Some of you may have noticed that last week, we were forced to humiliate ourselves, and sell our very dignity downstream, by producing pictures of ourselves taken in the 1990s, in the name of promoting the (awesome) 90s-set comedy drama My Mad Fat Teenage Diary.
Interestingly, C4 press supremo (suprema?) Jane Fletcher, and the Muttley to her Dick Dastardly, Head of Corporate Press James MacLeod, failed to produce pictures of themselves. James had mumbled some guff about forgetting to look, and Jane had gone so far as to book herself a holiday to Argentina - at least, she claimed it was Argentina, though she returned sporting a pink sombrero, a "Magaluf Madness 2013" t-shirt, a black eye, and a tattoo of the Gordon's Gin logo.
However, persuaded by the dictum that all good generals should lead from the front (or, in this case, the small matter of a week behind their troops) both Jane and James have been gently persuaded of the need to provide pictorial evidence of their 1990s selves.
So here - in honour of episode 2 of My Mad Fat Diary (E4, 10pm, Monday 21st January) are our dear leaders, in all their 90s glory. Interestingly (and this bares no relation at all to the fact that the two are, as fromages go, of the somewhat grande variety) I thought they both looked glamorous and attractive in their photos...
Here, Jane looks relaxed and tanned in this totally unposed, naturalistic hioliday shot. Note how similar she looks to her 2013 self - doth the lady age not?
Ah, the boyish good looks of the young James MacLeod - like a youthful Damian Lewis (with some fashionably 90s hair product going on). Here's looking at you, handsome!
Beauty, they name is Fletch. Showing all the poise of... all the poi.. all... Oh God, I can't do this. Showing all the poise of a badly-dressed teenager posing with her mates, and a load of drying laundry, if you look closely, Jane is also rocking the "I've just had a snail crawl up my arm" look.
The legs-apart pose says "I'm a man's man, confident in my sexuality, I can ski down cliffs, pull chicks, and down six bottles of Orangina, all before lunch." The shades say "I'm a berk."
Here, we can see the trousers in full effect. Dear heavens, the trousers. It's not enough that they're the most unpalatable thing to emerge since a supermarket horseburger, they're also worn practically up to the armpits. Simon Cowell, eat your heart out.
Please consider this my formal letter of resignation.