Incontinental divide

The Pratt family haka quickly disintegrated into childish giggles.

It's funny the things you notice about a country when you've been away for a while.

My brother Jamie, who has just moved back to New York City after eight years in London has been particularly discomfited by what is indeed an abundance of TV ads of a certain nature.

Things about which one just didn't used to talk. Not in polite company. Certainly not in prime time as the family's settling down for a nice bit of PG-rated entertainment.

Hemorrhoids. Yeast infections. Erectile dysfunction. Incontinence. Male enhancement.

There seems to be trouble in the nether regions.

"What are you watching?" I asked my 13-year-old nephew as I strolled into the TV room.

"Um, you know ..." he began, when, with impeccable timing, on popped a commercial for Trojan condoms.

"Oh, I see," I said.

"Yeah," he said.

We lapsed into an uncomfortable silence as the presenter talked in completely inappropriate detail about the manifold advantages of Trojan.

"OK, then, I'll see you around," I said, as I shuffled out.

"Yeah, see you."

Jamie had wondered the night before what exactly was going on in the country.

He described the pictures of young house wives heading to the grocery store screwing up their faces in obvious discomfort, desperately trying to avoid peeing themselves.

"They're all doing it apparently," Jamie said. "It's some sort of epidemic."

The tirade had just begun. "What about the one with the guy on a bicycle with barbed wire on his seat?" Face scrunched up. Funny walks. "What the hell is wrong with us?"

And it's not just one or two. There's a whole stream of them. "Frequent urination?" "Vaginal discomfort?"

These are, of course, serious problems. But really, do we have to be confronted by such things while we're trying to have some chips and salsa with the football game? It's not really on. Well, actually, it is.

Unfortunately, the whole thing rather set the tone for the weekend. The above photograph gives some hint as to the level of maturity on display.

It's no wonder we're also bombarded by a slew of ads for anti-depressants. Storms are apparently brewing in our collective underwear.