People always say 'I remember being a child. Such simpler times'.
Of course they were simpler times! You were a child, you bloody idiot. You didn't have a car that would financially rape you on a monthly basis, or a home to run, a family to regiment, or the increasingly alarming grip the media seems to be currently exercising in terms of telling us what we should be worried about.
'
Bird Flu Pandemic!' (Not a bird, not a problem).
'
Unemployment highest its ever been!' (Though if youre watching this on the lunchtime news, than you probably know what they're talking about).
'
Fast Food Coronary!' and then in grim contrast '
Bananas: The Cancer Fruit!''
Smoking Kills!' (but so can standing around innocently outside a pub,. puffing away, on a Friday night).
'
UK on high TERRORISM alert!'. And equally terrifying, '
David Jason: Racist?'.
All this aside, being a child is obviously the simplest of all times, no matter what the era. And even then, is stitching a few hundred footballs a day really that bad? I mean, it's a safe industry, we're always gonna need footballs, as there will always be idiots waiting to be paid ridiculously stupid amounts of money to kick them.
Judging from the current media output specifically aimed at children and toddlers, the current programming is either entertainment in its purest and simplest form. Or sheer. Twisted. GENIUS.
First up,
Big Cook, Little Cook. Not a celebrity cook off between the late Andre The Giant and bearded toby jug Anthony Worral Thompson, but a show set in a fantastical kitchen, fronted by a couple of hyper-actively insufferable twats (literally Big and Small, in nature and name) sporting haircuts that signify what might happen if Tony & Guy were at the heart of the Apocalypse.
An apocalypse that must have clearly been incited by all the fucking morris dance-style, hanky-waving hi-jinks this pair get up to. Not to mention the atypically gawdy outfits, seemingly inspired by Gay Night at Santa's Grotto.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=XmQz0nwX5n0
Of course, we know in their most formative of years that a child responds well to bold gestures, and dramatic movements, particularly when it comes to a bloody good story time, but is there any real need for jerky body movements for every. Last (Clap!). Syll (Dozey-do!). A (Squat Thrust!). Ble (Jazz hands!). If I was two years old again, I'm sure there would be a good chance that I would grow up thinking it would be wise to stay out of t
he kitchen, in case I evoked a brightly coloured seizure.
And the kitchen.... Ramsay would shit a brick over it. I havent seen their invoices, purchase agreements, or the new stock coming in. But I dont think these pair have either. And what of waiting staff?? Yeah, forget about it.
Principle set-up. Big COCK and Little COCK dick around, usually after a lame 'size' gag (one should never be defined by one's physical differentials). Until... a customer arrives. No formal order is taken, and the food prep cant begin until theyve had a story from Little Cook's story book. ALAS, still no idea what to prepare. FUCKING ASK THEM!! No, too simple.
So out with Big Cook's cook book. Eureka. Recipe found. But... one ingredient missing, which is typical, particularly when eating in a new Wetherspoons'. Solution? Tell said customer that is simply isnt going to happen, and recommend the Beer and Burger Special.
Im probably being a bit unfair on this show, as my niece seems to love it, and what gives me a bit of peace and quiet when she's here, is just fine by me. Furthermore, this show does demonstrate a little bit of basic food preparation details, and my Jacket Potatoes have only come on leaps and bounds since.
The Teletubbies, what the hell was that all about? To me, it was some kind of LSD-induced bachelor's (or bachelorettes') to live on a golf course, only eat toast and custard, and to ave the hoovering done automatically for you by what can only be described as a poor man's K-9.
And when you thought children's television couldnt possibly resemble the inside of John Lennon's mind anymore than it already does, along comes a piece of quality programming such as
In The Night Garden. http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=MZx1k4woJkkI personally liken it to a kind of soft edged
Lost Boys dynamic, a seemingly fairytale land where the felt and patchwork-style characters remain in a state of vulnerable youth, and grown ups are scarcely found (other than the much needed narration of course, which here is provided by Sir Derek Jacobi).
The show seems to revolve around IgglePiggle (a blue and slightly retarded looking Tin Tin-type entity, fashioning a weird mo ho fringe, who is never far from his crusty red blanket-its stiff as a board), who travels to the Night Garden in his dreams, after falling asleep on his wooden sail boat, devoid of any of the inter-bestial relations set up echelons ago between the Owl and the Pussycat. And no one raised an eyebrow back then, either...
IgglePig
gle's best friend within the largely CGI'd Night Garden, is UpsyDaisy, an attractive (for what is essentially a female felt role-model for toddlers) but verbally incoherent quirky type, who dresses as though its Fresher's week, and she is gunning to be known as the 'attractive bohemian one' amongst her male peers. IgglePiggle and UpsyDaisy seem to have a very 'Mulder and Scully' relationship, a sort of will-they-wont-they dynamic, that was possibly only heavily hinted at after IgglePiggle fell asleep on her bed after one brightly coloured cerebral visit to the garden (he always leaves the garden on his boat, before a return to his waking life, which I can only assume consists largely of drinking rum, and avoiding compounded boat repayments).
These two are undoubtedly the 'main' characters, with a supporting cast that consists of the Tombliboos, who are seemingly three travelling circus rejects, in bizarre futuristic gay night garb, and who spend much of their life living in a bush (which isnt a euphanism).
Then there are the Pontepines and Wottingers, two neighbouring families of tiny people, who seem to be the only residents of the Night Garden who have gone through the necessary bureaucratic red tape, to secure accomodation in an actual real house, as opposed to a pine cone, or a pigeon's fart, or something equally magical. These two families are ten-a-penny, sharing two semi-detached terrace houses, with a communal garden. In The Night Garden... commenting on immigration and living conditions? Or a pop at benefit schemers? Too much for a three year old to take in? Or shall we have them inciting socio-political opinions before they can even crawl. Everyone's a critic...
But it is glum faced dullard MakkaPakka I feel most sorry for. He likes to clean. Well, whether he likes to clean or not is quite evidential, rom the fact that... he obviously is a dab hand at it.
But one wonders in the current economical climate whether the cleaning job is one he was forced to take, Degree in Accelerated Business Studies or not. I can only liken him to a Community Carer, who on occasion, will clean his own place of residence (he has a STONE for a bed), before travelling around with his trolley of wonderful cleaning things, giveing various members of the Night Garden a firm scrubbing down as he goes. No money changes hands, and one can only assume that this service is inclusive in the Council Tax these people are paying for.
Bottom line. He wakes alone. He cleans faces with not even a thankyou. And he goes to sleep alone. Hugging a rock. Kids, stay in school.
Thogh what is good about this programme, and refreshing, is that as far as I can see, the emphasis is taken from the often patronising 'learning' mission objective of other kiddies programmes, and placed on improvement of relationships between parent and child. One sequence in particular, which features every episode, depicts a child slowly drifting off to sleep whilst mummy makes circular motions in the palm of said kiddy's hand. It sounds disturbing of course, and probably is, if youre 32 years old and cant sleep until this happens to you each night. But it reinforces the idea that all parents should want to share that special developmental time with their bundles of dribbling joy, as opposed being hunched over a laptop criticising children's television... Oh.
Mind you, it's no Teletubbies.
