Money's the reason for this sleaze

Money's the reason for this sleaze

As with so much connected with The X Factor, it turned out there was a commercial reason behind those sordid fishnet stocking and thong scenes that quite rightly have provoked so many complaints. 

Christina Aguilera - who, after her duet with Rebecca, turned on her heel and never gave her so much as another glance - has a new film to promote, called (surprise, ­surprise) Burlesque.

Thousands of viewers rang to complain, but there was no apology on Sunday night’s grand final show. 

Afterwards, Simon Cowell apparently gave each of the judges £3,000 worth of Botox vouchers, which sums up the whole ethos: look young and you’ll be ­successful. To stay ­successful, look young. 

As for the brutal sexualisation of our ­children - which I’ve written about before - no one seems to care. Least of all Cowell and co.

Season's bleatings

‘I don’t know why you bother doing cards,’ my husband said at the weekend, as I fretted about not having written them. ‘We never get sent any.’

We do, of course, and I don’t feel truly Christmassy until I’ve hung them from ribbons around the house, just as my mother used to.

But I’ve now had three friends tell me they’ve received only half a dozen when they would normally expect to have had around 20 by now. I do hope email - cold, impersonal and utterly unfestive - hasn’t seen off the traditional card.

Even if it’s the only contact you make all year, a handwritten card shows you’ve made an effort.

An electronic one sent by email merely says: ‘I’m not going to waste money on a card and stamp, let alone invest any time in writing a message.’

Hiding my misdemeanours

The late novelist Beryl Bainbridge’s daughter says that rather than give them advice, her mother preferred to tell her children of her own mistakes, in the hope that they would avoid making similar ones. 

This strikes me as admirably wise, although I’m not at all sure I can pull off the same trick - especially as I tend to gloss over my own teenage history wherever possible.

In answer to almost every question (‘How old were you when you had your first drink, Mum? How old were you when you first tried a cigarette?’), I tend to give the same answer: ‘Umm, let me see now . . .’ (screwing up face in deep thought), ‘was it when I was 18? No, I was 20, I think . . .’

Time will tell whether these economies with the truth pay off. But one thing’s for sure: my children think I was beyond square when I was young.

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