The Courier & Advertiser (Perth and Perthshire Edition)
When it comes to the crunch
Those people who manufacture a certain brand of popular tortilla chip have surely come up with not only one of the most patronising but simultaneously one of the most impractical ideas in the history of the consumption of completely pointless and unnecessary foodstuffs.
I will not be using this company or product’s name because I have the unhealthy suspicion that this new departure is actually just a bid to get its product talked about and thus, in our suggestible age, get more of it into the supermarket trollies of the unsuspecting. Not mine, it won’t. Aside from the fact that now I don’t work in a canteen-free office environment any more, I rarely eat the crisps or chocolate that tended to be the only offering from the vending machines, I am not a fan of this particular corn snack. I’m a cheesy Wotsits woman, myself.
But if I were a devotee, I certainly would not be going anywhere near this latest departure which involves a product variously described as quieter, less messy, small enough to fit in a handbag and generally “lady friendly”. Because, of course, we delicate little female flowers couldn’t possibly lick our fingers in public, let alone crunch in an audible fashion or cavalierly pour the tasty little bits from the packet down our throats. How would we stand the strain? I dunno. They’ll be suggesting that we should have the vote next.
Oh, yes. Now I remember. It’s actually 100 years ago this week since some of us actually got it, though you’d be hard put to it to work that out, given the assumptions still being made about what women are supposed to like and dislike and behave. That’s made it all worthwhile, then, hasn’t it? A century down the line, we can vote, vote in female MPs and even a woman Prime Minister (almost) and we still can’t bear the thought of being seen or heard eating a packet of proper crisps.
It puts Al Murray’s sexist pub landlord (“Small glass of white wine for the laydee!”) in the shade. Now, I will freely admit that the sight of me tackling the odd packet of aforementioned cheesy Wotsits is not one I would care to inflict on the run of humanity but that doesn’t mean the manufacturers are going to get anywhere trying to sell me on the notion that they intend to make their product easily hidden and easily silenced BECAUSE I AM A WOMAN. It’s just a pity they can’t make them pink, isn’t it, like all those pretty pens and razors made specially for us girlies. That would certainly help to make up for still, 48 years after the passing of the Equal Pay Act, being paid up to 20 per cent less than men.
Quite apart from anything else, it’s totally unrealistic and unrelated to the life of the modern woman. Handbag-sized? Have you seen the size of the average handbag recently? It would hold a BOGOF of multi-packs, grab bags or even a full weekly shop, let alone a titchy bag of “lady-friendly” snack items which may well be smaller (or perhaps more petite, since we’re being dinkified) but, I suspect, no cheaper. The woman, as is well known in all walks of life, always pays just that little bit more.
Given the fact, however, that Whoever Inc., has obviously put time, money and technology into the creation of this new offering, I have a non-gender-specific solution as to its possible use for the greater gaiety of nations and general benefit of society as a whole. Not just us lucky ladies.
Sell it in cinemas, to anyone who finds it impossible to sit through a film of any description and length without chomping their way through some kind of alleged foodstuff. All your boffins have to do then is invent a non-rustling bag and you’ll have done more good for the collective blood pressure of the average cinema-going audience than the NHS has managed since 1948.
The price of love
Ah, yes! In the run-up to Valentine’s Day, romance is not dead. It just comes with a tidge more realism than all the hearts and flowers and twinkly, sprinkly messages might have you believe. Being a cynic, I do often feel that although my love may be like a red, red rose, the purple prose around this ex-saint’s special day should be attacked with the blue pencil but there you are, that’s just pragmatic old me. I wonder what the Valentine’s equivalent of: “Bah, humbug!” is?
However, in terms of the subtler nuances of social subtext, it definitely says a lot for our viewpoint on everlasting love and lifelong partnerships (thank you, Brexit) when you can walk into your local Tesco store, as I did last week, and have your (admittedly more-than-somewhat jaundiced) eye caught by a stand full of Valentine cards. Over which floated the banner: “Four for the price of three – cheapest free.”
The course of love never did run smooth. And they said it wouldn’t last…
“It puts Al Murray’s sexist pub landlord (“Small glass of white wine for the laydee!”) in the shade