Monday, July 23, 2012

Piers Morgan Is A Twat

Me: Sorry honey. I'm afraid we can't do that (turn off Ross Noble and put on a kid's show).
Daughter: I'm not afraid of anything.
Me: That's not what I meant.
Daughter. Except caterpillars killing me in the dark.

My wife actually took some time off work this weekend and scooted the kids off to the in-laws house. I was supposed to go along as well. Lethargy and vomiting really are the least attractive couple - but they both appeared for me early Friday morning and seemed to persist through the morning on Saturday. Which was fortunate because on the Saturday was a birthday party at a Clam Shack up north. Call me skeptical but I'm thinking that u in the Adirondack mountains isn't going to be the ideal place for clams. I am deathly allergic to shellfish anyway so I was quite smug about the fact that I wasn't going to be going. Mostly because I would no doubt have been lumbered with baby sitting other people's kids. And as we all know - my beautiful children are a joy to be around. Your ugly mutants are fucking horrible. Anyhoo on the Sunday there was a bi-annual family reunion for people from all over the place (people even flying in from Chile) so I had to recuperate in an effort to make that.

Having dozed off in a wimp-haze after my wife's Jeep disappeared out the driveway I ended up realizing that without kids around I have NOTHING to do. Which is a bad thing. In normal circumstances I should get something useful done. In this case it was mostly sitting around and not doing anything that was the plan. I had intended do some valuable reading. But that's not really how my brain works. Five hours later - half of which I'd been asleep for - I'd spent an inordinate amount of time online looking into whether I can solve the world's hunger problems by milking whales. Not as in, "I wonder what people milk in countries where they don't have as many cows?" kind of way. But more a, "someone has to solve this..." kind of way. After 90 minutes of reading about milking, looking at pictures of people who enjoy wearing milk, and taking a detour into reading about how British people used to eat quite a lot of badger meat, I gave up. There's only so much milkiness you can swallow after watching one to many weird Japanese milk commercials. I ended up watching Ross Noble mince about on Youtube.

Not entirely sure why this is the case, but lately I've been experiencing a sharp case of d├ępaysement. Which is a wonderful French word that describes the feeling of being in another country. I'm having a tri-annual (it seems to be about that often) period of thinking about home. Not out of nostalgia really either. It's election year and I'm already sick to the hind-teeth of hearing the phrase, "working American families" that I'm beginning to accept the very clear other status that particular phrase implies. It's weird to constantly hear hopeful public figures trying to stir up passion amongst people by having everyone look collectively at people that aren't like them. Which in my little parochial area would be me. I've been feeling very much a foreigner lately. Which is particularly weird because my kids won't have that feeling at all. In fact I watched a few episodes of The Bubble and Argumental lately and my daughter confessed to not being able to understand a single word of what Sean Lock was saying.

My kids will never be exposed to Janet Street Porter, Keith Chegwin or Alan Titchmarsh. They won't feel a warm tingle of love at the sight and sound of Stephen Fry. They won't feel the gnawing anticipation of the upcoming football season. They won't get to see what true freedom of expression with regards politics is - by seeing people comfortably on network television shows like Newsnight, Have I Got New For You or Mock The Week calling elected officials insipid twunts who deserve to be pilloried. Or hearing an interviewee like Alexie Sayle or Mark Steel advocate that they are indeed socialists - and it not be followed by a collective gasp as some people cover their children's eyes as they escort them from the room. Instead they have to watch the mock-outrage that is customary in American politics at whichever manufactured controversy is currently spinning around. They will grow up thinking that elected officials are almost regal (especially the more senior you go) - and that mocking them is almost treasonous. Yet somehow they still have to endure human fuckstain Piers Morgan in the US. Without any help from me their exposure to my culture will be loud abrasive square-headed muppets like Simon Cowell and Gordon Ramsey yelling at people. Or gushy brain-dead looks at the Royal Family - as if that somehow describes something about the UK at all. That makes me weep inside. 

Which is the place I was in early Saturday morning when - after staring incomprehensibly at Ross Noble Geordie-ing around on the laptop screen - my daughter asked me to turn it off. After which she revealed that she was afraid of killer ninja caterpillars that attack at night. Either she's been watching Slugs without my knowledge or she's overheard Michele Bachmann say something mental on NPR and pieced it together with my warnings about the furry white buggers in my back yard.

Anyhoo - time to go dig holes outside.



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