Last week, I dodged several calls about toxic masculinity at the Oscars, because, well, #BoreMatKaryaar. How quaint to wag fingers at masculinity. As if the Academy were itself not the heart of straight, elite masculinity, cloaking itself in respectability by rewarding films in a pretty NGOish way for their po-faced tackling of ‘issues’. Representation matters. Who could disagree? But is simply not being disagreeable quite enough for art, entertainment or politics? Without the glamour of movie stars and clothes, the Big O would be quite an uncle. The hot takes on this year’s Oscars are like members of the ton at the Featherington Ball, bristling at moral impropriety, as if that society was not based on immoral inequalities.

Bridgerton Season 2 (where this ball takes place) has also been subjected to this meaningless seriousness. Critics are primly denouncing it for having ‘no real sex’. Ah realism, the favourite costume of the respectable. Bridgerton Season 1 was kind of a bore, demanding we like it for politically correct reasons of diverse casting (and ok, some good looking people). But real sex? Really?