You know who I hate?
That little turd needs a smack in the face and a youth offenders programme.
His sole contribution to this house is encouraging youngest to prefix people’s names with insulting, alliterative descriptions:
Motherfucker Mummy. (Not yet uttered, but surely imminent).
Horrid Henry is a bored brat with paranoia. He thinks everyone is out to ruin his fun. Fun for Henry is fucking everything up. He’s Boris Johnson without the breeding: Bored Boris. Theresa May without the good hair (which is suddenly VERY good btw, a very solid look, but still the barnet of a perma-irritated dictator: Tetchy Treeza).
Last night I read HH to youngest and found I could bear it no longer and immediately banned it, as is my right, as Motherfucker Mummy and crusher of all ‘fun’.
Horrid Henry is a book and a TV show. It is not the government. If I don’t like it, I don’t need to protest against it or try to get it removed from the world. I also don’t need to write to its author, Francesca Simon and say:
Ms Simon, I find your books to be deeply offensive and a thoroughly bad influence on my son. Why don’t you write something more appropriate for our children which encourages them to be good citizens and maybe even vegan (but not gay)?
If I did that, I would be what we in the writing biz call, A MASSIVE BELL-END WHO NEEDS TO EITHER WRITE THEIR OWN GODDAM BOOKS OR FIND THEMSELVES AN ADDICTION TO PASS THE LONELY HOURS OF THEIR EMPTY LIVES.
No, all I need do is close the book, change the channel and carry on with the business of tending to my addictions…
Yesterday my blog caused one person (one person out of 1,238) deep offence. So deep that she wrote to me to tell me how deeply offended she was by “it’s ‘humourous’ tone” which she found to be “in very poor taste”.
Now then, I am no reader-shamer. I will not judge that icky erroneous apostrophe, nor that extra ‘u’ which makes me feel very un-humorous. We writers understand that spelling is important to us so that we can clearly communicate to our readers, but is of no importance to non-writers who only comment on the writing of writers and therefore need only clearly communicate with their own arseholes.
I was actually rather upset that I’d made someone feel bad. I don’t write this blog to start fights or wind people up. My tone is sometimes cheeky, but my targets are mostly deserving: the powerful, the rich, the preachers.
I suddenly realised that perhaps this reader was a personal friend of Michael’s, the man whose death was the focus of the blog. If there’s one crew I ‘get’ it’s the bereaved. So I apologised to her immediately (whilst thinking, er…leaving snippy comments on a random blog is an unusual way to spend the immediate aftermath of a friend’s death) but she replied to clarify that he was NOT a personal friend.
By which she meant: I HAVE WRITTEN MY COMMENT IN ORDER TO PROVE TO MYSELF AND EVERYONE ELSE THAT I AM A BETTER PERSON THAN YOU BECAUSE I FEEL MORE SAD THAN YOU ABOUT THE DEATH OF SOMEONE I HAVE NEVER MET. YOU INSENSITIVE NEANDERTHAL WRITER-PERSON, YOU.
In which case, I am very happy to have been of service in providing such a platform for self-righteousness.
Meanwhile, I shall just get on with not reading Horrid Henry. Or anything else I hate. Other reading material is available. Other blogs are available. I also couldn’t give the slightest shit if you allow Horrid Henry in your house. You might love being called Manky Mummy or Dickhead Daddy.
Let’s all try not to be Cunty Commentator though. That way true horridness lies…