I have noticed recently, how T.V. advertising execs illustrate a propensity to air commercials for thrush cream and all matter of female itchiness cures whenever I’m watching tele with my mother. Note to self, as well as said executives: Vagisil is not exactly a great conversation starter between mother and son. If we were liberalistic anarchists, it might inspire a detailed and intriguing debate about how female health has been advertised with increasing regularity since the advent of feminism.
For a semi-Catholic family of Irish descent, it’s just effing awkward. It was night-time so we couldn’t even go for the classic ‘oooh what’s the weather like outside, overcast again is it’. Instead I mumbled something about wanting biscuits, evacuated to the advertising bomb shelter of the kitchen and waited it out. Upon returning, I lacked even a single custard cream and had a sheepish look on my face. Thank you very fucking much Canesten Duo and co.
Perhaps this is partially why I often perceive religion and Catholicism to be slightly perplexing. I’ve always found it to encourage awkwardness, whilst discouraging emotional interaction. Although I’m sure there are some wonderfully nice people out there with a strong grip on religion, when I draw from my own experiences the Catholics I’ve met tend to be quite antagonistic if you disagree with them regarding the almighty Jesus. Once in junior school, I suggested to my teacher that it seemed a tad farfetched for Monsieur Christ to turn Evian into pinot grigio and that whole vajazzle. Judging by the constipated expression on her chops, you’d have thought I’d just done a crap on her shoes or something. Cue a very awkward few seconds where my sphincter tightened and I wished for the ground to swallow me up (not an easy feat, I was a very chubby little troublemaker).
And there I am again, looming on the threshold of our living room with my sheepish grin and blushing mother, the vague echo of Vagisil reverberating in our ears. Perhaps we should have been Satanists. Alas, I bet they don’t get embarrassed when genitalia remedies pop up on tele. Instead they must cackle wickedly, sadistically revelling in all of the unhealthy fannies in the world.
I’ll stick with being an agnostic then.
P.S. (In full Peter Griffin mode), you know what really grinds my gears? Nick Clegg still deriding the ‘leg-up’ culture in British workplaces, whilst being the worst person in the world to protest against it. Considering the regular assistance his millionaire banker father provided when he was a young, befuddled and bum-fluffed idealist. Daddy’s connections ensured he was gifted a prestigious internship at Postipankki Bank in Helsinki during the summer of 1989; I am not insinuating this to be an awful process, because this sort of thing is inevitable and unavoidable. Not to mention, I’ve benefitted from a similar dynamic myself; it’s often not what you know, but who you know (as the infamous phrase goes). Nonetheless, if as a coalition government you’re intending to instigate a mass war against social immobility, it would be tactful and astute to employ someone more appropriately placed in the cabinet to be the figurehead. Clegg is already unpopular with his own party after accepting a role as Dave Cameron’s right hand biatch; the already waning popularity he possesses with a wider public will only continue to diminish, if he persists in such grave hypocrisy.
Much love. x
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