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

> THE PERILS OF THE PUSHY PARENTS

      THE PERILS OF THE PUSHY PARENTS

      A CAUTIONARY TALE

      Written and illustrated by

      BORIS JOHNSON

      I

      The nicest kids you ever saw

      Were Jim and Molly Albacore,

      Who seldom made a naughty noise

      Or screamed for more expensive toys.

      Indeed, they hardly ever cried,

      Except when once a hamster died.

      If they fought they made it up,

      And if they broke a plate or cup,

      They’d both confess at once and say,

      ‘I think we’ve saved enough to pay!’

      They brushed their teeth and scrubbed their toes.

      They very rarely picked their nose,

      And kept each other free of nits

      By using little grooming kits.

      In summer from the peep of dawn

      They gambolled on the tiny lawn

      In scenes of perfect bourgeois ease

      With lavender and bumblebees

      And games involving bits of string

      Or planks of wood, or anything.

      And yet, of course, when winter came,

      The garden wasn’t quite the same.

      At dusk and having time to kill

      What they liked to do was chill,

      And get some lovely sliced white bread,

      Then smear it thick with peanut spread,

      Then cover that with strawberry jelly

      And scoff it all before the TELLY.

      Oh, how they loved that warm machine,

      Its friendly, wise, hypnotic screen.

      It never moaned at them or swore

      Or yelled at them to shut the door.

      Or taught them long division sums

      Or told them not to scratch their bums

      Or asked them in that maddening way,

      ‘Darling, what did you DO today?’

      Oh no, their television set

      Would never carp at them or fret,

      But delved into its mighty brain

      To give, and give, and give again.

      It gave them Friends and Dr Who

      And dancing comps and Scooby Doo,

      And wacky gameshows from Japan

      In which contestants take a flan

      Or piece of pie, and shout ‘Banzai’,

      And chuck it in the other’s eye,

      So provoking gales of mirth

      From all the children of the earth.

      It gave them lumps of TV fun,

      Baked and sweetened, every one,

      Edible, digestible,

      And slowly irresistible.

      Sometimes when the coast was clear

      They’d plug the console in the rear,

      And play without a hint of shame

      The latest electronic game.

      Did anything detract from this

      Condition of domestic bliss?

      Was there a thorn, was there a weed in

      Jim and Molly’s childhood Eden?

      There was. I crave your kind forbearance:

      It’s time to talk about the PARENTS.

      II

      The source, my friends, of half life’s trouble

      Is seeking reputation’s bubble,

      And though the kids were not ambitious –

      Their beds were soft, their food delicious –

      Their lives were not entirely cushy:

      Their parents were so very pushy.

      When they looked on Jim and Molly

      (I say this with some melancholy)

      They missed the pair of happy moochers

      And saw a brace of ‘brilliant futures’.

      Let’s take the father. What a freak!

      His balding brow and lean physique

      Concealed a terrifying zest

      For putting children to the test.

      When they were babies in the womb

      He’d read them Berkeley, Locke and Hume.

      Before their eyes were even open

      He’d hum them bits of Bach and Chopin,

      And not content, this massive swot,

      Would teach them physics in the cot

      And swipe away their infant bottle

      And fill their hands with Aristotle.

      When normal kids are doing well

      To stick a bit of pasta shell

      On card, or play with coloured blocks

      He