Peppa, To Taste

Has it really come to this? Because the BBC has to be seen, at all times, absolutely impartial, it cannot allow the possibility that it has shown preference to one political party over another, it has to make some distinctly odd decisions. All in the name of fairness. If, for instance, it says that the representative of one particular party is a lying, cheating, good for nothing bastard, then it is duty bound to state that, of course, other lying, cheating, good for nothing bastards are available.

This seems mainly due to the general kneejerk, quick to judge hysterical reactions of tabloids like the Daily Mail (other toilet tissues are available), and a desire to keep everyone sweet. After all, if one particular party gets through the iconic door next week, the BBC will find arguing for the licence fee a lot more challenging.

All of which makes it depressingly, crushingly inevitable that children’s favourite Peppa Pig has been banned from attending a public event as part of the Labour party’s campaign trail. Yes, while other political parties have traditionally had to deal with barracking CND protestors, assassination attempts, and uncomfortable questions about sinking departing ships, Gordon Brown and co are apparently mostly concerned about the attentions of an talking swine in a dress. Perhaps they’re worried about losing the Kosher vote.

This is plainly ridiculous – one assumes that Peppa was drafted in to keep the kids amused (if this was the opposition, presumably they’d be the Even Younger Conservatives) while the grown ups got on with the more important business of policy, finance, and calling life-long voters bigots. An absolute ban on Ms Pig (who might not be a feminist, even if she does have a Spare Rib) suggests that the BBC were afraid that an appearance by PP would mean that other children’s characters would have to put in time at the other parties. That in itself isn’t a problem, but it is admittedly a logistical nightmare to decide which characters should align themselves to what party.

Everyone’s favourite one-eyed Nazis, the Daleks, should be a shoo-in for the BNP, while the Clangers would probably want to speak for Nick Clegg (very young, pink, and somewhat incoherent and squeaky when pressed with a direct question), while, sadly for David Cameron, it would be unwise for a children’s character to look like he’s pulling a plastic bag tightly over his head. In the meantime, it will be safe to assume that Peppa Pig has been taken round the back and shot. It just remains to be seen which party will end up bringing home the bacon.

Shall I Compare Thee

And so, here it is. A General Election looming, and, as always, I have no idea who I would want to vote for. In fact, I'm not sure I entirely trust anybody who absolutely knows where their allegiances lie. What do they know that I don't? Do they get a special newsletter that tells them exactly where the money they pay in taxes is going?

I've always felt a bit stupid when it comes to politics, nodding (but not too much) sagely in pubs as people all around me discuss confidently the problems of modern government, and how there's not much difference in the parties these days (in that case, why the hell is this conversation taking so long?), and who is left of centre, centre of right, or right to be left. I have no idea what anybody's talking about, and I have a sneaking feeling that they don't, either. They're just making it up, surely. It's like those times in school when everyone around you emphatically stated that they knew what sex was. Some of those people still don't know what sex is.

It gets worse when people try to explain what each party is standing for, because that will always come delivered with their own personal agenda, and in any case, they'll start quoting figures and statistics at me, and anything even vaguely mathematical upsets me. My mind starts acting like the end of Raiders Of The Lost Ark, when the guy is wheeling the ark into that big old warehouse, and shutting down all the lights, plunging that room into darkness. That's essentially my brain, when you start talking to me about politics. Coupled with me tunelessly humming a John Williams theme.

It just doesn't make sense to me that one party is basically the 'right' party for this country, and therefore the other party, or parties, are automatically bad. And what I want to see more of, may be the very last thing that you'd want to vote for. But debates and Prime Minister's Questions aren't dealt with in shades of black and white (even when the issue at hand is, at the very basest level, being black or white). Listen to one Minister, and they'll argue very strongly and convincingly about why you should pay higher taxes. But the next Minister will - of course - decry that, and tell you that means that that'll mean less money - less food - for you, your partner, and your children. Dear God, won't somebody think of the children?

People (well, alright, me) need things spelled out a lot more clearly. I don't mind paying out higher taxes for, let's say, medical services I'm not likely ever to use. One hand washes the other, and all that, yeah? But, equally, there are people who - for instance - bemoan having to pay the TV licence fee, on the assumption that they never watch Antiques Roadshow. And that's fair enough. But where do we find out where this can be answered?

There are price comparison websites. There are websites where you can compare how much you're going to pay for your laptop, your car, your car insurance. There is, of course, even a website where you can compare meerkats. But why isn't there a website (one that I've heard of, at least, before doing the most perfunctory of research for this entry) where you can compare political parties?

It would be simple. In fact, it would have to be simple; that's the point - everything in the broadest brushstrokes possible. When you go on one of these websites in order to decide what mobile phone you're going to upgrade to, there's usually a series of columns telling you the main details of exactly what it might be that you're interested in: does it have wifi? does it have a mega pixel camera? does it work in a different country? does it - please God - make and receive telephone calls? Depending on what your needs and interests are, it's a lot easier to decide what phone you want to get. Sometimes you don't want one with all the bells and whistles. And sometimes you're excited to find a phone that genuinely comes with actual bells, and whistles.

Surely it shouldn't be that different when you're looking to upgrade your government? Essentially, it's the same rigmarole - you're thinking about changing your service provider, and your existing one wants you to extend your contract. For as long as possible. And so, they throw in lots of tempting possibilities that might make you consider giving them a second (or third, or fourth, or fifth) chance.

I would like to see a honestly independent advisor, not staffed by meerkats, give me a suggestion as to who I might like to vote for. Rather than a bunch of people in a pub telling me who I should vote for. And that way I might be able to get through this campaign without humming the theme to Indiana Jones.

Cutting Comments

I don’t get my hair cut all that often. In fact, it’s possible that governments change more frequently than I have to start thinking up conversational gambits to have with my hairdresser. It’s moved on so much from ‘where are you going on your holidays?’ (I’m not) whilst covering of such topics as chosen football team allegiance, or the sort of music I’m into at the moment, only have two answers left, and you’re left in no doubt whatsoever that there is a right and a wrong answer, and the likelihood is that whatever answer you provide, it’ll be the wrong one. To take the pressure off, I tend to play verbal tennis, and ask them all the questions. This comes with its own set of challenges, as you have to think up slightly less obvious inquires: it’s not like you can ask them what they do for a living, and furthermore, you then have to flag up an interest in whatever they’re telling you, as I found over the course of two years as my hairdresser informed me with great bitterness and even greater detail the mechanics and outcome of his ongoing divorce. As he became increasingly agitated and angry, I became increasingly aware of his bladework.

When I was a child, my haircut cost one pound. A single pound. Which folded. Nowadays, that wouldn’t buy you a decent shampoo. I used to regularly lose the money, which I only realised after having the haircut. An hour or so used to pass before I realised that I’d hidden it in my sock. Again. Because I used to lose my money all the time.

Now haircuts can cost up to £35, or more. Paying that much so that somebody can take something off me has always jarred, so I usually go to a barbers rather than a salon. There’s a quite exclusive one near me, and the prices mean I’ve only ever been there twice, and both times only because I had free vouchers (oh, I’m a real catch, me).The first time I went into this other world (and it is another world, smelling of lemongrass and tea tree oil, and staffed exclusively by nineteen year olds who’ve all managed that curious expression that suggests they’re always having a great time, but that they’re constantly pissed off about it).

I was a stranger in a strange land. I wasn’t used to being told the content and country of origin of the product being washed into my hair, I wasn’t used to being presented with a menu of complimentary drinks (coffee? tea? wine? Wine, for the love of Toni and Guy?) and I certainly wasn’t used to being offered a head massage. I got overly self aware and felt that I’d wandered into a dimly lit establishment where you’re coyly offered certain ‘extras’. So I politely declined, despite the fact that I’ve had more headaches than I’ve had hot dinners. And, yes, I’m fully aware that if I had more hot dinners, I’d have less headaches. This time round, it seems that I haven’t been the only interloper to get all new male and Guardian reader over the offer of female contact, and so they’ve changed the wording – rather than offer you the service, they tell you that they’re going to do it. However, if the intention really was to de-sexualise the whole affair, they should probably have gone for a better phrase than ‘and now, Sir, I’m going to finish you off with a head massage.’

I can never have my hair cut too short since doing so makes me look somewhat ill, to the extent that people are clearly wondering how long I’ve got left, but on the other hand, I’m really not stylish enough to manage hair longer than that of a three hour old baby. I attempt to go for the unkempt and just got out of bed look, but never have the time, since I’ve invariably just gotten out of bed. The conversational gambit problem is less of a issue in a salon, since, as indicated, they spend a lot of time telling you what they’re using and why they’re using it, but your reactions still have to be measured: I kept my eyes open throughout the wash and massage, panicking that I might look like I was enjoying the process ‘too much’, whereas to her, I clearly looked like I was worried that she might steal my wallet. I don’t anticipate being relaxed enough for another cut for about eleven years.