The Perils of the Pushy Parents: A Cautionary Tale. Boris Johnson

a maths Olympiad

      Which venture meeting mixed success

      He’d wake them up with cries of ‘Chess!’

      When most of us are feeling weak.

      Then after half an hour of Greek

      He’d keep them in the chairs they sat in,

      Switch their books and yell out, ‘Latin!’

      Something told him they would star

      In ballet or in opera,

      So with the zeal of ancient Sparta

      He drilled them for La Traviata.

      He’d make them play the violin

      Then tell them with a sickly grin,

      Containing just a hint of menace,

      ‘February’s great for tennis.

      Come and meet your tennis teacher.

      Come on, kids, say pleased to meet ya!’

      Poor Jim and Molly did their best,

      And yet they knew the vital test

      For dad, more vital than a course

      In how to serve or ride a horse,

      Was quenching his hormonal need

      To watch his little children READ.

      The surest way of pleasing him

      Was sitting like two cherubim

      In silence and for simply ages

      Rustling slowly through the pages.

      Until he’d spot them, stop, and look,

      And gasp, ‘My word – they’ve got a book!’

      He’d hide behind the door to spy.

      A tear would glisten in each eye.

      He’d hug himself. He’d cut a caper:

      ‘They’re reading printed words on paper!’

      So how do you think his children could