Goldilicks and the Loos from Hell

10 Jun

The Pogster and I witnessed a rather strange take on Goldilocks and the Three Bears this morning during what could, I guess, loosely, be described as a “puppet” show performed by Clydebuilt Puppet Theatre.  Sacks of porridge with bear faces are puppets yeah? And jars of golden syrup with a dessert spoon stuck in top done up like a cheap-trick 50 year old prostitute are also puppets… I guess? Goldilicks make-up is seriously underdone compared with the version we saw this morning but I still think it’s stretching it a bit… maybe I’m simply not “arty” enough to accept these completely non-animated lumps as puppets.


There’s a finite length of time you can hold the attention of a group of 50 or so 3, 4 and 5 year olds. And if they already know the story of Goldilocks and the Three Bears it runs out well in advance of the 50 minutes Steven the puppet guy dragged on.  He lost me after 5 and I spent the next 45 trying not to giggle at the successive waves of restlessness, mischief and nose-picking that rolled over the children, silently but communally. Rivetted they were not, and even when they did laugh they were pretty much eyeballing each other rather than the puppets, trying to make a louder more obnoxious laugh than all their little buddies.

There were, of course, messages. Since the late 1980s there’s always “messages”. According to Clydebuilt Puppet’s website the intended themes were “shopping, healthy eating and fun”. We must have been at an alternative performance and anyway can’t the bears just be done and eat the spoilt blonde brat who breaks in, trashes their house and eats their breakfast? Not when there’s a learning opportunity. Apparently. So what seeds of wisdom were really planted today?

First, Mum does all the cleaning and cooking. If Dad does give it a go, after she has recovered from her shock, Mum will have to fix the mess he’s made anyway so why bother? Just get off your lazy she-bear arse woman, stop reading the recipe section in the newspaper and do it yourself. You useless excuse for a lady-bear wife.

Second, if Dad is busy at work and you call him demanding treats, he says no because… he doesn’t have time for you. Isn’t that a beaut? It’s not because Dad’s busy earning a wage leaving Mum free to take the spawn of their joint loins to puppet shows and have post-war gender stereotypes bludgeoned into their already testosterone charged toddler, in puppet form. It’s not because you were actually quite rude and didn’t even say so much as please. No, it’s because Dad doesn’t have time for you. A bit suckish that.

Third was the best lesson of all. I only say this as it was demonstrated twice so he must have really really wanted to get this one across. If someone says “no” to you just scream and scream and scream and threaten to be sick and you’ll get what you want. Thanks a farging bunch for that one Stevie.

However, the very worst part of our visit with the playgroup to the primary school they will all be attending as of August happened way before all that. When we got there Pog-boy needed to pee. One of the primary teachers I already know pointed us at the P1/2 boys toilets and apologised. I mean really apologised. Like she could not be sorrier that we were having to use this facility. She also held her nose. And she was damn well right to be sorry. I’m so annoyed I didn’t have my camera with me but it will probably be far more appropriate if I take photos after school hours. The place is disgusting. At only 10 in the morning it was already absolutely rancid. The pipes are mouldy and black, the sinks are rust stained, the soap is filthy and there’s nothing to dry anything with, neither butts nor hands. Do they honestly expect my son to spend over 5 hours a day 5 days a week for 2 years with only this stinking hole for comfort breaks?  No adult would accept it and I don’t see why our children should. I’m coming over all campaigney… getting affronted… a bit bolshy… need wine and a lie down.


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