Many things in the modern world encourage the infantalisation of adults, but the cult of personalisation is among the worst of all

There comes a point in every gal’s life when she has to ask herself: what would Karl Marx think of my bank card? Would he admire its bright colours? Its snazzy fonts? Or would he view it as the very epitome of commodity fetishism?

This point will probably come when you see a particular TV advert, one that will, in all likelihood, make you mutter: “My God, end of days!”

End of Days adverts are a very special breed of advert. They are not merely bad (most adverts are bad because they treat the public like idiots); they convey something very worrying about the times in which we live. Other End of Days adverts include, in no particular order: Tiffany from EastEnders talking about her digestion in a chair hanging on a chain; a dancing Gavin Henson promoting online bingo; Peter Schmeichel playing an accordion for the benefit of bacon sales; and any “Trojan personal massage” adverts you might see in the US, if you get lucky. Or not, as the case may be when it comes to “personal massages”. These adverts present the greatest argument there is that Darwinism is a myth.

But this particular advert is, I believe, the endingest day of all. Never mind Kevin – we need