Today, Big Brother ends and I'm not a bit sad. I am one of the hypocrites who claims never to watch it and yet I know a good number of the ultimate cast list. Their strops are too well orchestrated for me. Looking at Nikki trying to rustle up a tantrum is boring at best. But there's something magical about watching people who should have remained anonymous clutching celebrity.

One woman looking for a job on daytime when the series ends is Ms Davina McCall, will L'Oreal want her to ring her mammy anymore? Maybe, but one thing's sure for me, she should be looking for a new husband, too, or a good mechanic to change his mind set.

Matthew Robertson put in a complaint about her knicker drawer recently, saying it was too "comfy". She admits to being offended at first, but then she went online and bought thongy things to rectify the situation. The sad thing is she let us in on the exchange, in true Big Brother fashion. It's only when these celebrities get column inches that they can figure out their real feelings.

I thought it was sad and sick, that the guy you're supposed to let it all hang out with, the guy you signed up to for life and eternity, wants you to be telly presenter standard at home, when slouching should take over from sexy.

Davina's the one age with me and we've one thing in common. My partner once suggested that I seek out some new underwear to rid myself of the roadkill I wore under my clothes. I told him to feck off and deal with the holes in his socks. I'm not saying underwear shouldn't be sexy. I'm saying if it's sexy all the time, it shows you're lacking something.

Comfort for one thing. When you put on your granny pants you're free to think about other things. When you put on a thong all you can think, all day long, is "I'm wearing a thong".

Life is not telly screen-sized. It's messy, hard and long. Home is for curling up and feeling relaxed. How can you do that in an Agent Provocateur basque? Those yokes are for special occasions. Underwire, steel bones, mesh and decorative bows look crap under ordinary clothes. They also squeeze enough breath out of you to oxygenate a 100-a-day smoker.

Clearly, I had these feelings in my 30s, too. I was out once with a group of girlfriends, swapping Christmas gifts and one of them had chosen to give us all underwear. I was given bed socks. Enough said, but they're still there in my drawer. Comfy underwear is like your favourite shoes. It follows you through life until there's not enough left to justify putting it on. If you're me, that takes you through the decade Big Bro's been on the box.

I can't imagine what it must be like to wake up each day and think of how your trans abdominals, your breast size and your buttocks look in pictures. So, obviously, Davina could tell me to feck off. She's probably rolling in the hay every day thanks to her new equipment, while I'm watching the tail-end of her show on telly.

Ovaltine or uplift? Fix me the milky drink. If I found myself living with a man who wanted me to sex it up 24-7, I'd have to call back the white horse my knight arrived on, slap its arse and send him packing.

If your chap wants you to keep up appearances all day, every day, then get him to wear the stuff he wants you to wear under his work clothes for a day and see how quickly he heads for the Y-fronts.

I have one friend who disagrees with me. She says new underwear lifts your spirits. I like new underwear, but it takes a while to break your bras in. When you find one that fits it's like an old friend, as your husband should be; the one you feel most at home with, the one who loves the skin you're in.

Maybe that's the ad Davina needs to sign up to do next.

- Suzanne Power