Surely this was the moment we’d all been waiting for: Taylor Swift running across the Allegiant Stadium, completely starkers at the Superbowl final.
The hard truth is, the vast majority of obese people in America – of which there are a staggering 70million – have got there through bad eating habits, a lack of exercise and inadequate self-control.
The days of sitting down to enjoy a coffee are over. Heaven forbid that you should take two minutes to boil your own kettle and make your own coffee, when you can queue for 20 minutes in Starbucks and pay $5.95 for a Pumpkin Spice Frappuccino.
There were also some really left of field ads in the mix, including one for VMS menopause relief. That’s something of a mind leap to go from shouting, ‘Great touchdown!’ at your screen to, ‘What can I take for my night sweats?’ The Superbowl should be a place where women of a certain age can for a few precious hours not be reminded of how vile growing older is.
Humans have long been fascinated by the Moon and a full Moon is undoubtedly one of the great beauties in the sky. But does its cycles, as many believe, affect human behavior? Can its waxings and wanings really teach us things about ourselves? I was keen to find out.
The only reason I went to see Tom Stoppard’s play Leopoldstadt last week was that it would give me 130 minutes’ respite from Howling Harry.
Unless I receive an invitation to Oprah’s balloon free party, it’s going to be another silent night, watching Andy Cohen and Anderson Cooper on the TV, getting increasingly jolly as they down shots.
What’s everyone got against beauty? At a time when women are being denied their very gender, this should be a time to celebrate womanhood, not consign it back to the box where it lay dormant for centuries.
I have to fit in a museum, too, so am heading for the Museum of Sex (known as MoSex) on 5th Avenue. The last sex museum I went to was in Amsterdam 30 years ago, and sex has come a long way since then – unlike my sex life, which hasn’t. It’s been so long, they might well make me an exhibit in the museum, so if you don’t hear from me for a while, you’ll know where to find me.
I stayed in the Mayflower Hotel on Central Park and, on my first venture out onto the streets, was approached by a short, fat, scruffy woman, with a thick, black moustache and a large, ripe pimple on her cheek. She told me I had a curse hanging over me, and that if I went to her house, for the measly sum of $3000 she would remove it.