Really? We're going there? Someone, somewhere, thought it would be appropriate to tell us all that the man whose apple pies, lemon slices and jam tarts we have probably been eating on and off since childhood is unable to satisfy his own wife. What next? Uncle Ben in incontinence pants? Colonel Sanders beating his kids?

Perhaps the worst thing is that I had no idea that I was protective of Mr Kipling. He is, after all, a pretend man whose cakes I rarely eat and never buy. And yet evidently the brand managed to insert itself into my brain at some formative age, where it lurked for decades, triggering some deep-rooted neurological response that made me feel warmly affectionate whenever I saw a cherry bakewell.

They pulled me in. And now, thanks to Mrs Kipling's bedroom antics - or lack thereof - they have pushed me away.

It's not the first time this has happened. Birdseye made this mistake when they ditched Captain Birdseye, presumably realising that the concept of an elderly pirate on a ship entirely staffed by children is, on paper, quite dodgy. So they revamped their much loved mascot as a lantern-jawed action hero, and the world slapped its collective forehead and switched off its collective telly.

Mr Muscle's done it too. That was blessed with a memorable ad campaign in which a nerdy looking chap with arms like toothpicks consistently failed to operate a plunger, only to be rescued by a plastic bottle full of industrial chemicals. Now they've ditched the geek and introduced us to Mr Muscle himself, a digitally rendered superhero who battles stains around the home, apparently using the computer animation technology of 1997. It's particularly rubbish.

It could be worse. At least there isn't a Mrs Muscle yet, banging on about her husband's bedroom antics and stain removing abilities. Then again, I'm sure it's just a matter of time.