Archive for category Humour
So Father’s Day is approaching. Adverts for power tools seem to be on every thirty seconds and MoonPig.com have found themselves a wonderful new male model so that, however good your parenting, you can still feel inadequate for a whole month leading up to your special day using the simple process of aging.
It’s a day that takes up the thoughts of fellow dad bloggers whether it’s Alex from Dadda Cool quite rightly bemoaning the commercialisation of it all or Hapless Dad’s less than serious present suggestions. As someone who has given up spirits (at least for now) and regards power tools with the same suspicion everyone else reserves for the wrong end of a Kalashnikov (I googled that to check the spelling and not to buy an AK47 by the way Mr Forensic Policeman) there is probably nothing typically blokey that you can buy me anyway. So my Father’s Day wish list is not so much a list of stuff I would like to add to the house that we will shortly be packing up anyway but more a list of stuff I’d like to happen…..
- I would like the toilet flushed by my son. People have commented on my twitter avi but it hasn’t been working recently. The last thing I want on my special day is to sneak upstairs for a half hour read of The Observer behind a locked door only to be greeted by a bowl of bangers and mash.
- I would like to wake up naturally after 7am. Whirlwind, please note that naturally does not include screaming at your brother, doing the Gangnam Style on your bed, yelling “I’VE DONE A POO”, bouncing on my head, bouncing on Mummy’s head, actually doing a poo or attempting to come downstairs and turn on CBeebies by yourself at the age of two, all at the sort of hour that would make your average postman wince.
- I would like not to see the MoonPig.com father’s day advert. Or that tit that advertises Cillit Bang from the tiny aeroplane.
- I would like to be confident enough in my spelling that I don’t have to google things like Kalashnikov (potentially putting me on an international terrorist watch list) or Cillit Bang (the first word of which is one typo away from getting my blog a whole different adult orientated audience).
- I would like something positive to happen at my football club and for England to win the cricket (yes I know we are in to the realms of fantasy now)
- I would like a never ending supply of pork belly that didn’t actually make me fat. Just for the day.
- I would like to be able to send the kids to ACAS when they fight.
- I would like not to be old enough to remember ACAS and to be clever enough to remember if they still exist by myself. Is there actually any call for them post Thatcher? Come to think of it the last newsreader I can remember mentioning them was Kenneth Kendall.
- I would like not to be old enough to remember Kenneth Kendall.
- I would like someone to make it possible for Alex and Sid from CBeebies to have an actual fight while introducing Cloud Babies.
- I would like to go a whole day without stepping on some Lego. If I could also go to bed that night without finding Pom Bears in the sheets that would be a bonus.
- Self ironing work clothes. Actually this should be number 1.
Surely this isn’t too much to ask? Happy Father’s Day!
Perhaps the weirdest weaning method I have ever come across is that used by American actor, vegan and (IMO) nut-job Alicia Silverstone. Admittedly being a nut-job seems to be a prerequisite for Hollywood actors who, if they’re not members of cults seem instead to be intent on frying their brains on alcohol and drugs or joining food groups like the raw food movement (no Woody Harrelson, just because you were in a couple of movies does not give you the right to instruct us all to forage for nuts and berries for the rest of our life).
In March 2012 Silverstone was reported to have posted a You Tube video and blog in which she is seen chewing her food and then spitting it in to the waiting mouth of her baby Bear Blu, a la mama bird. This I’m against, mainly because it sounds disgusting. Food spitting is a parenting prejudice I am happy to admit to.
But how did it come about? In fact she got the idea from her lesser known but just as rich and mad sister Mavis and her son Rodney Bear Blu though their video was never posted. Luckily I had an exclusive peek and have transcribed it for you below………..
Mavis Silverstone: Ok then Bear, er I mean Rodney, Mommy’s going to make you a yummy feast!
Rodney Bear Blu: (sotto voce) You sure? That looks like you’re making more of that collards drizzled with flax oil.
Mavis Silverstone: YEAH BABY!! Here we are. Miso soup, collards and radish with flax oil and grated daikon
Rodney Bear Blu: (sotto voce) Oh for fucks sake. No cheeseburger then.
Mavis Silverstone: Open wiiiide! *chews furiously* Here we go! *spits in to baby’s mouth*
Rodney Bear Blu: *gags* *pukes*
Mavis Silverstone: Oh my poor wickle baby!! Are you sick honey? You want me to chew you up more daikon? It’s very healing.
Rodney Bear Blu: No it isn’t! It’s fucking minging! You know the only thing worse than pre-chewed grated daikon? Fucking pre-sucked miso soup! You know that by the time it gets to me it just tastes of saliva right? YOUR saliva? You want that I should just cut out the middle man next time and just suck your tongue?
Mavis Silverstone: Oh…baby you can talk….and you sound a bit like a British football hooligan. How did that happen?
Rodney Bear Blu: Never mind that you sappy hippy bitch. Listen up. Stop with the pre-chewed food nonsense. I’m a baby human not a baby bird. Just get me some regular food, cut it up and give it to me on a plate so that I can tip it all over the floor like any normal baby. And also some meat would be nice. In fact anything that wasn’t drizzled in flax oil would be nice. But meat please, once a week. And since I know how much that daikon costs you, you can make it wagyu beef – cooked sous vide.
Mavis Silverstone: But honey, just like my better known sister I’m a vegan!
Rodney Bear Blu: Oh yeah! Of course you are. So you definitely wouldn’t want anyone going to the newspapers about your secret sausage collection would you.
Mavis Silverstone: Actually they’d probably be more interested in how you can talk like that at 10 months old but I take your point. Wagyu beef it is. Unchewed.
*stalks off to make herself some dandelion tea*
The other day I made scrambled eggs for me and the children. I have always added milk to my egg mixture but never been totally confident this is correct. So I thought I would Google the question ‘should you put milk in scrambled eggs’. I wish I hadn’t. It’s possibly the most contradictory set of links ever. So now there’s only one way to settle the debate. By eavesdropping on two chefs, Richard and Phillip.
*wavy lines and xylophone music*
Scene – the kitchens of a four star hotel in London. It’s breakfast time.
Richard The Breakfast Chef: ON ORDER, 1 bacon sandwich, 1 full English and 2 Scrambled Eggs with Smoked Salmon.
Phillip the Sous: YES CHEF!
(sounds of cooking)
Richard The Breakfast Chef: Phillip, the milk please!
Phillip the Sous: Milk? Have we got a cat all of a sudden? The waitresses do the cereal, teas and coffees. Er, Chef.
Richard The Breakfast Chef: It’s for the scrambled eggs you moron.
Phillip the Sous: Scrambled eggs? What the fuck would you put milk in scrambled eggs for? Do you know the Victorians used to sack their cooks for putting milk in scrambled eggs?
Richard The Breakfast Chef: Perverts.
Phillip the Sous: I said SACK THEIR COOKS. Anyway. It’s wrong.
Richard The Breakfast Chef: No it’s not, it makes the eggs creamier and slightly lighter in colour when you present them. Also my mum told me to put milk in when I was 7.
Phillip the Sous (incredulously) : YOUR MUM? Well would you mind telling Mummy Dearest that milk doesn’t go in scrambled eggs because it makes them too solid. WHICH IS THE WRONG TEXTURE. What else did she teach you to cook? “Today’s special: Lamb with Rice Krispies, Semolina Vol-Au-Vonts and Garlic Chewing Gum”. As taught to chef by his mother when he was eight?
Richard The Breakfast Chef: And who taught you to cook? Ronald Fucking McDonald? Got some hash browns there have we Phil? Can I have a McShit burger well done please? If you hadn’t noticed it’s your job to FLIP THE FUCKING BACON Philly Boy. And you’ve forgotten. It’s burned. Like everything you’ve cooked ever since your training in a red and yellow apron.
Phillip the Sous: Right that’s it! Come on then you milk adding weirdo!
(Richard and Phillip grab a kitchen knife and chase each other round the kitchen to the dismay of Arthur the Commis who has been quietly de-rinding bacon).
Well I’m glad that’s cleared up then……
*GUEST POST KLAXON*
The brilliant Fran who blogs sadly less regularly at http://motherventing.wordpress.com/ has done me a guest post. A GUEST POST! FOR ME!
On the one hand I’m buggered as it’s funnier than anything I’ve ever written. On the other hand it may attract more of you lovely people here *points at blog* for just a few mins. All comments are for Fran. I won’t* be reading them
*will, every day.
Aka The Day We Had No TV
It started out like any other day. Cold, dark and damp. And that was just the contents of Moo’s overnight nappy. But I dealt with that. I can do that. That was OK considering the SHEER HELL that was to follow.
See, we came downstairs and instantly I knew something was wrong. There was no tiny electric hum. There were no red lights. The TV screen, and indeed, the Sky+ box, were eerily silent and blank. Doom. DOOM. ‘Don’t worry, Moo,’ I muttered, though it was more to reassure my racing heart, ‘I’ll fix it. It can be fixed. IT CAN BE FIXED.’
I couldn’t fix it. I didn’t even know what the fark was wrong with the farking thing, the buttons were all unresponsive, and my usual method of switching off the plug and then switching it on again, while offering up silent pleas to the technology gods, didn’t bloody work. DOOOOOM.
THERE WAS NO TV.
We were LITERALLY going to have to get through the day without Cbeebies.
WHY ME? WHY? WHY DO BAD THINGS ALWAYS HAPPEN TO GOOD PEOPLE? WHY??
So it was a bit like going cold turkey. Here’s how the day panned out:
Moo says ‘Cbeebies?’ and then says ‘Cbeebies’ and then says ‘CBEEBIES’. A shiver runs down my spine.
I am frantically singing Numtums tunes at her. It is the NOT the same, and she knows it. She throws a maraca at my head in protest.
The whole getting washed/dressed thing distracts Moo for a while, but once we come downstairs and it becomes obvious once more that the TV will not be going on, I get THE LOOK. ‘Cbeebies,’ Moo demands.
‘It’s not working. The TV is broken,’ I reply, sweat pouring down my brow.
‘Mummy do it,’ Moo says obstinately.
‘I’m TRYING, I’m TRYING, I don’t know HOW to fix it!’ I wail, flicking the switch on the plug again and gazing in terror at the blank screen.
We eat some biscuits in silence. A weird silence.
I keep thinking I hear Sid and Alex’s voices. It’s like being haunted by impossibly chirpy ghosts.
I’m in absolute dread of lunchtime. I can’t remember all the words to the Lunchtime Song. What if Moo doesn’t eat anything unless I can sing the entire song? I make a cup of tea while Moo does some colouring. I’m trying to recall the lyrics: ‘You’ve been playing so hard… and it’s something something… So… what’s on your plate? Der der dum de der der…’ Suddenly I look round. Moo is standing in the doorway. ‘Lunch,’ she says solemnly.
‘Not yet, baby,’ I mutter nervously.
She stares at me. And frowns. ‘Cbeebies,’ she intones.
‘Maybe later!’ I squeak. She walks away.
I sip my scalding hot tea in the kitchen, where I can’t see the TV.
Lunchtime is OK in the end. I give Moo cake for lunch so she is intent on eating that. She doesn’t notice the gaping blackness of the dead TV screen. Whereas it follows me around the room. I hate it. I hate the TV. Why is it doing this to me? I take out all the wires and fiddly bits at the back of the TV and Sky+ box and then put them all back in again carefully. I briefly get excited when I think I hear a mechanical whirr but it’s just one of Moo’s toy cars revving mockingly under my feet. I start to cry.
Moo is in bed for a nap. I come back downstairs even though I hate being in the same deadly quiet space as the TV. I stare at it. ‘What’s wrong with you?’ I whisper. ‘Just tell me how to fix you. I want this to work. I want us to have happiness together. Will you please help us achieve that?’
The TV is silent.
‘Oh for god’s sake!’ I scream. ‘So I don’t dust you that often! Is that such a crime? Huh? Other TVs put up with a lot more, and THEY work just fine! You bastard! I hate you!’
I wake up in a heap on the floor in front of the TV. It is still quiet and still. My cheeks are sticky with dried tears.
I had to take Moo out, even though it was cold and raining. Admittedly, we had a good time in the café and the soft play centre, but all the while I was anticipating our arrival home, where there was no TV.
‘Cbeebies,’ Moo says as she takes her coat off.
‘No Cbeebies,’ I say sadly. ‘Remember? Cbeebies has died.’
Moo looks at me distrustfully.
Moo’s daddy rings to talk to her. ‘How’s it going?’ he asks me when I speak to him.
‘Oh god, the TV’s broken,’ I sob into the phone.
‘What? How?’ he says.
‘I don’t know, it’s just NOT WORKING, nothing works,’ my voice trembles with suppressed emotion.
‘Is it the plug socket? Has the fuse gone?’
‘Erm. I… yes, probably. How do I fix that?’
He talks me through it. It sounds kind of simple. We hang up and I face the TV. It stares at me blankly. ‘Fuck you,’ I say quietly. ‘This is over.’
The TV is working. I may have got a mild electric shock while changing the fuse, but the TV is working. ‘Cbeebies,’ Moo says contentedly, and settles down on the sofa to watch Abney and Teal.
‘Yes,’ I say, ‘Cbeebies.’
I feel so tired.
I’ll admit, I don’t think I coped with the situation well. But Moo and I need Cbeebies like we need ACTUAL OXYGEN.
What would YOU do without TV for a day?
Yesterday, Boy had a friend round for tea after school.
As a working parent I normally miss these sorts of events. I’m normally busy fiddling with a spreadsheet or on a conference call about toothbrushes or trying to find out where Darren the Office Junior* has hidden my collection of highlighter pens. Or else I am sitting on a stationary train outside a Surrey Council Estate next to the world’s fattest commuter watching them play Solitaire on their fucking i-Pad (why is it whenever we invent some new and brilliant technology the only thing anyone ever does with it is play Solitaire which they could do with an actual pack of cards for fucks sake). So I never quite see how these things pan out. However yesterday I was working from home which meant I came downstairs right in the middle of the tea date.
They had been playing remarkably nicely together. His friend is a lovely child and we get on really well with the parents. They played the Wii together, didn’t argue and even let Whirlwind join in. I packed away my laptop and started to cook for everyone. Naturally I made Sausages Chips and Beans. At one point I didn’t think the sausages were browning quickly enough and turned up the heat a bit. When I turned them next the little black line showed me that I might have turned it up TOO high and I turned it down again, giving the rest of the sausages a nice even browning.
I called them in to eat. What I didn’t mention about his friend is that, though he is indeed lovely and they get on very well he is also cheeky. Very cheeky. He looked at his sausages. “What are these black bits?” he asked. “We don’t have black bits on the sausages at my house.”
I know he was just asking because they were different but in my mind’s eye I saw Gordon Ramsay losing it. “WHAT THE FUCK ARE THESE? OVERCOOKED SHIT! HOW THE FUCK AM I SUPPOSED TO SERVE THESE TO THE DINERS? YOU SEE MARY OVER THERE ON TABLE 12? IF SHE EATS EVEN A MICROGRAM OF BURNED STUFF SHE DIES! DO YOU WANT TO BRING ACTUAL FUCKING DEATH TO MY DINING ROOM? MAKE THEM AGAIN. MAKE THEM AGAIN RIGHT NOW AND DON’T MAKE THEM SHIT! HOW LONG?”
“About 10 minutes chef” I’d reply. Then I’d hang up my apron and cry.
The sausages, by the way, are probably the fattiest thing I have cooked for the whole of January. I am a few pounds over my ideal fighting weight. I’m over forty now! I thought this was allowed, that it was a sign of contented middle-age, but according to my wife it’s not. We are officially on a health kick. Lots of veg and poached things. Less booze. Almost no sausages at all. Also I am about to start cycling regularly for the first time since I was about 17. So steps are in hand to reduce the spare tyreage. Just as well.
After tea the boys were playing the Wii again when Boy’s friend suddenly came over to me. “You’ve got a big fat tummy” he said. Then he poked it to make sure it really was a tummy and I wasn’t smuggling a beach ball or giving birth to a small elephant. I know it was just a 5 year old boy being cheeky but in my minds eye I saw Daniel Callahan addressing someone who is one donut away from a gastric band.
“YOU DISGUSTING WASTE OF SPACE. HOW DARE YOU BREATHE THE SAME AIR AS NORMAL PEOPLE FATTY? I BET YOU HAVEN’T SEEN YOUR DICK IN MONTHS! DROP DOWN AND GIVE ME 5 PUSH UPS. NO? CAN YOU EVEN MANAGE ONE? YOU’RE FILTH! NOW WALK ROUND WEARING THIS SIZE 86 T-SHIRT THAT SAYS ‘I AM A DISGUSTING MESS’ ON IT BEFORE I ROLL YOU ON THE FLOOR LIKE A SMALL CHILD’S WEEBLE.”
The boys went back to playing the Wii revealing a wife who was nearly crying with laughter.
I realise now that she’s right about the weight losing.
I realise that despite being as hands on as possible there are many things about small children that I still have to learn and that she shields me from.
Most of all I realise how much fun it is sitting on a train stuck outside a Surrey Council Estate next to the world’s fattest commuter watching them play Solitaire on their fucking i-Pad.
*I don’t really sell toothbrushes or have an office junior called Darren but my real job isn’t even as exciting as that.
Scene: Richard and Phillip are in a car driving to Sainsbury’s to do the Christmas food shop
Richard: Isn’t it odd that our wives have entrusted the Christmas shop to is, a couple of clueless old duffers? Very rum.
Phillip: Oh I suspect it’s just some sort of hackneyed comic device the writer is using to describe the ridiculousness of this tortuous annual ritual.
Richard: Well never mind that. Look at the bloody queue for Sainsbury’s car park!
Phillip: Jesus. It’s like the M25 on a Friday evening.
Richard: There’s only one thing for it…..
Phillip: Sit in the traffic and wait our turn?
Richard: No, no you idiot! Queue jump by driving on the wrong side of the road of course.
Phillip: Oh yes go on then (noise of engine starting). Oh look, that man appears to be shaking some salt on his chips only he’s forgotten to pick up the salt shaker. And what’s that one saying? ‘Cracking Blunt’? Well ‘You’re Beautiful’ was OK I suppose but I wouldn’t call him cracking.
One hour and 25 minutes later
Phillip: Quick! There’s a space!
Richard: Well spotted! (parks)
Phillip: It does look a bit like a Disabled bay though.
Richard: It doesn’t count at Christmas. During Christmas shopping you can officially park anywhere. It’s like a free pass.
Phillip: Don’t you drive a BMW?
Richard: I do
Phillip: Surely it’s Christmas for you all year then!
(quick break to appreciate the obviousness of the last gag)
Scene: Inside the store
Richard: What’s the first thing on the list?
Phillip: Maris Pipers
Richard: What are they then?
Phillip: You daft old bastard! Everyone knows they’re red apples. Like these!
Richard: Good oh. What’s next?
Richard: SEMOLINA? Like that horrific cardboard desert we had at school. I bet they’ve got loads of that. (Spies assistant). Excuse me young man, have you got any semolina?
Assistant: I’m afraid we sold out yesterday. Nigella dredges her spuds in it on her Christmas programme. The second it aired we ran out.
Richard: DREDGES HER SPUDS? Is that a euphemism? And what, pray do perfectly adequate spud makers dredge them in the rest of the year?
Assistant: I’m not sure sir but I’m guessing nothing.
Phillip: Never mind, next item. Witch Hazel.
Richard: Fucking Witch Hazel? WHY?
Phillip: I suspect we don’t have any in and the shops are closing you know.
Richard: Excuse me again young man, when do you close?
Assistant: 4pm Christmas Eve
Richard: And open again?
Assistant: 10 am Boxing Day sir. With a sale.
Richard: You mean to say we’ve been asked to buy Witch Hazel because Sainsbury’s doors are closing for ONE WHOLE FUCKING DAY!
Phillip: Well you can’t be too careful.
Scene – the booze isle
Richard: This is more like it. No list needed here. We’ll need some advocaat and some Blue Bols.
Phillip: Are you sure they’ll get used?
Richard: Absolutely. Who doesn’t like advocaat at Christmas
Phillip (quietly): Me and the rest of the world…..
Richard: Don’t forget the Pale Ale and the Cranberry Vodka…..
Scene: At the checkouts
Richard: Well that was good. Only two hours queuing for a till. I’m sure it was three last year.
Assistant: That’ll be £334.56 please!
Richard: THREE HUNDRED QUID! At least Dick Turpin wore a mask……
Richard and Phillip leave and walk straight in to an Audi reversing out of the trolley park.
OK this is my second apology in a week which is ironic as the first was an apology for not maintaining this blog. But I am sorry.
Yes that smell in the changing rooms was my daughter and my wholly inadequate efforts to clean after her. She had, not to put too fine a point on it, taken a shit in her swim nappy which luckily kept it all in till after she’d swam. Yes, I am aware that some of you heard her before the lesson saying to me ‘I duned a poo Daddy’. What you have to understand is that in this respect she is the boy who cried wolf. Or rather girl who cries poo. It is her standard attention seeking phrase. When she wakes up in the morning she says ‘Daddy I duned a poo’. When she wants food she doesn’t always say ‘I’m hungry Daddy’. Sometimes she does but sometimes she says ‘I duned a poo’ and it will always turn out that she hasn’t. When I bath her and I’m about to take off her nappy she says ‘I duned a poo’ Here I have a follow up question, ‘poo or no poo’ which is delivered in a stern Noel Edmounds voice. This is where I find out the truth, which is almost always that her nappy is clean.
So when she says it I tend not to believe her, Also the extra ‘d’ on the end of ‘done’ grates on my need for grammatical correctness. Obviously I will have to revise this following this afternoon where she had clearly curled out a vince minutes before swimming.
I would also like to apologise for the wholly inadequate manner in which I cleaned it up. I’m a bloke. I’m good at cooking steak. I’m good at drinking beer and watching football. Talking nonsense about badgers. Wearing trainers. Catching wet shit? Not so good. I’m actually quite impressed that I got any of it in to the nappy sack at all and that I noticed the little bits that had stuck to the walls and cleaned them, and that I got one of the attendants to bring anti-bacterial cleaning bits to stop any germs spreading. That’s the sort of thing I used to get a gold star for at home. I guess that after 5 and a half years of non-stop dealing with bodily emissions I have finally graduated poo cleaning 101. Yay me. If my wet shit catching skillz improve I could actually try for poo college. Get an EBacc in EColi. Do an actual shit degree instead of a metaphorical one. Woohoo.
The smell? Yes sorry about that too. We only feed her on Brussels Sprouts soaked in Scotch, All Bran and grapes. I hope none of you noticed me collecting little bits in the vial either. The “Lab Money” comes in handy ok? How do you think we keep her in Vertbaudet leggings (shit coloured ones, obviously)?
Still at least I didn’t do anything REALLY STUPID like getting it on her costume and then, not only NOT putting it in a nappy bag but actually not remembering to take it with me either. I’m guessing all of you have been taking subtle whiffs of the sprout. All Bran and grape diet since mid-afternoon. Have haz mat been out yet?
In short sorry my shit is shit when it comes to shit.
(Yes, I’m aware that writing a post that says I won’t be writing any posts for a while then writing another post a few days later makes me look a bit, well, dumb, but trust me if you’d had the afternoon I just had you’d be blogging too.)
Scene: Two hikers, Richard and Phillip, are on top of a hill, having a rest and looking down.
Richard: I say Phillip, what’s that little white thing down there?
Phillip: Where? What white thing? All I can see is a couple of pink things bobbing up and down and moaning.
Richard: No, no, that’s those two Swedish ramblers shagging – I think she’s doing the reverse cowgirl. No I meant the OTHER side of the hill
Phillip: (disappointed) Oh I see. (Takes another sneaky peek then looks on the other side of the hill).Oh THAT. That’s a goat.
Richard: A STOAT? You stupid old fucker. Stoats are a bit more like a weasel. You’re nearly as blind as I am deaf. No that thing looks more like a cross between the devil and a small sheep. In fact quite like a goat.
Phillip: THAT’S WHAT I SAID YOU DEAF OLD BASTARD.
(At this point I would like kudos from the reader for avoiding the stoatily different gag. Ooops)
Richard: Haha. Only KIDDING. Goat jokes. You can’t bleat them.
Phillip: What’s it eating?
Richard: Looks like grass. Although of course you do know that goats will eat anything don’t you?
Phillip: No I’m sorry, I don’t think they do. I think that’s the sort of clichéd, hackneyed myth that parents tell their children to stop them putting their arms in goat’s mouths at Petting Farms.
Richard: No it isn’t. It’s a well known fact.
Phillip: OK then. Have you ever seen a goat eating a Boing 747 Jumbo Jet?
Richard: Well, no, not actually seen. But I bet it would.
Phillip: Ok then, how about eating a thermonuclear warhead?
Phillip: Original Source Lime Shower Gel? Tampons? A stock pot? Balls from a soft play ball pit? Have they ever eaten ANOTHER GOAT Richard? Are they little fucking cannibals? Oh look, there’s the famous head shrinking cannibal goat tribe of rural West Sussex! How about the antimacassar from the first class carriage of the 6.53 to Newhaven Harbour? Pig bollocks? Red Bull cans?
Richard: No. But then again up till now I’d never seen the reverse cowgirl used in an open field before but those Swedes look like experts.
Phillip: Stop watching the free sex show you fucking pervert. Concentrate on the oddity that is a goat, in a field, eating grass.
Richard: It’s not eating grass any more. In fact it appears to be dumping it out again.
Phillip: THAT’S DISGUSTING. Have you ever smelled goat shit? Soon the whole valley will be reeking of poo.
Richard: Imagine what it would smell like after it had eaten a 747, a thermonuclear warhead and some pig bollocks.
Phillip: WHICH IT WOULD NEVER EAT!
*another awkward silence*
Richard: Oh well, that’s all the tea and bourbons gone. I suppose we’d better head back to the station.
(Behind them the goat starts eating the antimacassar from the first class carriage of the 6.53 to Newhaven Town while the Swedes move on to doggy style).
This morning Baby woke up at 5.30. We tried various tactics to get her to go back to sleep but it wasn’t happening and at 5.50 I called it and brought her down. Judge me if you want but at that time in the morning I need a vat of coffee and I need to laze on the sofa. The electronic baby sitter is called in to early use. It’s that or vaguely hoping she’s learned how to open the fridge make her breakfast and eat it in a mood of silent contemplation. Like a nun only with Coco Pops skillz.
Now I know what you are thinking. Ah! Cbeebies! I wish. I really fucking wish.
Boy was brought up on CBeebies because we were good and diligent middle class parents who wanted our child to learn to talk by watching a nocturnal blue sponge snog a doll while an OCD thing collected and cleaned stones, some pre-school punks took their trousers off and no-one at all, narrator apart, actually send anything intelligible. He progressed on to Show Me Show which I like purely for the things that Pui dressed as the Grand Old Duke of York did to my brain given I’d watched her earlier, slightly more risqué acting roles. Eventually, luckily before Mr Bloom really came out, but too late to avoid 3rd and Bird (of which more later) Boy considered CBeebies ‘too baby-ish’ and moved on to Nick Jr. I know the irony.
Then Baby arrived.
Baby absorbed Nick Jr by osmosis. Peppa Pig, in particular, became a kind of 5 minute subliminal advert. Nick Jr was all she knew as a small one, television wise and so, when Baby is got up in the early hours it is Nick she wants. She used to just shout “PIG!” but has at least progressed on to “Daddy, Pig please”, but neither command is asking for crispy bacon. She wants Peppa.
That early however the Pig episodes are the bread to a Thomas the Tank Engine sandwich. This is less popular with her but heaven forbid you should touch that dial because then YOU MIGHT NOT SWITCH IT BACK OVER AGAIN. Ever wondered why Ringo Starr was a drummer? Watch Thomas the Fucking Tank Engine. The lazy scouse drawl grates on you after about 5 seconds and by the end of the episode you will want to put a set of drums through the screen. Don’t. These you will need for later.
Pig is next. Much has been written about Peppa. Boy and Baby both adore it though, of course, as a portrayal of family life it’s about as accurate as East Enders is a portrayal of the goings on at Eton. It snows in winter and is sunny in summer yet there is always a muddy puddle around to jump in. Learning to ice skate takes 5 minutes. There are no empty Smirnoff Ice bottles and used condoms in the playground bit of the park and ONLY Peppa and her friends go there. There is only one road in and out of Peppa Pig land and it never has any traffic. Pre-school is sometimes real school and it comes with no set dates, no school run and no OFSTED reports. No one needs to do meal planning – it’s spaghetti every night. Both children drop off to sleep with just a song or a story and if they’re sick, Dr Brown Bear gives them some foul tasting medicine (which they take without complaint) and it cures them almost instantly.
Most of all, just over the next hill are Grandpa Pig and Granny Pig and whenever it gets too much they come and babysit or have the children over to stay or take them out on their boat or let them play in their, frankly humungous garden. They have an orchard. A boat. They have a telescope for star gazing. I bet Grandpa pig could even rustle up a fun fair at the drop of a hat. Grandpa Pig, I suspect of being a greedy baby-boomer cunt who bought his house and orchard for tuppence back in the day and is now a multi-millionaire property owner with a free bus pass.
Daddy Pig I like however. He barbeques, works in an office and plays football. He’s enormously fat but he’s a hands on dad with a sense of humour and a total inability to read maps. He’s a lot like me. I have Dad empathy with Daddy Pig and I most admire his ability to make light of semi-disasters where I would be contemplating a complete meltdown. For this reason he’s my favourite kids TV character and he just about saves Peppa Pig from it’s socially unrealistic torpor.
Anyway, Pig finished and The Bopps came on. This is where you will need the drums you held back earlier because they WILL have you throwing stuff at the telly. Imagine a pair of whacky school teachers singing lyrics about squirrels to fourth rate indie while wearing comedy Sgt Pepper outfits and all the time, gap toothed 7 year olds in Boden dance round them. The temptation not to scream OH JUST FUCK OFF is immense. It is the low-lite of my morning. The only thing – only thing – that keeps me in check when The Bopps appear is knowing that if I switch to CBeebies I risk an encounter with 3rd and Bird.
3rd and Bird is the worst programme ever made and just typing it has made my blood boil. Essentially some cartoon / puppet (I never worked out which) birds live in a tree and do utterly meaningless stuff IN SONG. Yes it’s an avian musical and so horrific is the music that it makes Lloyd-Webber look like Bach, Mozart, Miles Davis and John Lennon combined. I have not adequate words to describe it beyond this and, if I carry on with this rant much longer I’ll burst a blood vessel so I’ll leave you with the intro so you can see for yourself. DO NOT watch this if you are currently in a good mood or you value your laptop screen.
What’s your worst or even favourite kids show? I suspect I know @motherventing ‘s answer……..
- Joe Swash reading the bedtime story on Nick Jr
- Marmite flavoured cheese
- Make up for 3 year olds
- The Daily Mail
- Really sticky bogies
- Train information boards that profess a train is ‘On Time’ when it’s a minute after it should have left and it hasn’t turned up yet
- Well done steak
- When your iPhone can’t get 3G reception even though you know you’re in a good reception spot
- Lloyd Grossman’s accent
- Crystal Palace shirts
- Bike Lanes that last 5 yards
- Writing frightening verse to a buck-toothed girl in Luxembourg
- Discount ready meals
- People who name energy drinks after their cocks
- People who name their cocks after energy drinks
- Lembit Opik
- Running out of cider
- Why children’s clothes have size aged 5-6 and size aged 7-8 but not size aged 6-7
- Lego on the floor of a dark room
- Dan Brown novels
- ANYONE who lets some bacon go off
- Octogenarians with pet names for each other
- Next door’s cat when he shits in my chives
- That Vanish geisha advert
- Clive Tyldesley
- Furry oranges
- Smiley faces used as dots over a lower case letter i
- “My parents went to” T-Shirts. Except ones that say “My Dad went to Brighton and all he got me was this vintage piece of kitsch which he bought ironically. And some organic rice flour”.
- Toddler’s sleep patterns
- First Great Western