I initially set out to write this week’s post about living with my own Anxiety; an attempt at making light-heart of my occasional crippling fear over non-issues. In that respect, I do indeed sleep with the enemy.
However, in my search to see what is available on hiding your Anxiety from your kids, and how I might be able to add humour to my documentation of this plan, I read about something that is not only a more suitable fit for the blog title – if we take it to refer to sex – but also made me feel considerably more stable in my own thinking: the fact that apparently some women find Daddy Pig attractive.
For those who haven’t had to endure the pain of this character, he is a pig that looks like a cross between a hairdryer and a testicle, and somehow found a woman to make bacon with; resulting in the conception of Peppa Pig. ‘Surely a one night stand, or at least a sympathy shag?’ I thought, but no – she went back for more and had piglet number two.
The thought of having sex with Daddy Pig makes me feel ill; in keeping with the fact that eating raw pork makes you very sick. He’s just not very sexy. I can’t imagine there’d be any ‘throw down’ – it would all be a bit Alan Partridge: “do you mind if I talk throughout? It tends to keep the wolf from the door” and so on. I could be wrong; they say it’s always the quiet ones and maybe there’s a raging porn star under his unassuming personality…
No, it’s still making me feel ill.
Aside from the obvious, the man is married – he should be off everyone’s radar.
And what about the impact on existing husbands? This has surely got to be the ultimate dent to any man’s pride?
The knock on effect is that this brings me back to my own, sometimes wayward, thinking. Whilst I sometimes drive myself nuts with worry and fear, this now seems so relatively mild and insignificant when compared with this sausage-craze that some individuals have. I suddenly feel at the mild end of the unhelpful-thinking continuum. My biggest worry has always been ‘what do people think of me?’ – I suddenly feel very grateful that this isn’t ‘I fantasise about making love to a middle-aged farm animal’.
As I pondered over this during the week, a reality check about the actual impact of my Anxiety on my little boy was handed to me on a plate. He was crying hysterically, over an apparently unfair ratio of raisins-to-chocolate, and bawled “I just want to be happy all the time like you Mummy”. This came as a shock because I assumed he saw my slip-ups – when he’s dancing around trying to make me laugh by tying the legs of his sock monkey around his waist, as a comedy belt, whilst trying to imitate an American accent, and I’m staring into space – scared the world is going to end. I felt so relieved that he was apparently oblivious, and just saw the sunshine. The reality hit that the concept that I am the enemy has very little substance. However, sleeping with a real enemy, such a Daddy Pig, is a real life issue.
Don’t get me wrong, I’m not a prude; Charlie Brooker’s ‘Black Mirror: The National Anthem’ is, to me, one of the greatest scripts ever written, and that has a sex scene involving a pig. But under no circumstances should this make any viewer feel horny…
So I conclude I’m far from the mess I thought I was, and that I could be a lot worse. And as a bonus, I feel quite relieved to be single in a world where the calibre of human partners is deemed such that a YouTube video of Miley Cyrus and Rhianna gyrating their crotches on an awkward cartoon pig would go viral and lead to share-price increases in DIY sex toys…
Oh well, I guess it gives weight to the term ‘getting porked’. Perhaps I should change the title of this to ‘Beauty and the Beast-iality’?
I think I’m going to become a vegetarian.