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The day started with exciting news that Rebecca from Let’s Play is going to be the Ice Queen in the CBeebies pantomime. Though my affections have now fully passed on to Funella from the Furchester Hotel (who openly encourages my perverse entreaties) a flame still burns for Rebecca, who helped me through that tricky patch in any marriage, where the arrival of the first baby can turn partners into strangers as they take shifts in the horrendous job of raising an infant. Only parents will understand this. It is the most benign kind of love there can ever be, mainly because you are much too knackered to do anything about it, but Rebecca, Funella, Mr Tumble, that gardening bloke that women seem to like and even to some extent Andy (only attractive to those who can forgive his enormous transgressions in the field of time travel and with dinosaurs- a very distinct kind of pervert) have saved more marriages than you could guess.
Of course with political correctness gone mad and no-one have genders any more it is not the done thing to assert that you think someone is attractive or talented. But I am like Jeremy Clarkson and Katie Hopkins rolled into one and I will say it:
Rebecca rocks the shit out of that song. Watch it through and tell me that isn’t one for the dads and the gay mums and the straight mums and gay dads. Even Mr Tumble looks pretty good dressed up as a reindeer. Sometimes it takes you 50 years to find your kink, but when it comes together there is no stopping you and Reindeer Tumble is mine. Judge not lest ye be judged.
If it is wrong for a 50 year old man to be turned on by a children’s entertaining dressing up as a Christmas character and playing the drums, then lock me up with the rest of the perverts. Mine is a love that dare not speak its name. Because no one has come up with one for that mainly.
And now I have said it I can return happily to my true love, the most wonderful woman in the world: Funella from the Furchester Hotel.
Non-parents like to assert that anything that mentions kids or parenting is boring and tragic - I know, because I used to do it myself - but that’s a weird form of censorship against a group of people who largely have no voice (because they’re too busy to speak) and have the most need of that release valve. I agree that parents who go on about how brilliant parenting is and how gifted their kids are ALL THE TIME deserve a mini-kicking, but let the rest of us complain about our lot, if only to discover that we’re not alone or the only ones having weird thoughts about throwing our babies off the top landing of John Lewis or (my current horrible obsession) chucking them into a burning fire. But also the little things. Out of my admissions Carly on Twitter confessed to "eating biscuits with my head in the kitchen cupboard so I don't have to share”. And that one really resonated with me because this very morning I had taken a Curlywurly from the kitchen cupboard and crammed the whole thing in my mouth on the short walk to the lounge so that my daughter wouldn’t see it and want some. It was entirely unpleasant, all the chocolate fell off and I wasn’t able to speak for five minutes as I attempted to digest the mouthful of gunk. And the worst thing of all was that I hadn’t even stolen my children’s sweets (which I am not above - I keep having to buy big packs of large chocolate buttons cos I have eaten all the ones in the fridge door and don’t want my wife to find out what I am doing. I mean why don’t I just buy bags for myself and leave the fridge ones alone? I don’t know, but the non-fridge ones are not as alluring or irresistible). I had bought those Curlywurlys for myself.
Parenthood is a never ending cavalcade of humiliations and self degradation.
