As far as I can make out, the basics of American Football are that a lot of men in Hannibal Lecter style masks and Dallas style shoulder pads run out onto a field and throw something the same shape as a rugby ball. Then, just as they’re getting into their stride, they are tackled and brought to the ground. Next, everything stops. I have no idea why. Is there a tea-break?

I suspect that Eva Whatsherface, like every other thin woman in LA in particular, enjoys playing with the occasional salad – without dressing (are you crazy?) – and, to this end, I am now perfecting the art of steering a leaf around my plate, without ever consuming it, while giving the impression that I am stuffing my face.

But I’m hooked now. Tier Points are my drug of choice, and I would have to spend at least three months in Air Miles Rehab to wean me off the scheme. My only hope is that Sir Richard Branson might read this and, for the sake of my health, give me a Lifetime Gold Membership as a result of the acres of free publicity I continue to give him and his airline.