Snog Marry Avoid followed by Hotter Than My Daughter

At 8pm we have Snog Marry Avoid, hosted by Jenny Frost from Atomic Kitten. Then at 8.30, we have Hotter Than My Daughter, hosted by Liz McClarlon, also from Atomic Kitten. I don’t know who’s got the connections at that channel but they’ve certainly made the most of them.

At 8pm, Jenny scours the nation for the ‘slap addicts’. Girls who wear so many pairs of false eyelashes that they have to tip their head back to get their lids to open. Girls who have spray tanning booths in their garage. Girls who are usually still living with their parents because they spend such obscene amounts of money on cosmetics that they can’t afford to move out. Girls who look absolutely ridiculous. She drags them off to meet POD, a ‘computer’ who bombards them with criticism until their foundation starts to crack, and then performs a miracle ‘makeunder’ which meets with immense approval from everybody. Two weeks later, Jenny catches up with the girls, most of whom have gone straight home via Boots and look exactly the same as they did before this life changing series of events. Good work Jenny, although you’re not exactly adverse to the odd bit of fakery yourself now are you? That’s not your natural hair colour. Your skin is suspiciously flawless.

Anyway, in our gym sodden state - hair awry, make-up a distant memory – this is the perfect antidote to feeling sweaty and unattractive.

And then at 8.30 Liz McClarlon meets more ridiculous looking females, but even better, these are actually people’s mothers! People’s mothers, still squeezing themselves into boob tubes and pitting themselves against their teenage daughters by trailing them round town on a night out, clearing the floor with their booty shakin'...it’s awesome viewing, I kid you not. The daughters themselves are usually so traumatised by having a parent constantly competing against them in the attractiveness stakes, that they retreat to the relative safety of baggy clothing and let mum get on with it. Clearly, this is very wrong. So send in Liz (and her team of stylists) to sort it all out. Tone mum down in knee length skirts and sensible necklines. Jazz daughter up with whatever happens to be hot off the rails that week. Rinse them both clean of every last trace of individuality. Make them walk down a catwalk to raucous and only slightly insincere applause. Voila. The universe makes sense again, and with Tuesday almost over, we can sit back satisfied that whilst we may be sweaty, we are only silly enough to watch this stuff, not appear on it.

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