Paper View

“Our nation is divided”, announces Rob Brydon, and instantly a series of half-chewed mouthfuls of Cheerios-and-Milks are blasted toward television screens up and down the land as the breakfasting public attempt to somehow take stock of what this could possibly mean. Brydon has famously been involved with announcements of considerable gravitas before, from the premature proclamation of Prince Harry’s pregnancy, through to the brief nine minute outlawing of football, to the declaration of war by the UK on Button Moon. His involvement in this, then, means it’s likely to be a biggie.

So what is it that renders our Sceptred Isle in twain? What quandary, what monumental issue could be so mountainous as to cause this nation – this Kingdom no less, built on the backbone of Churchill and full of such a British je ne se quoi that even Shakespeare* himself was moved to write “Britain eh. Well bugger me, ent it great.” – to split apart like a Victoria sponge hurled into a swimming pool? It must be the issue of Gay Marriage surely? Scottish Independence, mayhap? The relevance of Cheryl Kurl, née Tweedy? Tell us Brydon. TELL US.
 
TELL US.

It turns out the answer is None Of The Above. In fact it concerns The Below. What Brydon is asking us, on behalf of Softy Soft Dog Bogrolls plc, is if one “scrunches” or “folds”. Perhaps a question more pertinent would be to ask which boot one puts on first in the morning before plunging both feet through the television screen in sullen disappointment.
  
As far as fearsome debates go it’s up there with “Which roundabout in Manchester is your favourite?” and “Is next door’s silver birch tree evil or not?” This particular functioning human has never been made aware of any such debate and it wasn’t even anything that crossed one’s mind before – you just sort of get on with it and hope that the 20p-worth of time doesn’t expire, leaving you exposing yourself to the high street as the space-age doors swoosh open and the Buck Rogers Toilet tells you that yes, number two, your time is up. 

It appears to be the thin end of the wedge; how long before this sorry waste of time is lent to other unfortunately necessary products, with Olbas asking “Which do you prefer? Decanting menthol oil into a handkerchief drop by drop, or squeezing it over a rag like so much chloroform ready to be smooshed into an unsuspecting teenager’s face? And while we’re about it, chloroform users, do you smoosh or casually swipe?”, or the degree of flair deemed to be suitable when dusting ones trainers for athletes foot.

It was bad enough attempting to sit through Brydon’s gurning and shrugging during Would I Lie To You? (“how do they come up with this stuff?! These tall tales!” SPOILER – Natalie Cassidy didn’t come up with it herself, Bob) but now he’s forcing feeding us yet more BS; chummily bringing arsewipeage to the forefront of the consciousness, where it has steered clear from up until now for a very good reason. As the mouthpiece for a bogroll-hawking company it’s pretty obvious to see where he’s talking from.
 
*(Darren Shakespeare, Secretary-General of the Plymouth Darts League)