you simply must have the shelf fixed today and can't possibly manage it yourself - do you see my point?

So there we have it. You really don't need to be PornStar Barbie to be attractive to men. I hope you will enjoy the freedom this knowledge brings as much as I do. As someone recently commented on one of my favourite blogs- 'It's tough for blokes. We have to kiss loads of princesses before we find a real woman!'

Gift Receipts Get My Goat

This week, I have spent just about every spare moment immersed in Christmas cards, envelopes, address books, stamps, wrapping paper, tags and presents. I have made good progress, and am now just about tolerably organised considering that there are still 11 days to go before the F&?*!ve Season really gets underway.

The upshot of which is that it's now time for a little blog-based Grinching and general Bah-Humbuggery.

Today's topic is Gift Receipts: Contemporary Tokens of Thoughtlessness and Ingratitude.

I do understand the logic behind the extending to a third party of the right to return non-faulty goods. That 's not the issue. The problem with gift receipts is that their very presence tramples all over the twin concepts of generous giving and grateful receiving.

It's probably not fashionable to say so, although that doesn't usually stop me, but I believe that the latter aspect of the gift-based transaction is just as important as the former. The receipient of a gift has the ability and the duty to give pleasure to the buyer by way of their grateful acceptance. Even, or indeed especially when the present itself is a complete horror.

There's nearly an argument in favour of gift receipts when it comes to clothes. As we all know, one shop's size 12 can be another's 10 or yet another's 14. But I think that if you can't be absolutely certain that something is the right size, shape, fit, style and colour for your friend or relative just by holding it up and looking at it, then you don't know them well enough to be choosing their clothes. Buy something else. See below for suggestions.

The gift receipt also carries an uncharitable message of its own. 'Look!', it says. 'This person couldn't be bothered to find something they knew you'd really like'. It's a cop-out that allows your recipient to mentally paint a big, bold thought-bubble above your head at the moment you bought the present and fill it with the words of the well-known Christmas Eve Lament 'Fuck it, this'll have to do'.

I also reject the argument that it saves awkward and embarrassing moments when you have to ask for the receipt. Just how rude do you have to be to ask for the receipt? Really, the gift giver's job is done once they've wrapped the present and handed it over; if you don't like it when you open it, that's your problem, not theirs. Re-gift it, donate it to charity, sell it on ebay if you must, but please, spare me from the tyranny of the gift receipt...if it becomes a socially expected norm, then my cheapskate re-gifting tactics will be screwed, and I'll have to spend even more money, buying everything brand new, just so that I can include the sodding receipt.

And that's my real reason for disliking them so much; I sense a conspiracy to keep us consuming and spending, spending and consuming, We don't need it.

For those of you who might be struggling to find something good for an awkward individual such as myself, might I suggest having a look at the Oxfam Unwrapped Goat? For £25, you can buy a goat for someone who needs it far more than your friend or relative needs another jumper, CD or bottle of bubble bath, no matter how heavenly. I wish that everyone I know would buy goats on my behalf, rather than stuff to unwrap that I don't really need. I would genuinely love that.

Finally, I do solemnly swear that anyone who asks me for a receipt for any present I have bought them will find that next Christmas, a goat bearing their name will be sent directly to a more grateful recipient.

Baaaaaaaaaaaah. Humbug.

Competitive Mothers: Casualties of Feminism?

One of my favourite bloggers recently did a post about a conversation that she overheard between some competitive mums in a schoolyard. She hit on the concept of being 'not so much a product of feminism as a casualty of it', and whilst that comment wasn't directed at the mums, her post got me thinking that actually, perhaps it applies to them too.

To myself and other women born in the mid-70s, feminism is a bit like fluoride in the water* - you get all its benefits without noticing that it's even there. To us, it is the most obvious thing in the world that women can vote, buy and own possessions, have a mortgage, a career and lead a life free from sexual predation and abuse. On a day to day basis, unless we are actively engaged with feminist theory, those things probably don't even cross our mind.

Closer to home, it almost goes without saying that our education will have been equal to that of our male social peers, and that we were encouraged to compete with others in order to stretch ourselves to the very best of our abilities. Later in life, we will have learned about the seductive effects of money, power and status, and it is a reasonable assumption that, along with most of the rest of the population, we will have learned to define ourselves to a greater or lesser extent by how successful we are at what we do for a living.

But here's the rub...

When you have children, you can't switch all that off.

It's a bitch, it really is. You spend 30 years or so training yourself for the ordeal that is paid employment, and cultivating the mental attitudes required to succeed in it. You've made a good choice in the man you married, and between you, you have cultivated a relationship which is largely equitable, and earned just about enough filthy lucre to make it possible for you to give up the job you hated to stay at home with your adorable children.

Then, you bang out the first baby, and all of a sudden your world is turned on its head. And I don't just mean the sensation that feels a bit like your brains got slung down the medical waste chute along with your placenta...

You've got a brand new job to do, and like every other job you have done, it's vital that you are a success. You've read all the books, you think you know what's in store, and there's no way on earth you're going to end up like one of those haggard, harrassed, shouty supermarket mums who are clearly just too damn lazy to bother keeping their kids under control. You're a smart, independent, educated woman, I mean, how hard can it be?

Oh God, where do I start?

Well, firstly, try taking away all the motivational tactics that have kept you going through the tedious but respectable pain in the arse that has been your career to date. Let's start with your pay cheque, which although you probably didn't realise it, did at least serve as a monthly reminder that you had skills that someone was prepared to pay good money for. Along with that goes the promise of deserved pay rises, promotions, positive reviews, appraisals or even the basic satisfaction which accompanies the completion of a project well managed. Financially speaking, you're now just Mrs. T.H.E. Husband, and believe me, you will never again feel that you have completed anything.

So, once that's all gone, it's time to introduce a good old dose of old fashioned sexism and season it with a good pinch of feminist flagellation - self-inflicted, or otherwise. We're all familiar with the lazy stereotype of stay-at-home mums who spend their days drinking coffee, gossiping, watching Jeremy Kyle, spending their husband's money and occasionally ironing a shirt or pushing the hoover round in return. I'm mortified to admit that I was previously guilty of such intellectually lazy rubbish myself...

But we're smart, independent, educated women; we're not going to be like that, good God no, there will be no life of domestic drudgery for us, thank you very much. We are women who are good at our jobs and would frankly rather pass a good sized porcupine than stand accused of letting ourselves go, letting our houses go, not providing the most psychologically healthy, stimulating and educational envinroment for our children that we can possibly manage. We breastfeed until our nipples crack and bleed, we peel, chop and puree the finest organic ingredients, we sign up for the Baby Swim, Music and Movement, Tiny Talk, Tumble Tots, Advanced Japanese for the Executive Toddler etc...classes and all in all knacker ourselves out because we just want to regain that now elusive feeling that someone, somewhere, thinks we are doing a good job.

At the end of each day, we might collapse exhausted in front of the computer, and visit a Mums' internet forum, blog or message board in the hope of some support and encouragement from the motherly sisterhood. Once there, we will no doubt come across a slanging match between working mums and stay-at-homers, where we will find ourselves accused of living off men, being appalling role models, domestic servants, idling spongers, crashing bores, a disgrace to women, and basically just glorified prostitutes who "part their legs and iron his shirt in return for the allowance that pays for their leggings and sweat shirts."

Nice.

Unsurprisingly, this sort of behaviour sends us spiralling into complete psychological annihilation. We'd always considered ourselves to be feminists, but this sort of behaviour from other self-styled feminists leaves us thinking that actually, they're a horrible bunch of bitter old hags, and hang on a minute, just exactly what is modern feminism doing for those of us who continue to subscribe to the most fundamentally feminine role of all?

So, as a smart, independent, educated woman, who's just utterly marvellous at her job you have two choices:

1. The 'Competitive Mother' route. You keep on using all those skills, qualities and attributes that got you to where you were before you popped one out. You will have the most advanced, talented child in your peer group, because that's the only way you know of measuring your abilities as a mother, and without that constant self-affirmation, you will be crying into your gin on a daily basis.
2. The 'Bollocks To You All' route. You accept that the choices you have made are the business of no-one but yourself and your family, that you won't be perfect, but you'll always do your best, and that you'll single handedly take on any rancid old Alpha Troll on any internet forum who might even think the words 'kept woman' in your general direction.

I choose the second route, but I can see how desperately easy it must be to fall into the first. I am lucky; I am not surrounded by other hyper-achieving super-mothers who want to compete with me. I'm also a stubborn old boot. It makes it all so much nicer. But I do understand how it can happen, and remain on my guard against it at all times.

There's not necessarily going to be any conclusions drawn here today. I'd always considered myself to be in sympathy with the feminist cause, but I'm finding more and more reasons to question it. It's not that I think it's fundamentally bollocks, but rather that it's lost its way and is hoovering up casualties and spitting them out to suffer the consequences. Whether you're finding that it's impossible to attract a good man unless you empty out your head and fill it with fluff and 'kittings', or that you can't reconcile motherhood with your duty to the Women's Lib, it's entirely possible that somewhere, somehow, Feminism is Screwing You.

* I solemnly swear that I will credit that idea properly when I remember where I found it.

All Natural Ingredients

The Husband, it seems, is beginning to appreciate the joy of having a really good shout at a really bad TV ad.

He's talented too, especially at digging out any veiled misdirections and tearing them to pieces. His latest observation, levelled at the new Milky Bar ad, is the trend for food products to brandish the phrase 'All Natural Ingredients' as though it were definitive proof that the product must be really good for you.

It's a particularly brilliant piece of wordsmithery, as it invites the consumer aboard this train of thought; 'Natural = Healthy, therefore Milky Bar = Good For You' . Its predecessors 'No Artificial Ingredients', 'No Added E-Numbers' and the like just don't do the same job.

If you're not convinced, the following statement, from Talking Retail, regarding the switch to 'All Natural Ingredients' might help:

'Responding to the growing market trend for permissibility in confectionery, Milkybar is the first major kids’ chocolate brand to make the move to all natural ingredients.

The change brings with it a number of benefits for retailers, and will help to drive sales by appealing to the increasing number of mums looking for more permissible treats for their kids.

In quantitative research, 98% of mums found the concept of Milkybar ‘made from all natural ingredients’ either very, or quite appealing, with 78% of mums either a lot more likely or more likely to buy Milkybar as a result (McCallum Layton, March 2007). '

Whilst I'm all for getting rid of artificial ingredients and E-numbers, it does bother me that the 'All Natural' claim is being used as misdirection on a product that remains a fundamentally unhealthy choice because of its high sugar and fat content. It doesn't alter the fact that you're still better off giving your child a banana.

Still, you have to wonder how far this is going to go.

Are we about to witness an 'All Natural' renaissance of some of the horrors that regularly graced my grandad's plate?

LARD

BEEF DRIPPING

TRIPE

BLACK PUDDING

PIGS' TROTTERS

All coming soon, to a '100% Natural' dinner party near you.

Advert Rant 1: As if we hadn't enough to worry about.

Advertising is a particular bugbear of mine. When I'm not avoiding being advertised to, I'm often to be found ranting about ads; their intrusiveness, the inanity of their content, etc. And tonight I got drawn in again.

Those kind people at Dove have hit on the idea that women of a certain age have nothing better to do than fret and fuss over the state of every last inch of their skin. They've even brought out a 'Pro-Age' deodorant to help with the bits they didn't realise they should be fretting about. Now, I'm some years away from the 'Pro-Age' target demographic yet, so I guess Dove don't care if I shout at their ads, but come on. Armpits?

I don't know about you, but if I find myself in a position where I'm wondering how old another woman is, I don't usually find myself tring to sneak a peek at her armpits when she's not looking. And, just in case any of you were wondering if attention to armpit detail affects your ability to attract men, consider this. When was the last time you saw a bunch of men sat in a bar/on a building site/hanging out of a white van shouting 'Look at the pits on THAT!'?

I rest my case. Armpits only attract attention when they contain more hair than is considered usual here.

You don't need it.