Experimental Research In To The Impact Of The Corona Virus…

Tags

Corona, Coronavirus, Environment, Family, France, funny, Humor, Humour, Life, Routine

 

Experiment: 128

Date: 26/04/2020

Time: 9.55pm

Location: Home

I don tonight’s specifically chosen attire and exit my home. I enter the outbuilding, pausing only to turn on the interior lights before taking the receptacles firmly by their handles. I then exit the outbuilding, again pausing only to turn off the interior lights. I approach the gate and unlock it. I move the receptacles into position next to the front of the house and look both ways up the street. I note the absolute lack of people, on foot or otherwise and note also the eerie silence. Normally at this point – in all previous forays of this manner – the street would have impossibly, almost miraculously, filled with people and vehicles. Tonight – nothing.

I leave the street and reenter my property, firmly closing the gate behind me and head back inside my home. It is at this point that my research assistant (although, having found and read several of my journals she has repeatedly stated that she prefers to be referred to as ‘my wife’) sees me and starts to laugh. ‘What’ she enquires ‘Do you think you are wearing?’. My explanation  – that I am wearing a dressing gown and slippers in order to verify that this strange new world we live in is indeed a changed environment, and that normally – ‘As if by magic’ I add – the street would fill with people if I put the bins out in my dressing gown and slippers – falls on deaf ears as she continues to laugh and adds ‘Stop it, I’ll wee meself’.

I shall continue my research into this strange new world tomorrow when I attempt to perform a three point turn in the middle of the day, an exercise that under normal circumstances would immediately result in a previously dead-silent street filling with eight cars, one truck, two cyclists and four pedestrians.

Corona Virus Lockdown, Day Four…

Tags

Coronavirus, Disney, Environment, Family, funny, Humor, Humour, Life, News, Parenting, Relationships

 

It has now been four days since this infernal, though necessary, incarceration commenced. My tormentors hound me constantly and it seems as though I cannot take but three steps without one or the other of them appearing, as if summoned by some dark force.

As if on cue Thing Two appears through a doorway and gazes at me, the hint of a smile playing around her mouth. What, I demand, does she want from me now?

‘Elsa’ she replies, her hideous mantra starting afresh.

‘Elsa! Elsa! Elsa! Elsa! Elsa! Elsa! Elsa! Elsa! Elsa! Elsa! Elsa! Elsa! Elsa! Elsa! Elsa!’

Elsa. The girl with the pale face and the anthropomorphic snowman. She haunts my dreams.

I obligingly press play on the DVD player, and watch blearily as the hellish castle appears for what seems like the hundredth time in the last four days, and the tune invites me to ‘Wish Upon A Star‘. Oh I have wished. How I have wished.

Has really it only been four days?

I try to remove myself from the sofa, but her grip on my arm tightens ever so slightly and I realise I cannot leave.

Then I feel a fetid breath on the back of my neck and realise that Thing One is behind me. Snuffling and sniffling and filling my nostrils with the scent of his recently digested Babybel.

‘Pokémon’ he says to me while snorting. ‘Pokémon, Pikachu, Evolee, Snorlax, Pokémon’

This gibberish meant nothing to me four days ago but now I understand. I wearily get to my feet, forcing thing Two’s claw-like hand off my arm, where it leaves fresh marks.

‘Pokémon’ I nod to him and, reaching up, get him down his pack of cards.

‘Pokémon!’ he squeals excitedly, a string of drool hanging from his lip. ‘Pokémon! Pikachu, Evolee, Snorlax, Mewtwo!’.

He waves me away, my services no longer required.

‘Crisps! Drink!’ comes the command from the sofa, and I scuttle away to do Thing Two’s bidding.

I firmly believe that is I did not aid in the entertaining and feeding of them, they would kill me during the night.

Four days.

How can four days feel so long?

 

Diary Excerpt Of Phil, Father of two

Corona Virus Lock Down – Day Three…

Tags

Corona, Environment, exercise, Family, France, French, Journalism, Law, Life, News, Relationships, Running, Virus

 

It all seemed like a joke not so long ago. Like last Friday maybe. This Corona Virus malarkey wasn’t serious really, was it? I mean sure, people were dying, but they were few and far, far away. But then it was in the UK, and Italy.

And then it was here, in France.

Then President Macron took to the air and announced that we were at war with a virus. And suddenly it was all to real, and not funny anymore. Not in the slightest.

New measures were announced to combat this threat, avoid contact with other people, wash frequently, don’t panic buy (good luck with that one!) but the main one was that we must stay in our homes unless absolutely necessary. Meaning, effectively, that we are all locked down in our own homes with our loved ones and, if we do leave the house, we need to fill out and sign a form in case a police man sees and stops us (if you don’t have your note then you face a hefty fine).

So far since the new regime has been implemented I have been out once (I mean, you can still go out in your garden, but I’m talking about a bit further afield). I went for a run yesterday for about forty minutes, running all around my town. I did of course ensure that I had my ‘permission slip’ with me: ‘Dear Mr Policeman, I am running outdoors as I need to exercise and get away from my kids otherwise I will go mad‘ was bizarrely NOT one of the possible justifications for leaving your domicile.

It was strange. So quiet.

In some respects this is no different from normal days/evenings when I run. The French are a very ‘insular’ people, and I have likened them to trap-door spiders in the past (in a loving way of course). They pop out, do their thing – be that working, shopping etc. – and then they head back indoors and effectively don’t leave until the next day. That’s why when I run I generally don’t see many people. This is a marked contrast for someone who comes from the UK, where you could go for a run through a much smaller town and see dozens and dozens of people milling around.

There are no off-licenses or late-opening corner shops, very, very few take-aways and pubs are less frequent, so I think this does have an impact on that kind of social mobility. I prefer it, if I’m being honest. The amount of drunken people rolling around English towns as a result of these alcohol-selling shops, and the other obesity-issue related to convenience food is not something I miss.

But I digress.

So I went for a run and I did see some people, but every single one of them moved out of my way as I approached. And I’m not saying I ran near them. Many times I was about four meters away (the recommended safe distance is one meter), yet still they moved.

So it’s quiet, which is not unusual. But it’s the atmosphere in the air that’s so different. There’s almost a fear. A sense of dread that you can taste.

There’s also a very real sense of horse manure and cow dung in the air too, but that’s because I run past a farmer’s field on my circuit.

I’ll report back on what it’s like indoors in another blog, as we are all still settling into this new lifestyle.

But one thing’s for sure – we are living in interesting times…

 

Burn Baby, Burn!

Tags

Burning, Environment, Family, Fire, fun, funny, Humor, kids, Relationships

This is actually what out fire-pit looks like, albeit a tad rustier now.

I like to burn stuff. There. I’ve said it. And now that I’ve said it I’d probably better explain myself lest you think you are reading True Confessions Of A Pyromaniac, and not some blog by some bloke in France with a couple of kids.

I like to burn household waste when it builds up. And garden waste. And wood. And just stuff that burns. But not buildings or people. See? I’m normal, just like you.

We buy a lot of items for our house as we have only been in it a couple of years and so are still making it ‘ours’. This leads to a build-up of boxes in our outdoor dependences (outbuildings we store all our garden stuff in). We do generally take this to our local decheterie (that’s French for ‘tip’) so they can recycle it. However sometimes I don’t want to do that and instead want to tear it up into little bits and burn it in our fire-pit.

I know, I know. This is not necessarily ‘Option A’ when it comes to caring for the environment, and I doubt Greta Thunberg would approve, but I don’t like her so I don’t care. Put it down to my primal nature and giving into the instincts handed down to me from my ancestors, who would huddle in caves and stay warm by their fires, with one eye on the entrance, fearful of predators.

That plus it’s a drag going to the decheterrie all the time. The French DO NOT do organisation so you’re looking at an hour of ‘fun’ sat in your car while they work out how to get their rubbish out of their cars and into a large metal box.

Anyway, onto the thrust of this blog: I’m not alone in my gleeful burning, my daughter loves it too. Every time I mention that the cardboard pile is getting a bit high her eyes light up, as if she senses what will have to happen. And if I say I’m going to take it all to the tip, she kind of makes a deflated ‘Hooooaauuawwwwww‘ noise and then follows this up with words like ‘Nul‘ (which is French for ‘boring‘) and ‘Boring‘ (which is English for ‘Nul‘).

But If I say I’m going to burn it all she’s right by my side ‘Can I help you?’ she offers sweetly, rubbing her hands in anticipation, knowing I won’t say no. Of course I accept her offer and off we go, breaking the boxes down and – carefully – inserting them into the fire-pit. She is always under my watchful eye, and she is always respectful of the dangers of the fire. There’s no flies on this one.

It’s a lovely little habit we have, and there’s nothing quite like sitting in the garden on a cold evening, leaning back on the bench holding hands and looking up at the stars while the fire gently crackles away. It’s these little moments, these little habits that you have to treasure and hold on to.

 

Family Viewing Time: Restaurant Impossible…

Tags

Celebrity, Chef, Cooking, entertainment, Family, food, fun, funny, Humor, Restaurant, Restaurant Impossible, TV

 

We have a new addiction, a family-wide addiction. It may come as no surprise to you that the title of said addiction is watching Restaurant Impossible. That’s because it’s right there in the title of this blog. And there’s even a picture with it directly above this paragraph for those of you that are slow on the uptake. I was going to title it ‘Guilty Family Viewing Pleasure’ but then I realised that I hate saying anything is a ‘Guilty Pleasure’. Why should you feel guilty about something that brings you pleasure just because you think others will deem your taste somehow inferior? Taste is subjective after all, no one person’s taste is any better than anybody else’s in my opinion.

This addiction came about because i was looking for something to fill the void left by Gordon Ramsay, another proponent of this type of show. However we got turned off from him due to the heavily scripted nature of his shows. So I was drawn towards Restaurant Impossible, another heavily scripted show, with another English chef, but at least the host, Robert Irvine, actually appears to care about the people he’s helping.

The show’s USP is that chef Robert will fix the restaurant’s food problems, repair splintered relationships, give the owner a new backbone, and get it back looking ship-shape on the design front, all in two days and for ‘ten thousand dollars’ (I’m putting the price in inverted commas as it’s just impossible (HA!) to do what he does to these places for that amount, if you factor all the man hours and equipment-hiring into it. But hey, I’m not here to pick holes.)

As a family we love it (my son has gone off it a tad though, and now prefers to read or colour) and it has become something of a ritual. Cook our meals, get everybody settled in front of the television and off we go. We all question the title of it though. Even my daughter, after a mere two season’s worth of viewing, pointed out that it should be called ‘Restaurant Possible’.

We especially like it when Robert smashes things with a sledgehammer, which he does A LOT. He does this a lot because he looks like the Incredible Hulk decided to stop being angry and went to cooking school. He’s all bulging muscles in a tight black polo top (always tight, always black) and what better way to show off said muscles than by smashing things up?

We also love how he helps these financially struggling restaurants by making them prepare nearly everything on the menu for him, only to then spit it all out and throw it on the floor. Still, as long as he’s paying for it, eh?

We are on season six now (Robert’s hair is grey, as opposed to the jet black he started with, although I suspect he does occasionally dye it)  and he is beginning to exhibit signs of the overt focus on emotional drama that turned us off Ramsay’s shows. The nadir of Gordon’s series for us was when he took a family into a church and used the confessional booths to get to the bottom of their issues, placing himself in the role of the priest. Robert hasn’t sunk that low yet, and I’m hoping he never does. Otherwise it will be a swift turn off and I will be back hunting for the next thing for us all to watch together.

For the moment though, Robert and his bulging muscles are keeping us all entertained, even though his Restaurant Impossible ‘missions’ never seem to fail.

That’s only on the show though, in real life, following the broadcast of the episode, the majority of these restaurants do actually show that they are fallible as the majority of them have closed within months (many, bizarrely, after having been hit by a truck, like there is some sort of serial-restaurant-killing truck driver out there). In fact we have a ritual where we all vote on whether or not we think the restaurant is still viable. We take a vote and then I toddle off and dig up the answer.

It’s usually closed, which is why we all generally vote ‘closed’.

Hey, he’s only a man at the end of the day. Nobody can work miracles with two days and ten grand, and as long as Robert keeps understanding that he’s not a miracle worker, I think we’ll all keep watching*

 

(*even though one of his oft repeated mantras is ‘This place needs a miracle’)

My Partner Has Reservations Regarding My Toothbrush Charger Solution…

Tags

Family, France, French, funny, Furniture, Humor, Humour, Life, Relationships

Me (English) says: ‘So here you are darling, I know that you hated having the toothbrush charger just sat on the floor so I’ve found a solution. It was a mere five euros from Troc. 5 Euros! Look at the craftsmanship!

Can you imagine finding anything like it for that price in the UK? It’ll be a conversation starter for all our friends when they come around. Our English friends will marvel at the low price, and ask questions about its original purpose, while our French friends will find the non-traditional placement of a very French piece of furniture quaint and amusing.

Did I mention it was only five euros? I really think it ties the landing together. Look at the craftsmanship. All for only 5 euros. What do you think darling?’

 

She (French) says: ‘Why do we have a bread bin upstairs?’

Honey, We Cloned Ourselves…

Tags

children, Family, funny, Humor, Humour, Life, Relationships, stay-at-home Dad

Any excuse to feature a photograph of Stormtroopers

The missus has been working away a lot recently, last week in Birmingham in the UK and this week in Cannes in France. Birmingham to Cannes – that’s roughly the equivalent of one week in a Thailand prison vs one week in a…well, one week in Cannes.

This working away malarkey has led to me being on my own-some with the kids. Or should I say ‘kid’. You see at the moment my daughter is going through a somewhat annoying phase where she prefers the company of females. This is despite me raising her for the last six years. Therefore, to avoid unnecessary upset (for both her and myself), when my partner works away she stays with her grandma – or ‘mamie’, as they prefer to be called in France.

If I’m honest I really can’t complain too much, after all as anyone reading this who is a parent will know – or anyone with half a brain cell for that matter – one kid is much easier than two. I do still miss the kisses and cuddles at bedtime though, I’m not a completely cold-hearted monster.

So I’ve have had  lot more time recently to spend just with my son, and this has led me to reflect on how similar we are to each other. It’s something that’s been pretty obvious for the last few years – or maybe since ‘day one’ if I really think about it – but these last few days have really hammered it home.

He loves reading, he loves having a laugh, he loves video games, he loves to draw, he loves films, he daydreams (a lot) he’s annoying, he whines (a lot) , he’s lazy (very) and sometimes I suspect he wouldn’t be able to find his glasses if they were sat right on the end of his nose. He’s also got a very high-pitched voice that can cut through any other conversation with all the effortless precision of a dentist’s drill.

Yup. He is me.

Obviously not all those characteristics still hold true for me. I’m nowhere near as lazy as I was when I was younger, but this is something that we often lose as we get older. Well, some of us anyway (I’m specifically thinking of my father here, who wouldn’t get out of bed even if his house was on fire, and whose catchphrase was ‘No’, usually in response to the question ‘Can you help me with *insert generic favour here*’ but more often in response to the question ‘Are you physically active?’.)

He even sits to read the same way that I do – curled up in a corner, one legged crossed over the other, completely lost in a far-away world. We both enter creative ‘fugues’ as well now and again – him much more often than me. This is where he becomes obsessed with creating some new thing, drawing some new creature or painting some new portrait. He will not be distracted from his goal until he is spent/it is finished (whichever comes first).

This, obviously, leads us to my daughter. Who is a perfect clone of her mother.

Organised. Strong-minded. Laid back. Friendly. Easy going. Mature.

Stubborn.

As.

Hell.

Yes, unfortunately with this one I think a little bit of me slipped in during the ‘cloning procedure’.

Apart from that though, she is just a mirror image. 2/5 scale size mini-mum, if you like. This also means that she has a tendency to mother her older sibling, something that he used to find annoying, but which he is relying on and appreciating more and more (see: lazy.) Needs his shoes? His sister brings them. Needs more tomato ketchup on his chips? It’s already in her hands. His glasses are dirty? She’s cleaning them. Getting picked on by a bigger kid? She’ll beat them up for him (this last one is a joke, but I wouldn’t be surprised if it turned out to be true one day.)

Yes, we’ve cloned ourselves quite effectively, and can see ourselves in our kids each day. More and more as they get older.

He has blonde hair though.

Just like our old milkman did back in England.

I’m just saying….

Trapped In The Negative Zone..

Tags

Family, funny, Humor, kids, Life, Parenting, Relationships, stay-at-home Dad

 

All I ever seem to do at the moment is say negative things to the kids. And I don’t mean I’m just hurling abuse at them and saying nasty things – well, perhaps a bit. No, I mean all I’m ever saying is ‘no’ or ‘stop that’ or ‘give up’ or ‘put that down’ or…

The problem, for us anyway, is that they refuse to learn by their mistakes, so instead of understanding that what they have done is wrong, followed by them stopping doing it, they just do it again. It may not be that exact day, but they will inevitably repeat it.

Hitting each other, leaving rubbish everywhere, not doing what they are told, hitting each other, not tidying their rooms, interrupting people when they are talking, fidgeting ALL THE TIME, talking too loudly, being disrespectful, hitting each other…

I’ve been working a lot recently, in a travel and tourism office, and so my partner has had the kids to herself full time at the weekends, as tourism offices have family-unfriendly hours. This has led to her experiencing what I am only too familiar with: being bored by the sound of your own voice.

It’s generally after lunch that it hits you, after you have spent all morning with the kids, telling them to stop doing whatever it is they shouldn’t be doing. You sort of step outside of your body and start hearing what you sound like: a stuck record. A stuck record that just drones on and on and on in a Yorkshire accent.

I know some people may be thinking things like ‘why don’t you try to be nicer’ and ‘it’s your own fault’ and ‘what’s Yorkshire?’. And I wish I could be nicer and I know it’s my own fault to a degree, but I’m just not that sort of a parent. Oh and Yorkshire is a county in England.

Sometimes I see ‘positive reinforcement’ parents babbling away at their kids, in soothing tones, talking about ‘unkind words’ and ‘unkind hands’ and calling their kids things like ‘angel’ and ‘darling’ and ‘sweetheart’, and I want to be them.

But then I see their kids kick them in the knees two minutes later, before running away after refusing to eat their fruit-based-snack and I realise that they are just the same as I am. They are just fighting the natural order of things. But they will learn, they will turn to the dark side once Tarquin or Felicity has drawn ‘Mummy is a Dog’ on the wall in their own faeces.

I wonder if there will ever be a day when I get through a full 24 hours without shouting at my kids, a blissful day of no arguments, and no fighting. But that day will never come to pass, and I know why.

Because they are my kids, and they have my spirit flowing through them – and I was an even bigger dick in my day than they are.

And you know what, after all that moaning that I’ve just made you read? I don’t think I would really want to have it any other way…

 

…OK, maybe a quiet Saturday morning once a year would be nice. One can but dream…

Games I Play With My Kids (That I Invented)…

Tags

entertainment, Family, fun, funny, games, Humor, Humour, kids, Life, Relationships, stay-at-home Dad

 

There are loads of games you can play with your kids aren’t there? Hide n’ Seek, tag, musical statues, sleeping lions etc. I however have become a pioneer in this field and have decided to do what no other parent has ever done: I have invented my own kids’ games.

Wow! I mean, I bet your mind is blown right now, isn’t it?*

So without further ado here is my current selection of games. I say current because the games change as they grow older, and what they love today they may not necessarily love next week. Or tomorrow for that matter.

 

To The Moon

For: both kids

Necessary props? A swing set

This game involves me having one or more of my kids on the swings. I then ‘check their tickets’, these tickets being purely imaginary. All details on the tickets have to correspond with each child, and they must agree with each and every detail. So for instance if I say that their name is Lord Poopy Pants the Third, and that their favourite hobby is eating rotten squids with snails, then they have to agree.

I also say all this in an South African accent. I do not know why I do this.

Once they have agreed to all details on the tickets then they may ‘go to the moon’. This simply involves me counting down from 1,000,000 or sometimes just 100 in a very haphazard manner e.g: 999, 12, 6, 57, ZERO! And I then launch them as hard as I safely can on the swings.

I am then obliged to relaunch them multiple times, verifying new details on new tickets each time, and must also keep their momentum up by pushing them several times – even though they both now know how to do it themselves.

 

Plants VS Zombies

For: both kids

Necessary props? just us

 

This is a variation on the popular mobile video game. Except played in real life of course. Now before you start thinking I am one of those amazing parents who designs plant costumes for his kids, and wears authentic zombie make-up to chase them around the garden let me reassure you: I could honestly not be bothered to do any of that, so it’s just me in my coat (depending on the weather) slowly chasing my kids around the garden and moaning and shambling like a zombie.

I am always the zombie. They let me be a plant once, oh what a happy day that was.

I also get hit now and again as the kids have to ‘defeat’ me, and they are both at that age where they are somewhat dangerous. My son because he is eight and can throw things with some force, and my daughter because she is five and is at the same level as my testicles.

 

Poo Lamps

For: my daughter

Necessary props? lights and a dark night (is nighttime a prop?)

This game is one which we generally play at night before bedtime. This is because it involves us looking out of our upstairs bedroom window and counting how many poo lamps we can see.

Now for the uninitiated – by which I mean everyone – poo lamps are poos that have been laid by cats in our garden that glow in the night.

In reality they are actually my many, many solar lights and any other neighbourhood lights that may be lit at that time. So three solar lights, two lights in the neighbour’s house = five poo lamps that night.

Sometimes my daughter improvises and counts the moon and the stars too. On nights like that the game can go on a while.

As it’s not dark now until after she goes to bed she has taken to counting the next-door neighbour’s chickens – around ten of them in total – and she still classifies them as poo lamps…

 

Pizza Delivery Foot Phone Call

For: my daughter

Necessary props? one of my daughter’s sweaty little feet

This game involves me using one of my daughter’s feet as a mock telephone. I place one of these damp little things – left or right, we have no set preference – next to my ear and pretend to phone a pizza shop. My daughter is the ‘chef’ and answers the call. I then place an order and verify each item, however I must always, always pretend to get annoyed with her if she does not have what I ask, or if she has something that I think she shouldn’t. Here’s a brief example:

Me: Can I order a pizza please?

Her: Yes of course, what would you like on it?

Me: Can I have mushrooms?

Her: Yes.

Me: And do you sell Anchovies?

Her: Yes.

Me: Why would you sell Anchovies? they are disgusting and taste awful, you should be shut down for serving those things they smell like poo and make my eyes water! You know each time you eat an Anchovie a demon is born in hell? What are you thinking?

Her: (laughing) OK! OK! We won’t sell Anchovies any more

 

And so on…

 

I Can’t Talk Properly Because My Son Is Crushing My Chest With His Powerful Muscles And Making My Voice Go All Funny

For: my son (surprise, surprise!)

Necessary props? Just me and my son

My son is at that age where he thinks he is very strong and likes to display this power by occasionally pushing over his five-year-old sister and squashing my chest. So this game involves me lying in bed next to him and just having a casual chat with him about day-to-day life. While I am talking however he will start pushing himself – using his bedside cabinet as leverage – into my side and so making my chest constrict and causing my voice to alter.

Of course as my son weighs about the same as a bag of sugar this means I have to pretend that he is very strong and he is doing this, when in fact I am just modulating my voice, much to his amusement. My son is however made out of elbows. Hard, bony elbows, approximately 67 I would guess, and these things can really dig into you. The result is that the next day you generally end up with a new bruise that you didn’t have before.

But at least he doesn’t bite like his sister.

 

 

So that’s the current crop of games that I have invented for my kids, your read it here first, you don’t need to be constrained by the world’s selection, you can make your own!

All it takes is a bit of imagination and a desire to make your kids shut their bloody mouths for more than five minutes.

 

 

*Tune in next time when I will be showing you how you can teach your kids to go the wrong way UP A SLIDE! OMG! Rule breaker right here!!!

 

I Blame Me, And I’m Not Alone…

Tags

Family, fun, funny, Humor, kids, Life, Nineties, singing

‘I’m a Barbie girl, in a Barbie world’ sings my daughter as we walk down the road. ‘Come on Barbie!’ my son tunelessly adds next to her ‘Let’s go party’. Their warbles bounce off the walls off the (mercifully deserted) street. My partner squeezes my hand a little too tightly and glares at me. Yes, I am responsible for this.

I’m on a serious nineties music kick at the moment. It’s probable all down to that period being tied up with my years of going out ‘dancing’ and drinking. I added quote marks to dancing as if you ever saw me ‘dancing’ you would probably tell me that if at any time in the future I wrote about my ‘dancing’ I would need to use quote marks to differentiate between what most people class as dancing and what I do.

Demon-possessed person being flung around probably covers it best.

It was these tunes that were the background to my youth, or early-to-mid twenties anyway. And so it’s with wistful nostalgia that I’ve been hitting that repository of everything that is YouTube, in order to get my vintage fix. It pains me to type ‘vintage fix’ when referring to the nineties I’m not going to type ‘retro’.

One of the tunes that I wouldn’t normally listen to though is Aqua’s Barbie Girl. That’s because Barbie Girl is, by any definition, a bloody awful song. It’s even worse when you watch the music video of it, then it’s as if someone has vomited skittles into your ears AND your eyes.

It would never be made these days – with its lyrics objectifying women and giving men all the power.

That plus it’s bloody, bloody awful.

I did feel that my daughter would like it though, as she’s very much a girlie girl, and loves all things pink. And all things Barbie. I also thought it might be nice for her to view it with her brother, as a kind of history lesson, and insight into what we used to send to number one in the music charts back in ‘the day’. Sigh.

So yes, I made the mistake of letting them watch it on my tablet, one wet boring Sunday (It’s April so basically pick any Sunday). Oh dear. Whatever possessed me (Not the dance demon at least, his days are done)?

I made the further mistake of leaving my daughter alone with my tablet while I helped my son with some of his crafts. She watched it on a loop, again, and again, and again…

So now I’m in the envious position of being unable to escape the lyrics of the Danish-Norwegian dance-pop. It follows me around, like the worst backing soundtrack you could ever imagine.  To be fair to them both they aren’t causing anywhere near the amount of aural damage that the original song was responsible for.

What’s possibly worse, even worse than the way my partner now looks at me when they start singing it, is the fact that I now hum it to myself. I also correct them if they sing the lyrics incorrectly. So when my daughter sang ‘Come on Barbie let’s go Barbie’ I told her that instead of the second Barbie she should actually sing ‘Let’s go party’.

What’s wrong with me?

I’m going to let them listen to STEPS next.

Tragedy? Yes, yes it is.