Oh dearie me. Two stories that made me go, ‘OFFS.’ The Mail on Sunday, which is even more of a hectoring nannier than its daily stablemate, was off on one again, returning to the perennial non-problem of the dangers of barbecued meat.

Some presenter for the BBC, Chris Bavin (no, I never heard of him either), will this week be recommending we barbecue over woodchips not charcoal; better still use a gas barbie. This is based on some dodgy research by Dr Martin Rose who, as the MoS pompously assures us, advises the Food Standards Agency. That fills me with confidence, since it’s the most toothless advisory body imaginable.

Dr Rose and his colleagues have shown that meat that has been marinaded in beer before being barbied produces lower levels of polycyclic aromatic hydrocarbons, which are suspected carcinogens. That’s a bit odd since many beers already contain various caramels, which are also suspect. Bear in mind also that this was under controlled conditions, which the average firestorm barbie is about as far from as you can get.

The then goes on to extrapolate beyond the bounds of reason, and despite not having done any research, believes that using any marinade will have the same effect. Some people believe the Earth’s flat, but it isn’t.

Dr Martin must have some educational achievements tucked under his belt, and that means he has at least some brains. The irony is that there’s a lot of evidence that the technique of cooking meat was instrumental in the development of the bigger brains that gave humans the environmental edge.

Then the truly heart-warming story that women can now choose sperm donors using a phone app. It enables them to trawl a database and look for characteristics such as race, or eye colour. It also allows for nationality to be specified, but as to why that’s germane to the issue (ha ha), well your guess is as good as mine. I’m not sure of the significance of the donor’s profession either.

You know me and IVF, and my attitude is not helped by some blithering idiot from the London Sperm Bank (that would be a riot to do on What’s My Line) babbling on about women ‘being able to gain control.’ I hate that phrase.

By the way, all this for a knockdown 950 quid. We’ve come (ha ha) a long way from turkey basters and your best male friend.