How many people watched that farcical, shrieky hen party in space and said, “Right, that’s it! I’m never buying anything from Amazon again”? I’ll go first: I did.

I watched Katy Perry exit the capsule, kiss the earth despite having been in “proper” space for all of four minutes, which is a shorter duration than a ride on the Blackpool waltzers, and felt not wonder but an immediate urge to cancel my Amazon Prime subscription.

Because it’s all my fault. And yours. Or at least some of you. If we didn’t lazily one-click whenever we needed a new spatula or medicated plasters for Grandma’s corns, Jeff Bezos would not be the second richest man on the planet. And he wouldn’t be able to waste money inviting six whooping ladies to jump on his big, thrusting rocket.

Do I sound envious? I’m not, honest. OK, true, I wouldn’t say no to his billions, but I did not covet for one nanosecond that hubristic vanity jaunt. If Jeff had asked me to hop on his enormous projectile and feel the Earth move, I would have said, “No, Jeff. Respectfully, I would rather pick the tops off Grandma’s corns.” I get nervous flying two hours to Mallorca, so a space mini-trip is a no-no, especially as they didn’t even serve calming gin and tonics like easyJet does.

• My space adventure (I was there for longer than Katy Perry and Lauren Sánchez)

Oh, I know it was brave and that it might encourage more girls to get into rocket science blah blah (though in that case Perry’s vacuous phrase “put the ‘ass’ in astronaut” was unfortunate. Anyway, she’s not an astronaut! She’s a space tourist holding a daisy).

But what, pray, did this obscenely expensive publicity stunt for Blue Origin teach us about space? Or indeed the price of fish? A big fat nothing, other than Bezos has money to burn and Perry now feels “super connected to love”, whatever that means. Oh, and Bezos’s fiancée, Lauren Sánchez, realised that “we are all in this together”, so David Cameron is obviously side-gigging as Bezos’s speechwriter.

What’s the point in me carping from the sidelines, though, when I am to blame? I have said for years that I must break my Amazon habit, feeling stained whenever a tiny item arrives in a huge, planet-wrecking cardboard box and acres of brown padding paper. I feel like a married man in a dodgy massage parlour sadly pulling up his slacks post-“happy ending” and feeling only self-loathing. Until the next time, when I need some plug unblocker “by 10pm next day” and I click on Jeff’s disgusting, brilliant G-spot again. Apologies for the mental image.

We, the Amazon gimps, are all Jeff’s enablers, his “hoes”. But we can stop, go cold turkey, return to the real shops staffed by real people. Ah, but I’ve just remembered — I won’t be able to find a parking space, they won’t have my size and then I’ll queue for 30 minutes at the till because some time-waster is returning a skirt. Plus, my Amazon subscription recently renewed, so silly not to use it, eh?

Who the hell am I kidding? Much as I want no part of Jeff’s big rocket, I know who I am and that I am weak. I am, and will probably remain, one of Jeff’s useful idiots. Now, do Amazon sell decent bathmats?

We may be able to “speak dolphin” soon via an “interspecies Google Translate” that will decode dolphin clicks for humans. Lovely. But I reckon we can already guess what dolphins say, and we may not like it. I bet they say: “Why do fat tourists always want to swim with us? Jeez. So boring. Can we recommend swimming with sharks? They love fat tourists.”

I also bet they say: “Why do you always paint us as sex perverts forever frottaging or raping our women? Fake news! #notalldolphins”. Or: “May I do my toilet on your kitchen floor? No? Well, would you mind not tipping your shit, literally, into my front room?” I’m very sure they say: “Put that Cornetto down, madam, and see how you like jumping through a hoop for one poxy fish.”

A “cat translation” app was launched a few years ago and didn’t really take off. Probably because we all know what a cat says when it jumps on your lap and it’s essentially this: “Yes, human, my anus is in your face. Deal with it.”

I hope you are as excited as me about the forthcoming naked pétanque tournament in Kent, where I imagine puerile “coche” and “balls” gags will not be welcome so please don’t embarrass yourself. Neither too, I expect, will be any sniggering over the term “kissing Fanny”, which refers to a custom in pétanque when a team loses a game without scoring a point. But I am intrigued by another naked event on the Naturist Foundation’s calendar, which, oh dear Lord, is the Naked 5k. Through woodland.

Now, I have run 5k, including through woodland, and let me tell you, the stinging nettles were bad enough when clothed. No one wants to be rubbing a dock leaf on their Auntie Valerie at the halfway mark. And how would one’s old girls fare after all that running without a bra? I’d be dragging mine like sandbags through the puddles. Worse, what if naked men limber up by touching their toes at the starting line? Be kind to your eyes, folks, and avoid Kent on May 18.