Bedtime stories really do need to check their privilege
As any modern liberal parent will know, traditional children’s stories are deeply problematic. Their shortcomings have been highlighted this week by two Hollywood actresses. Keira Knightley, star of Pirates of the Caribbean, revealed that she’s banned her three-year-old daughter from watching Disney’s Cinderella because of its sexist denial of female agency (“Cinderella waits around for a rich guy to rescue her! Don’t! Rescue yourself!”).
Meanwhile Kristen Bell, the voice of Anna in Frozen, accused Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs of promoting unhealthy attitudes towards sexual consent, because the prince kisses Snow White “without her permission”.
For the benefit of concerned parents, this column has decided to update a number of classic nursery rhymes, so that children can enjoy a more progressive bedtime.
The Grand Old Duke of York
Oh, the grand old Duke of York He had ten thousand men
But no women, which is why he is quite rightly being brought before an employment tribunal on the grounds of gender discrimination. Jack Sprat Jack Sprat would eat no fat
His wife would eat no lean However this does not mean that either of them deserve to be shamed for the shape of their bodies, so all credit to Cosmopolitan for arranging a cover shoot with both Sprats for its upcoming “Body Confidence” issue.
There Was an Old Woman There was an old woman who lived in a shoe. What a horrifying indictment of this Tory Government’s nakedly ideological cuts to welfare.
Peter, Peter, Pumpkin Eater
Peter, Peter, pumpkin eater,
Had a wife but couldn’t keep her.
He put her in a pumpkin shell
And is now facing a sentence of six years for false imprisonment.
Doctor Foster
Doctor Foster went to Gloucester
In a shower of rain. He stepped in a puddle Right up to his middle
In yet another alarming demonstration of the impact of climate change. Please switch to a reusable coffee cup today.
If You’re Happy and You Know It
If you’re happy and you know it, clap your hands
If you’re happy and you know it, clap your hands
If you’re happy and you know it And you really want to show it If you’re happy and you know it Then quite frankly it’s time to check your privilege. How can you possibly be happy in a world with soaring inequality, rampant Islamophobia, and a racist in the White House? It’s easy for the children of cisgendered white middle-class parents to sit there clapping their hands like they haven’t got a care in the world, but perhaps you should take a moment to consider the plight of others before rubbing their faces in it so thoughtlessly. Well? For spiritual guidance, I always turn to an American television evangelist. They always have such a sure footing on the moral high ground. Wondering what to make of the news about Jamal Khashoggi, I naturally looked to the biggest evangelist of all: Pat Robertson, founder of the Christian Broadcasting Network.
Mr Robertson’s advice was as sage as I expected. America mustn’t kick up a fuss about Saudi Arabia, he told his viewers, because after all, “We’ve got an arms deal that everybody wanted a piece of… $100 billion of arms sales… a lot of money come to our coffers…”
I must admit, I don’t recall the passage in the Bible in which Jesus said, “Sure, OK. Murder’s not ideal. But, come on, guys. Money talks. Big missile contract at stake here. Let’s focus on the greater good.”
I must consult my King James more carefully.
I always imagined I would be a laid-back dad. The sort who tells his kids that winning isn’t everything, and it’s the taking part that counts.
In reality, it turns out, I’m fanatically competitive. Far more competitive as a dad, in fact, than I ever was as a child.
One afternoon, when I picked him up from school, my four-year-old son was sunk in gloom. The teacher, he explained, gives you a frog sticker each time you do well in class. Then on Fridays, the child who’s received the most stickers is named “Star of the Week”. But my son hadn’t won.
“I’m never going to be Star of the Week,” he said, in a tiny voice.
The healthy response would have been to tell him not to worry. Awards are silly. For some reason, though, I was seized by a competitive fury – and started plotting my son’s victory as if it were a general election campaign.
Which is why, when he asked me to lend him “something square” because the teacher had told everyone they had to “bring in a shape for Show and Tell”, I found myself snapping, “A square? We can do better than that! Take this 50p coin! Now, repeat after me: ‘This is called… a heptagon!’ Say it! Heptagon! Come on! You’re bound to get a frog sticker for this! Hep… ta… gon!” “Het a gon?”
“Heptagon! Hept! She is going to be blown away by this! This is going to be worth Star of the Week on its own! Oh, and while we’re at it: if you hear anyone in that class say the Earth is round, you are going to say, ‘NO! The Earth is NOT round! It is an OBLATE SPHEROID! Because it flattens out at the top and bottom!’ Can you say that? Ob… late… spher… oid!”
Another day, the teacher told the class they each had to bring in “something British”. I gave my son a Vote Leave badge and spent 15 minutes teaching him to recite: “This is a badge for Brexit. Brexit means Britain is leaving the EU.”
People used to complain about the culture of “all shall have prizes”. But maybe it was a good idea. At least it stopped dads like me being so weird.