I’m pretty consistent about not consuming pop culture that I consider politically dodgy. Despite a cover photo of a very mystical-looking John Travolta—captioned with a promised revelation about how he’s raising his son from the dead—I resisted buying this week’s National Enquirer. Equally, I don’t watch reality television because I think, to put it mildly, it maligns all participants. For the same reason I give commercial breakfast TV the widest of berths. That, and it’s largely trash.

My righteousness however, completely falls apart when it comes to stories about random objects inserted into vaginas; about medical professionals painstakingly explaining why such practices really aren’t a good idea. I absolutely recognise that my clicks only add to the readership and justifies further vagina-centred nonsense ‘news’. But I’m powerless. I’m clicking and I’m reading and I’m tweeting. I absolutely cannot survive a minute longer without knowing which supermarket special I should keep away from my nether regions this week. Each click and I’m introduced afresh to a world where ingenuity, groceries, and genitals collide in a possible medical disaster.