Well here I am writing my very first blog. So you know what you’re in for, here’s a one-line summary of what you need to know about me:
‘Writer (mainly comedy with a bit of paid work thrown in), professional ranter, old parent of a small cheeky monkey.’
Ok, so you probably need a bit more detail to set the scene. I am in my (very) late 40s, in a long term relationship with the long-suffering Ellen who is the ‘tummy mummy’ of our son. I’ve recently completed an MA in Creative Writing, hence the newly formed blog. I love to rant and am blessed with a close circle of like-minded friends who also class ranting as one of their hobbies. That’ll do for now, you’ll find out more as I ramble on (MA top tip #1, make sure you do a slow reveal, give the audience enough to get them interested and move on. Let’s hope it worked).
Today’s post is dedicated to that saviour of sanity for parents with a child in the one to three-year old bracket, Peppa Pig. I’m not planning on all my blogs being child related, but Peppa has been a bit of a reoccurring theme lately. As an “older” parent, by the time the child gets home from nursery, I’m ready for bed. Our post-nursery routine therefore involves a cheese sandwich, a drink of water and watching his current favourite programme Peppa Pig whilst reclining on the couch. Now I’m a big fan of Peppa. They always end the programme rolling around on the floor laughing and the characters know their flaws and wear them with pride. Edward Elephant freely admits to being a clever clogs, and Daddy Pig does indeed have a ginormous stomach which quite frankly isn’t going to disappear just by him jumping up and down five times while watching Mr Potato’s keep fit TV programme.
I find myself mouthing the words along to Peppa episodes as I would to a favourite song, such is her influence on my life. So imagine my joy when one of the other girls at Uni suggested going along to ‘Peppa Pig’s Surprise! Brand New Live Show!’ with our kids. Not only had I found a fellow Peppa enthusiast, the idea became doubly attractive when our lecturer told us we could review it and use it as part of our end of year assignment for his class. The Swansea Grand Theatre’s website was up on my computer before you could say ‘Mummy, where’s Teddy?’, and to my delight there were still tickets available. Then I saw the price and my heart dropped like a Tommee Tippee sippie cup bouncing down the stairs. £14.95 per person, including the two-year old. £14.95! I could buy two series of Peppa from iTunes for that which would give us literally months of viewing pleasure, rather than spending an afternoon trying to keep the small child in his seat while watching a probably inebriated person tottering around in a tatty Peppa costume, scaring the kids with their giant pig hands. They could stick their ‘surprise’ in a big muddy puddle as far as I was concerned.
Still, my Peppa obsession continued. During a Whatsapp conversation with the Uni wife, (MA top tip #2, get yourself a Uni wife who has done a degree in Creative Writing, is a fabulous writer and a champion ranter, to help you navigate through the choppy waters of creativity) we discussed the idea of a pissed up Peppa. Alas my parental responsibility conscience kicked in at the thought of a little pink pig swigging vodka from a bottle and I went to bed that night feeling like a very bad parent indeed. As I tossed and turned, waiting for sleep to take away repulsive images of Peppa crying for Mummy Pig while heaving into the toilet bowl, my twisted thoughts turned to the grown ups of Peppa Pig World. What kind of drinkers would they be?
Mummy Pig I imagine, would be one of those tequila drinkers who, when Daddy Pig asks her if she’s seen his glasses would say “They’re on the top of your head you fat twat” as she smashes her glass into his face. Miss Rabbit (who obviously suffers from sleep deprivation, due to her holding down 73 jobs ranging from helicopter pilot to manning the ticket booth at Potato City) is the friend who has two alcopops at pre-drinks and passes out in the taxi on the way to the club. By the time she wakes up she’s morphed into Sally Slag. Slut dropping at the drop of a hat and rubbing herself up against Mr Bull’s hind legs in the hope he’ll pleasure her with his calloused hands down the back alley later, you’ll be carrying her home before 11 as no cab driver in his right mind is going to let her climb in and puke Cosmopolitans into his recently valeted foot well.
Her sister, Mummy Rabbit has four children under the age of four. I see her as a hardened wine drinker with a taste for Pinot Grigio. Mr Rabbit dreads coming home from a late shift at the railway station to find a gimp mask and a paddle on the table after one of Mummy Rabbit’s night’s out with the girls from the yummy mummies group. Madame Gazelle, aka ‘Gigi’ is a secret Barley wine drinker. The clinking sound coming from her bag as she walks into Playgroup is easily explained away as bug filled jam jars she’s brought in for science. Afternoon classes mainly consist of Gigi teaching the kids how to communicate through interpretive dance using only a floral scarf and a hula hoop.
There is one glaring omission from Peppa Pig and that’s a local pub. I mean where are Daddy Pig, his best friend Mr Rabbit, Mr Bull, Mr Wolf, Grandpa Pig and that old seadog Granddad Dog supposed to go to get away from the trials and tribulations of a life where they’re constantly eclipsed by their wives and kids? There was nowhere for Daddy Pig to drown his sorrows after he’d played football in his work shirt because Mummy Pig had dyed his footie kit pink. And where did Mr Rabbit wet the babies’ heads when Rosie and Robbie Rabbit were born, that’s what I want to know. Imagine Daddy Zebra having the option to storm out of the house down to the pub when the kids woke him up during a sleepover at Zoe Zebra’s house, instead of cheerfully reading them a ghost story. There’s no way that would have happened after a 12 hour shift delivering the post and a 4am alarm set for the next morning. The producers have missed a trick there.