The wives and girlfriends (WAGs) of England's World Cup football team are spending like there's no tomorrow over in Germany. But are they just a throwback to another age?

Aren't the WAGs wonderful? The WAGs, wives and girlfriends of the English football team, are the best thing about the World Cup. They are so wonderfully silly and uniquely English.

Although the wives and girlfriends of players from other countries are also ensconced in hotels throughout Germany, none of them, I think, has taken their own fake tan consultant, which some of the English Wags are said to have done, at a cost of £15,000 - which makes Cherie Blair's recent £7,000 hairdressing bill seem quite sensible really.

The WAGs have spent most of their time drinking, partying and shopping, while Germans look on bemused. Six of them apparently hit the shops of Baden Baden and spent £4,000 in an hour. They are snapping up designer dresses, bags, shoes and £500 sunglasses.

So good to have a purpose in life, wouldn't you say?

And yet despite their money, their tiny, perfect figures, their golden tans, their hours in the hotel spas and all that shopping, they still look, well, tacky.

Just like any other group of raucous young women dressed up to the nines and out on the town to have a good time. They move around Baden Baden en masse like the sort of hen party you pray won't come into the bar where you're having a quiet after work drink.

And what are they for? The 1960s dungaree-wearing feminists must be spluttering with fury.

True, Melanie Slade, girlfriend of Theo Walcott, flew home at the weekend to revise for her A-levels, which sounds much too sensible for a WAG. But she's only 17. She'll learn.

The WAGs seem to have no independent lives, no purpose other than to be a footballer's wife, no way of justifying their existence other than being ornamental and spending a lot of their man's money.

They are a throwback to another age. Their status, their lifestyles rely entirely on their husbands. If any of the footballers were to miss a penalty, then his WAG's status would plummet with it.

In the meantime, we can gawp in awe at their antics, wonder if Victoria's shorts can get any smaller and still stay visible, sympathise with her bunions and see how many more pairs of £500 specs Colleen can buy.

They are a source of innocent merriment, cheer up the pages filled with the World Cup coverage - and are much more entertaining than the football.

A new advertising craze is to paint your ads on the bare midriffs of willing models. Don't know how successful it will prove.

The nicest, flattest, tightest midriff will have barely enough room for a logo, let alone slogan.

And if there's room to say all you want to say, who's going to look at a wobbly belly long enough to read it?

Children's parties have become a competitive sport as parents try and outdo each other with the flashiest, most indulgent, expensive and over the top entertainment for a group of five year-olds, says a new survey, which claims parents are suffering real stress in their bid to keep up.

Relax. As everyone else has extravagant outings, themed parties professional entertainers and a bill for over £10,000, it's easy to be daringly different.

Go back to basics. Jelly, ice cream, pin the tail on the donkey and pass the parcel. Call it minimalist, eco-friendly, startlingly simple, whatever you like, but it will be a lot less fuss, will save you a fortune - and the kids will enjoy it just as much, if not more, than all the mega productions.

PS on car insurance

Many thanks to the caller who pointed out that whereas car insurance of young men can easily cost £1,000, the fines are rarely more than £100, so what incentive to be law abiding?

Smaller Son, unable to insure his car for the last week of his MOT, opted to be sensible and hand the car to the dealer,, which meant he couldn't get all his stuff home. So we went on holiday to Pembrokeshire via Cardiff and collected a year's worth of student junk and possessions, and had to take them on holiday with us. Just what we needed. So much for travelling light.

Husband went back and fro to the cottage carrying tv, computer duvet, books, hi fi, kitchen gear and endless bulging bin bags, including at least one of dirty washing. For a week neighbours in the quiet country lane must have been terrified that we weren't innocent happy holidaymakers, but far more likely to be squatters, settling in for a good long stay and a lot of trouble.

On the last morning, as we loaded everything back in and car, weighed down to the gunnels, crept along the lane, scraping the daisies growing in the middle, I swear I heard a sigh of relief and maybe even a quiet cheer or two.