Peppa Flipping Pig...

We’ve gone through a lot of phases in our house over the years with regards most favourite people on TV, or to give them their proper title – level seven obsessions.
There was a time that the Wiggle’s ruled the roost. It was wall-to-wall Sam, Murray, Jeff and Anthony and that big octopus thing in a dress. Aliens could have landed, taken over the world and begun their evil plan of annihilation outside our window – all broadcast live on Sky TV – and we would have been none the wiser, more concerned were we about Captain Feathersword’s misplaced eye-patch.
Then there was Thomas the flipping Tank Engine. We literally watched thousands of hours of Thomas falling into lakes and spilling barrels of popcorn oil all over the tracks. Quite frankly if I was the Fat Controller I’d have given him his marching orders long ago. He may well be a very useful engine but his track record for accidents is utterly appalling.
We went through a Power Rangers phase recently, programmes which are torturous to watch if you’re over the age of seven. The aliens in those programmes are just unrealistic and the enemy soldiers who hop menacingly towards battle? There methods are plain impractical. If that were a real war time situation, those lads would be beyond exhausted before the fighting even kicked off.
These days as the older boys gravitate more towards computer games our two-year-old, Finn the destroyer, has commandeered the television and remote control and it’s now wall-to-wall Peppa Pig and Postman Pat.
In my expert opinion Peppa Pig leads such a mediocre existence that she doesn’t deserve to have her own TV show. After a six-hour Peppa Pig marathon I honestly don’t know what the programmers were thinking making a documentary about a little girl pig who does nothing more exciting than go to playgroup or jump in muddy puddles. I wouldn’t mind if she was extraordinarily talented at, for example, painting but quite frankly her poster paint depiction of her father was rather flat, colourless and rubbish. And that song she sings about a big balloon, I woke in the night screaming after listening to that being rewinded and played continuously for an hour.
Postman Pat is another obsession. We must watch Pat roam aimlessly around the countryside talking to his cat for hours upon hours. I truly wish that something exciting would happen to illuminate poor Pat’s life, maybe an armed robbery at Greendale post office, a meteor strike at the railway station or even the army cordoning off the main street after suspecting one of his parcels of containing Anthrax. The man must surely be distraught at his lot in live, he leads such a dull existence.
There was one brief moment during a particularly uneventful Postman Pat themed weekend that made me sit up and take slightly more notice. Pat had acquired himself a fancy helicopter and I thought things might heat up a little. Perhaps some mountain rescue action or James Bond-style hanging from the base of the chopper. But no, he used it to deliver letters and a giant ice cube with his cat as his actual co-pilot.
Being infuriatingly pedantic I complement my son’s favourite programmes with a running commentary of faults and flaws.
Cats in Choppers? That’s just dangerous. What good would a cat be if Pat had an engine malfunction and went spiralling at top speed towards the ground? None, that’s what. Everyone knows cats can’t drive or fly, their feet don’t reach the pedals.
The way things are going we shall get our remote control back in 2022. By that time robots will be reading the news and they’ll be flying cars in Albert Square.