The average Instagram feed rolls like Vogue meets a friggin’ rap video meets Martha Stewart. Everything looks so f**king fabulous.
Ladies’ faces never have moustaches, broken capillaries or croissant crumbs on them. Legs don’t feature varicose veins so thick you could use them as a ski rope, nor do they sport beards that could rival a Clydesdale’s.
Arses (clearly on display with 80 per cent of bikini material happily marooned in bum cracks) never have pimples on them. Nope, those things are smooth, pert and peachy – the sort of bottom that could receive a little smack and not even wobble. Mine has been shaking like a Chihuahua from a spanking I received in 1997 for f**k’s sake.
And the food. Good lord, the food.
The other day I was innocently scrolling when my eyeballs were accosted by a pancake with tiny ornamental flowers on it. My garden doesn’t even have any bloody flowers and this Instagram yahoo is adorning pancakes with them?!