You've got to feel for Rihanna. In another era, she'd be Mary Whitehouse's diamond-knickered boogy woman; a fizzing sex-punk of titillation, Satan-sent to hypnotise The Youth and traumatise their Cath Kidston-clad progenitors. But these days, it just ain't that easy.

Shall we get the obvious, weirdly unspoken secret out of the way? Her target fanbase aren't so much 'tricky to offend' as 'Two Girls One Cup veterans'. This, remember, is the 3G era, when internet muck is only ever a ...