The Saturdays are what would be described in the egg world as ‘good’. Good eggs, that’s what they are. You never see them stumbling out of nightclubs pulling each other's hair, or saying anything mean about anyone, and it’s highly unlikely you’d ever catch them torturing a puppy.
Rather, they spend their spare time supporting good causes. Tweren't all that long ago they were performing a little ditty for Help the Heroes. And, last night, the do-gooding pop starlets sang some stuff to launch the Remembrance Day Poppy Appeal.
In the papers today it said Britain is the fattest place in Europe. We once had a conversation with this fat kid at school. We'd see him in the canteen every lunchtime, always eating the same thing - chips, beans and white bloomer bread. One day, we asked him why he always ate the same thing. Through a mouthful of Heinzy mush, he said:
"Chips, good. Beans, good. Bread, good."
It wasn't the most lucid argument, admittedly, but we couldn't argue with the logic on which it was based. So, in homage to him (he's probably gone the way of a coronary by now):
The Saturdays - good. Legs - good. Good causes - good.
Except, maybe it's not all good news. We pride ourselves on an attention to detail here (our belt even matches our shoes today) and we've noticed something worrying afoot.
Una Healy is playing guitar. The Saturdays don't normally play guitars. Something has changed. Change is almost always bad.
Una Healy looks sad. She looks more depressed than a man who's just eaten a shit sandwich and discovered he's got a yeast infection. "I want to leave The Saturdays and pursue a career playing songs about being an independent woman on my guitar", she's probably thinking.
Frankie Sandford's being seduced by two soldiery-type blokes. She looks pretty chuffed. Will it be long before she's leaving MTV behind her to go and fight a different fight, the one with guns and fighting and stuff? No, it will not.
Not you too, Mollie King? She's only gone and beaten Frankie to the punch and signed up for the army already. Bloody hell, army, can't you keep your hands of our favourite pop princesses for two minutes? Recruit Atomic Kitten or something.
Rochelle Wiseman ain't happy about this, and nor are we.