7 things I hate about Peppa Pig

Peppa Pig’s reputation precedes her. Way back when, while I was still in my mummy’s tummy, the questionably ‘loveable, cheeky little piggy’ (well, IMDB can’t always be right), was one of the select few characters I was all too prepared to meet at the gates of babyhood.

From the outset, however, I was vaguely aware that Peppa is not to everyone’s liking. During my long days on the inside, I remember hearing about various posts and news articles bemoaning the fact that what IMDB chooses to describe as ‘loveable’ and ‘cheeky’ can, in fact – for want of a better phrase – be a bit of a spoilt brat. Enough people clearly share these feelings as ‘Peppa Pig to blame for children’s behaviour’, or some variant, makes the headlines every so often – the latest offering blaming a toy replica of Ms Pig for teaching a child to swear. Don’t get me wrong, I’m all for bad behaviour, but when it’s accepted – even encouraged by parents, it kind of defeats the purpose.

Yet my issues with the world-wide phenomenon – a world-wide phenomenon which is, in my opinion, ridiculously overrated – extend further than the mere behaviour of the main character. Let me explain:

  1. She doesn’t even look like a pig

This annoyance comes courtesy of my daddy, who refuses point blank to watch a show where the main character, who is supposed to be a pig, doesn’t look like a pig. Aside from the snout, I kind of see where he’s coming from.

  1. The theme tune is virtually non-existent

It’s a shame, really, that Peppa decides to use the otherwise catchy tune to just introduce her family. We hear enough of her annoying voice in the five-minute episode as it is; we really do not need her to talk over the theme tune, too. Such a waste.

  1. And yeah, five minute episodes?

I’m not expecting a half an hour show, but really, five minutes is a bit stingy. (I know I may be young, but my attention span can really last longer than a mere fi – ooh, milk.)  It feels like as soon as they’ve got to the meat of the issue, they’re all suddenly rolling around on the floor, laughing.

  1. Each episode ends with them rolling around on the floor, laughing

I don’t mind a happy ending, sometimes. But really, the things that make them fall on the floor laughing at the end of every episode are just not funny enough to warrant them rolling around on the floor, laughing. Every bloody time. I thought pigs were supposed to be intelligent? Not to mention the fact that it gives an unrealistic view of everyday family life. It’s not funny that ‘George doesn’t want to eat his salad but eats the chocolate cake in one go – it’s perfectly understandable. Having them roll around on the floor laughing at things like this just teaches parents (somewhat incorrectly, I should add), that favouring junk food over vegetables (ew) is funny because it should not be the norm.

  1. Speaking of George, why is his name not alliterative?

This may be the grammar geek in me (I get it from my mummy, apparently), but why is George the only character to have a non-alliterative name? There are enough boys names beginning with P they could have used to ensure consistency. Paul Pig? Peter Pig? Percy Pig? Jeez.

  1. The male characters are flawed

I’m all for equal-potties and all that, but I wouldn’t exactly call myself a feminist. Nevertheless, I can’t help feeling that some of the male characters are not the best role models. Daddy Pig, all too often, refuses to admit he can’t do something, thereby landing the family in trouble. Captain Daddy Dog … sailed around the world … by himself … for fun? Mid, life and crisis spring to mind. Yet perhaps most deserving of my wrath is Grandpa Pig, who not only seems to prioritise his garden over every other thing in his life – including his family – but is rude to said family in the process.  Take the time he point-blank refuses to let Granny Pig put gnomes and wishing wells in their garden, ultimately pawning them off to Peppa and George behind her back (of course the episode ends with them all rolling around on the floor, laughing). Or the time he tells Peppa her perfume smells like pond water, actually saying “pooey”, before turning his nose up at the “strong smell of lavender” as Granny Pig walks towards him. As you can see, full of compliments. He is eager to help George find a scent that he might like, however. As I said, I’m really not a feminist but if the hoof fits …

  1. There is no way out!

Perhaps the worst thing about it is that there is absolutely nothing I can do about it. With the excessive paraphernalia that has sprouted as a result of the popular pig – including an actual theme park – it would be at best pointless of me to try to except my parents not to make me watch the hit show and at worst, cruel. Ultimately, parents love talking to each other about it, not to mention the ease of present-buying it enables as the stuff is just everywhere. If I didn’t watch it, what would my mummy buy me for my birthday? What would she do when her friends talked about it to their children, in turn expecting her to know what they’re on about? I can’t really blame her for not wanting to be the black (Suzy) sheep of her friends, so  I suppose I’ll just have to trade her head in the sand for her body … on the floor … laughing.

The three-second rule

I have a bone to pick with you.

Way back, when we first met, I made it pretty clear that I was not a fan of the ‘D’ word. But, as any conditioning will manage to achieve, I’ve become somewhat dependent on the piece of rubber designed to shut us up. Well done. You win.

Yet in an almost cruel twist of fate, I’m finding that you are keeping us between that which you have made damn sure I rely on. Oh yes. For every time my dummy falls on the floor (and it does happen, regularly), you feel the need to whisk it away to be wiped, washed or, in serious cases (like – heaven forbid – when it happens to touch your shoe), sterilised.

Ah, sterilisation. The bane of my life. Could you take a moment to explain why you deem it necessary to boil every single thing that touches my mouth, before it touches my mouth? You are aware that everything touches my mouth these days, aren’t you? Don’t tell me you’re going to start sterilising my hands, too? (although after those visits to the nurse, I wouldn’t put anything past you.) At this juncture I must take a moment to pay my respects to my tall friend, Sophie, who suffered a cruel fate at the hands of one of her owner’s mummies when she met the steriliser … and ended up without a voice. (True story.)

Germs are hardly going to kill me. In fact, I reckon that the more I’m exposed to them (within reason, of course), the stronger my immune systems will be (and then maybe those visits to the nurse would not be required). It was only yesterday, after all, that news came out about the risk of a peanut allergy being cut by an exposure to peanuts from a young age. Go figure.

Besides, don’t think I haven’t seen you drop food on the floor before picking it up and eating it. Several times a day. if the three-second rule is good enough for you, it’s good enough for me.

You do not have to say anything, but it may harm your defence if you do not mention when questioned something which we later rely on in cot.

The baby clinic: A weighty issue

I know this issue takes up most of your days. I hear you discussing it with your friends, this desperate desire to lose weight since having me. I get it; I probably am somewhat responsible for those extra few pounds you see on the scales. I’m more than prepared for the fact that red and green will probably be my first words, seeing as they seem to dominate so many of your days ever since joining that diet. But here’s the thing – I am literally a few months old – how much I weigh is so low down on my list of priorities right now I simply cannot understand why you insist on taking me so often.

There are several issues at play here. First and foremost is the fact that the reason you obsess over my weight is completely counter to your own concerns – so it’s far from ok for you to pile on the pounds but I’m expected to get fat? Talk about sending mixed signals. And you wonder why I haven’t always gained as much as I should have (according to a universal curve that we’re all supposed to fit on perfectly, anyway). And that’s before taking my diet into consideration – you have the luxury of red and green days, I have the monotony of white days. There’s a limit to how excited I can get.

Secondly, that room is so bloody hot. I know it’s because you have to strip me naked and so your intentions to keep me nice and toasty are pure, but I still arrive fully clothed complete with coats, hats and blankets, from the bitter cold of winter. Alternating my temperature between such extremes is hardly good for my health. The fact is, I do not appreciate my naked body being judged by every other baby in there – babies that will probably become future friends, boyfriends, husbands – or even girlfriends and wives (hey, some of the boys get insecure about their newly-formed bodies, too). Throwing in the temperature extremes just makes the whole thing that more difficult.

Which really brings me on to the third and final issue of this blog, the crux of the whole argument. If these are, as previously mentioned, our future husbands/wives that you’re publicly shaming us in front of – not only by revealing us in our birthday suits but by having our weight announced for all and sundry to hear – how on earth do you expect us to recover from the utter humiliation of the whole activity? Don’t you know it’s rude to ask a baby how much they weigh?  I’ve seen the sideways smirks, frowns and genuine revulsion from other babies there who have done better than us.

By all means, live your life obsessing over the scales, but don’t make me do the same.  If I’m eating, pooing and generally contented, I’m probably alright. But for the sake of my future happiness, please, stop taking me to the hall of shame.

Sharing a room with you, like, totally cramps my style

So, I’ve been conferring with my friends and it would seem that there is quite a variation in the length of time you make us share a room with you. Some of the lucky ones are moved to the premier suite – their own room – in a matter of days – days! (or so I’ve heard on the milk-vine). Others less fortunate, however, are bound by someone called WHO (seriously, you take advice from a faceless, nameless entity who’s clearly not very memorable?) and make us wait it out for six months – six months! Half a year!

I wouldn’t mind, but you’re so noisy! If you’re not snoring like a big bear (and not the teddy-kind), you’re ‘breathing heavily’ (yes daddy, I’m looking at you!). And talking about how “cute” I am the whole time. I know. I get it. But it hardly does much for my street-cred.

And how would you like being lumbered in a tiny little Moses basket (or crib, if you’re lucky) within full view of that monstrous cloud-like bed every single night? Talk about rubbing it in.

But all this pales in comparison to the true awfulness of the situation. I do not want to be reminded that you two are, like, in love, and kiss and stuff. I mean, you’re my parents. Ew. That kind of thing gets your rattles dribbled on by other kids at playgroup.

So please, I beg you. Stick a baby monitor in my faces, if you will. Come check on me hourly, if that will put your mind at rest. But for God’s sake, do it on my turf.