Vanessa Feltz sends stark five-word message to Gregg Wallace amid BBC probe

Note to Gregg Wallace: middle-aged women of all classes are the least likely cohort to complain about oppressive, offensive male behaviour. We’ve endured a lifetime of pinched buttocks, ribald remarks and rampant misogyny. We’ve been trained to smile and pretend we’re fine with it.

I’ve never appeared on Wallace’s TV shows, and I know he has now apologised for these intemperate remarks. But let me tell you a true story. In 2019, I’d just presented my BBC radio show when a surprise delivery arrived in the studio – a box labelled something like “Celebrate National Orgasm Day”. Clearly an attention-grabbing PR initiative courtesy of the company Ann Summers, it contained brightly coloured vibrators.

I wasn’t offended. I was amused. Giant sex toys didn’t land on my desk every day. My honest initial reaction was that it would be hilarious to yell jokily to a couple of close colleagues, “Oy! Your orders have arrived. Is it strictly necessary to have your vibrators delivered to the office?”

For a split second I thought gesticulating with Rampant Rabbits in the newsroom would be a hoot. Thank heavens I came to my senses before I made the mistake of uttering a single salacious syllable. I realised that such behaviour – especially by me, the show’s presenter, with my name over the door – might be considered upsetting, inappropriate and even regarded as sexual harassment.

I wasn’t in a pub or in my own home among pals. I was at work. I couldn’t know who would overhear me, what their religious beliefs could be, or who I might risk insulting. Unleash a stream of what I intended as “Carry On”-style saucy banter and I might find myself facing formal complaints and even headlines accusing me of sexually inappropriate conduct. I put the vibrators back in the box and stayed silent.

Why didn’t Wallace get the memo? The hashtag #MeToo erupted in 2017 – a warning powerful men could not ignore. Wallace should have known, particularly after a 90-minute “conversation” with bosses following complaints in 2018, to put a sock in it.

His decision to pile blame on the women who objected to his behaviour instead of apologising immediately for the distress caused – inadvertently or otherwise – speaks volumes about the measure of the man.

For many, marmalade is an acquired taste. As children we watched, bewildered, as adults ruined delicious hot buttered toast by daubing it with dollops of nasty, bitter marmalade. Sweet, comforting jam had our vote.

Just a decade ago, pundits predicted the demise of marmalade. New generations had failed to acquire the taste and it was thought its production might cease altogether.

Now the Paddington 3 film has generated “marmalade mania” and it is being consumed with much enjoyment.

Good job too. It takes discernment and maturity to appreciate its tart pleasures, and we’ve even developed a penchant for fancy varieties – blood orange, pink gin and whisky marmalades are flying off the shelves.

Stock up – if you’ve never added marmalade to your Boxing Day cold turkey sandwich, you haven’t lived.

Sir Elton John, famed for his diva meltdowns, is a delight in person. I was privileged to be part of the audience giving The Devil Wears Prada – for which he has written the score – a standing ovation at the theatre on Sunday.

The 77-year-old star, his husband David Furnish and their sons were in the Royal Box, clapping and singing along. Elton, left, seemed in terrific form. When he came on stage, the applause was seismic. We were wrapped in feelgood factor. So when he said his eyesight has deteriorated so much that he couldn’t see the show but he had loved hearing it, we were in shock.

He has provided the soundtrack to our lives and we care deeply for his wellbeing, so it was a huge relief to see him having a blast at the drag queen extravaganza afterparty.

There is much debate as to whether it’s acceptable to bring olive oil instead of wine as a dinner party gift. Of course it is – anything useful and delicious should be accepted by hosts.

But there are no-no’s. Firstly, flowers that require leaf-stripping, a vase, and arranging. Hosts don’t have time.

No scented candles. We have cupboards full of them awaiting the first re-gifting opportunity.

Drop any dish you prepared without consultation. It implies you don’t trust the host.

Forget weird chocolates. Bring the sweets of our youth. Nothing evokes more joy than talking to pals with a Milkybar in one hand and a Fudge in the other.

I was flabbergasted to hear my chum Jane Moore mutter “Hard work doesn’t pay off” as she was evicted from the I’m A Celebrity… jungle.

Most women – and a few exceptional chaps – know this deep down in our bones. We are aware that a lifetime of refreshing the loo rolls, filling the fridge, laundering the games kit, remembering grandma’s birthday and topping up the children with fluoride drops goes unnoticed and unrewarded. No one gets a prize or even thanks for the bulk of the toil at home.

Reality TV holds a mirror up to real life. Cook, clean, wash-up – as Jane, below, did unceasingly – and no one watching comfortably on the sofa gives a monkey’s. But sing, dance, boast, lie, steal and have a 24-carat meltdown – and you will notch up oodles of screen time and millions of besotted fans.

Jane could have spent her jungle sojourn sitting on her behind, contemplating her navel and it would have made no difference to her public profile.

She is a thoroughly decent sort, a relentless grafter and 100 per cent authentic. Morphing into an idle show-off wouldn’t have suited her a bit.

■The Royal Horticultural Society says we have just six weeks to save our house plants. Days are drawing in and central heating – if we can afford it – is revving up. Neglected and confused, our orchids and Christmas cacti are set to give up the ghost. The RHS advises buying new plants and acclimatising them somewhere cool before bringing them in. But we frugal plant-lovers pride ourselves on the longevity of our rubber plants and mini-lemon trees and want to eke them out. We don’t want to chuck out pre-loved favourites and buy perky new whippersnappers.