Let’s get one thing straight right here and now. Comic Relief this year raised ?74 million for charity, a large proportion of that money given by ordinary people like you, and that fit girl who works at Costa, and the oaf who sits opposite you at work that reeks of Lynx Africa and once gave you a conspiritorial wink as he came out of the toilets, rearranging his scrotum, with a satisfied grin on his face and FHM’s High Street Honies pull-out tucked under his arm.
We even had a degrading rummage in the nest we’ve made from shredded pictures of Lee Ryan in the corner of the hecklerspray bedsit and came up with a few coins that were unpleasantly sticky, but we donated them anyway. And we’re monsters.
So people will have given their cash because they were entertained by Red Nose Day, or because they felt guilty, or because they are aroused by beans, baths and bake sales; they will have given whatever the hell we think of the televisual event itself, and that is obviously a good thing. And just because we slag off, say, Karl Pilkington for thinking that a sly glance at the camera and Ricky Gervais barking like a blown seal in the background means that every word that falls from his face is worthy of worshipping like he’s some post-modern deity, that doesn’t mean we also want to kick an African child in the face.