#18 Cut to the Point

If I have to sit through that damned Gillette Venus advert one more time I fear I’m at risk of launching the remote control straight into the superficially smiley faces of those ridiculous, trampolining women (or myself off the balcony). For god’s sake. We’re talking about a razor here. That thing that gets left on the side of the bath, jarred with stubble and beginning to rust – the thing that we use to get rid of our underarm, leg and bikini bristles. It is not a glamorous affair. It is a necessary chore (and bore) and unlike the lasered legs in adverts, when I shave my pins, they’re not actually hairless to begin with. They’re uneven, furry and unsightly – nothing Goddessly about them. What is all this media crap being spouted all the time about every woman having an inner goddess? What bullshit. Inside every woman there is passion, mystery and power? Are they having a laugh? The ad’s producers should take a trip down to my local Wetherspoons on a Friday night to get a good glimpse of a real woman. She’s the one with a pint in her hand, wearing mismatched underwear, chanting the words to Robbie Williams' Angel with her best mate. Or she’s me, at home in the trackies and hubby’s T-shirt, watching Ugly Betty whilst snacking on peanut butter M&Ms. She’s not running along a beach, entering synchronised swimming contests or pirouetting through the air in a bikini. It gets my blood boiling to the point where I no longer care if it’s a good razor or not. It could be the Rolls Royce, the Dog’s, the crème de la crème... at the end of the day it’s still just a bundle of plastic and metal and I’m alchemist enough to know that even the Venus (along with every other mundane and ordinary device on the market) lacks the chemical componentry to turn a fleshy form into a golden goddess.