A grim prediction from Ed Balls, Secretary of State for Children, Schools and Families. By the middle of this century, says he, if we're not careful, 50% of our children will be obese. You can tell that the nation's innards are in deep trouble just by watching your telly. See all those ads for tummy problems; wind, bloating, constipation, squitters? And those Billy Bunter men in armchairs who can't even get up to play footer, and Gillian McKeith studying excrement? We never used to see that sort of thing on our screens. But now our diets are in such a dire state that we're beyond embarrassment, just desperate for a remedy. Well here is one. Eat less, reject rubbish snacks and move about more.
How odd, though, that all those ads about bloating, farting, runs and blocks, feature only women being tormented by their tempestuous intestines. There's those three bloated ladies, one in a green dress, who sit moaning to each other about their discomfort in many a commercial break. They can barely move, can't go out, can't wear snazzy clothes, and have to live in baggy tops, until Actimel sorts them out; then they jump up and dance. A female traffic cop is hampered by tummy problems, until a charming fellow drives by and hands her the Gaviscon. More Gaviscon for the lady cellist crippled by tummy-ache. Could it be trapped wind? Soon she's smiling away, playing the Gaviscon theme. Here comes a smart woman in a mac and a hurry with the runs. Imodium puts her right. Before long she can run about multitasking all day.
Notice that it's the women with the problems, and the men, in tip-top shape, bowels functioning smoothly, who step in to sort them out. Remember that poor blond woman in the black dress feeling like hell at a party in yet another Gaviscon advert. Heartburn? Yes, along come some cartoon mini-firemen who jump down her throat to assist. "Quick lads," says one, "this lady needs our help."
What's going on here? Are women the ones with the poor eating and feeding habits, who sit whingeing and gassing about their bowels, who can't be fagged to cook properly, can't control themselves, stuff their families with rubbish and train their kiddies up to be the next generation of fatties, which poor Balls (a healthy chap) now has to deal with?
Or can it be the usual old nonsense? Women are the weaker vessels - frail fusspots, flapping about, incapacitated by minor ailments. Blokes, on the other hand, just shut up and get on with it. If they fart, bloat or have holiday tummy, so what? They can just sit about festering in a manly way until they feel better. And it's nobody's business but theirs.
Meanwhile, women's innards are everybody's business. You can stare at our outside bits, and now you can stare at our inside bits too, and know everything about them: periods, wind, runs, blocks. Shock is what we want, to grab an audience, and it's more shocking for women to fart, crap and have piles, because we are meant to be fragrant. So thank you Gaviscon, Imodium and Actimel, for showing that really we are not only weak but stinky too. Now give the men a go.
More news from the Department of the Blindingly Obvious. The first kiss is more important to women than men, "researchers have found". I have learned to dread this phrase. Researchers from the University at Albany in the US have found that for women the first kiss is a "rich and complex exchange" of clues: smell, taste of mouth, condition of teeth, skill and sensitivity, which tell her whether or not the chap in question might become a lasting, romantic partner. But chaps, on the other hand, "researchers have found", can be "opportunistic maters" for whom stinky breath is no obstacle, and the first kiss is just a means of showing them that they're in with a chance tonight and sod tomorrow.
Quite right, researchers, in parts. Few woman will want to spend their lives with a man who initially lunges at them like a crazed and stinking walrus. Foul breath and rotting teeth are a bit of a turn off. They are a sign that this fellow may well develop into the sort of seven-month pregnant, bloated, farting, beer-swilling, burger-guzzling toad that you never see in a Gaviscon advert. But think again before you fall for the perfect kiss, girls. Why do you think it's perfect? It could mean that he's just naturally sensitive, charming, and loving, but it could also mean that he's a cad who's been practising for years on hundreds of other women and has perfected his seduction technique.
And there are things a first perfect kiss cannot tell you. Will the kissing standard fall after a while? And how about his social skills, table manners, work ethic, politics, tidiness or future willingness to take the dog for a walk? You won't know about all that until it's too late, my own "researchers have found".
This week Michele read Take a Girl Like Me, by Diana Melly: "Strangely flat, dull and depressing. She does herself and George no favours." She also read Confessions of a Sugar Mummy, by Emma Tennant: "Phew, some light relief, about an older woman confused by love and the property market." She watched Dogfighting Undercover on BBC1: "Too horrible for words."
