"Your Kids Are Not Special"
Here is some free advice to all you parents, and potential parents, out there:
Please, when you are round at your friends’ homes, do take a moment to consider whether or not your children are, at present, celebrated mural artists, whose works have been favourably remarked upon by the leading critics in the field, and are currently on display at some of the country’s foremost musees des beaux artes. If, after that moment’s reflection, you reach the conclusion: ‘or not’, then do not worry. You will be neither the first nor the last to do so. I would merely ask that you therefore refrain from encouraging them to draw on my goddamn living-room wall. If they must display an artistic bent, then simply supply them with a piece of paper. Or a canvas if you want - knock yourself out. But - and this is key - do try to find a happy medium between fucking them up (you may not mean to, but you do), and letting them trash other people’s houses. Because at the end of the day, no-one wants a miniature rampant id crashing through their house and drawing on it, especially if the drawings in question are essentially, let’s face it, shit.
I mention this for two reasons:
1. I have recently found that crayon is a bastard to shift.
2. I have also found out that, according to several recent reports, children are increasingly being brought up to believe that they are the last in line of the Ming Dynasty.
The Commons Education Select Committee has learned that hoards of well-meaning middle-class parents are raising an army of ‘brat bullies’. The National Association of Head Teachers has reported that some kids are falling asleep at their desks because their parents have failed to send them to bed at a reasonable time.
It would appear that some parents are unwilling to curb their children’s desires, believing that this will ‘stifle their creativity’. These worshipped little gods then ‘expect all the teachers and other kids to kow-tow to them. If they don’t, they start to bully the other children.’
Frankly, I find it tough to swallow that somewhere out there exist entire swathes of people who reckon that insisting on a 9pm bedtime is going to land them in a future version of ‘A Child Called It’, but what do I know? And hey, at least these brat bullies’ dads aren’t too hard on them. Ghastly wankers, yes. But definitely not too hard on them.
Although they are possibly not as wanky as those parents who write books and acreages of newspaper column about being no good at parenting. As opposed to offering free useful advice, like me. No, they are writing about how crap at being parents they are. The shelves of Waterstone’s are now crammed full of self-pity-fests like Stephanie Calman’s ‘Confessions Of A Failed Grown-Up.’ I only mention this book as an example of the genre. Do not buy it. Do not give this woman any money, or cause to write an equally useless sequel. In fact, you can forget you ever read that title, because this foolish, foolish woman and her ilk are all saying the same thing over and over, the sum total of which I will condense for you right here and now, saving you much time and expense. Aren’t I thoughtful?
Here it is:
“I can’t stand these yummy mummys, they make me feel so worthless - I’m more of a slummy mummy! I was late for the school play because I was putting on my lipstick for three hours! I’m SOOO worthless! But I’m sort of rock ‘n’ roll too. Please love me.
Blah Blah Blah Blah blah blah blah blah blah blah
(IjustsowanttobelovedIdidjustmentionthatdidn’tI?)
Blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah.”
Go away Stephanie. I don't love you. And besides, the raucous screeching emanating from the snot-rimmed mouth of your hell-spawned issue has just perforated my eardrum.