I was very excited to see a trailer on the tellybox last night for a programme about old Mums. Very old Mums. Mums that are in fact so old that they look like someone has discovered a way to allow babies to suckle on corpses.
The trailer first drops the bombshell that across the globe, "women as old as seventy are giving birth..." and then raises the question upon which I suspect the documentary hinges: can you be too old to be a Mum?
I'm no expert of course, but I would suggest that if the baby is being delivered on an episode of 'Time Team', then yes you might just be.
Wednesday, 22 July 2009
Monday, 13 July 2009
"I'll be your dog"
I’ve said it before and I will say it again: pets are great. Dogs are especially great since they actually care about you. Old ladies may sit and chuckle to themselves about the bond they have between themselves and 10 year-old Tiddles, but they are sadly deluded. In their dusty mind Tiddles is a warm, affectionate, loving companion who is never happiest than when she is cuddling up to her blue-rinsed owner. The knowledge that, to Tiddles, the tittering heap of knitwear is little more than a slow moving cat-food dispenser, is knowledge that waits at the entrance of her mind but has yet to be allowed in. It’s probably wearing trainers, so entry is anything but likely.
Dogs on the other had, are brilliant. We’ve all seen homeless people on the streets of London or Brighton, wearing grubby rags, clearly surviving on bin-scraps, and with a dog sat nobly beside them. It is fair to say that this is a dog that has a pretty shit life compared to, say, Lassie. Does it care? No. There he sits next to his snoring cider soaked partner, blinking apologetically for the rapidly expanding puddle of piss that passers by are huffily vaulting. “I’m sorry about my friend, he’s had a run of bad luck. He’ll be back on his feet soon enough though, just you wait” he says through watery eyes formed of rich loyal chocolate. A cat would have given him a golden shower, scratched his eyes out and sold them for catnip.
No surprise then that a Bristol Family are so keen for their runaway dog to come home, they’ve been peeing in the street. Not through distress-induced leakage, but through legitimate luring techniques. Techniques learned from a website I might add, so there is no doubting their validity. “It’s quite a normal way of doing it” said the Mum. Of course it is, you lose your dog you spray the drive with your first leak of the day. It’s obvious. “You just put a little bit in a bottle and then top it up with water” she goes on, confusing the contents of her bladder with the contents of a Kia-Ora bottle.
“You only have to do it once.”
Ok, maybe it’s not so bad.
“We've left two trails.”
Oh. Maths not as good as her research skills then.
Dogs on the other had, are brilliant. We’ve all seen homeless people on the streets of London or Brighton, wearing grubby rags, clearly surviving on bin-scraps, and with a dog sat nobly beside them. It is fair to say that this is a dog that has a pretty shit life compared to, say, Lassie. Does it care? No. There he sits next to his snoring cider soaked partner, blinking apologetically for the rapidly expanding puddle of piss that passers by are huffily vaulting. “I’m sorry about my friend, he’s had a run of bad luck. He’ll be back on his feet soon enough though, just you wait” he says through watery eyes formed of rich loyal chocolate. A cat would have given him a golden shower, scratched his eyes out and sold them for catnip.
No surprise then that a Bristol Family are so keen for their runaway dog to come home, they’ve been peeing in the street. Not through distress-induced leakage, but through legitimate luring techniques. Techniques learned from a website I might add, so there is no doubting their validity. “It’s quite a normal way of doing it” said the Mum. Of course it is, you lose your dog you spray the drive with your first leak of the day. It’s obvious. “You just put a little bit in a bottle and then top it up with water” she goes on, confusing the contents of her bladder with the contents of a Kia-Ora bottle.
“You only have to do it once.”
Ok, maybe it’s not so bad.
“We've left two trails.”
Oh. Maths not as good as her research skills then.
Wednesday, 8 July 2009
Phil them up
It is a mixed blessing to be an actress on Eastenders, as it is only a matter of time before you have to snog Phil Mitchell. Like retarded moths their characters flap towards his glowing maw, an uninviting pothole in a ridiculous red light-bulb head that looks like it belongs hanging upside down in a prostitute's window rather than perched atop his lumbering thumbs-in-pockets body, squeezing air through its non-lips so he whispers like a sex pest. There it could hang, cheerlessly gurning down at her customers as they grimly thrust away their self-respect.
They are too far down this bumpy track to stop now, they have made their 'he's irresistable to every no-tail that drifts into the Vic' bed and now they must lie in it. But why did they even buy the sheets? Is it so that we ugly blokes can watch him munching through the faces of various underwear-clad FHM fodder and think "cor, if he can get a girl like that there is hope for me yet"? This is otherwise known as the Ron Jeremy theory. More convincing is the fact that he came into the show with his bruv, Grant Mitchell (played by Ross Kemp, Karl Pilkington's well built twin) and Phil was the more attractive romantic interest for the Albert Square ladies. But this was simply because he was the less psychotic of the two. Is that really how women choose their partners, on a least-worst basis?
'Was' is actually the key word here. You see, whilst Grant was plain old fashioned 'squadie can't handle being home from the war' mental, Phil had a lovely drink problem written for him. Every now and again the plot-lines will dry up and the writers will dust off the 'Phil falls off the wagon' story. That's the good thing about addiction, it's always there for you in times of trouble.
I love a soap alcoholic, partly because it invariably opens up the inner-ham in the relevant actor and we can enjoy their attempts to channel Oliver Reed's 'Wild One' appearance on Aspel and Co for a few minutes - special mention must go to The Bill's Jim Carver for providing a particularly delightful example of this. It is also partly because of the predictability of it all. No sooner has the wagon lightened its load but out comes the Smirnoff bottle full of tap-water or the Bells full of apple juice (depending upon budget). There will also be some ill-advised romantic entanglements. Which brings us back to Phil. During his most recent wagon-departure Mr Mitchell willingly stumbled down the dusty track of Queen Crow Shirley Carter.
Ouch.
Now sober he is currently laying siege to the sugar walls of lovely Dawn Swann. If ever one were required, you would struggle to find a better arguement for sobriety.
Sadly the actress who plays Ms Swann is due to be written out of the programme later this year. Presumably through having vomited herself inside out.
They are too far down this bumpy track to stop now, they have made their 'he's irresistable to every no-tail that drifts into the Vic' bed and now they must lie in it. But why did they even buy the sheets? Is it so that we ugly blokes can watch him munching through the faces of various underwear-clad FHM fodder and think "cor, if he can get a girl like that there is hope for me yet"? This is otherwise known as the Ron Jeremy theory. More convincing is the fact that he came into the show with his bruv, Grant Mitchell (played by Ross Kemp, Karl Pilkington's well built twin) and Phil was the more attractive romantic interest for the Albert Square ladies. But this was simply because he was the less psychotic of the two. Is that really how women choose their partners, on a least-worst basis?
'Was' is actually the key word here. You see, whilst Grant was plain old fashioned 'squadie can't handle being home from the war' mental, Phil had a lovely drink problem written for him. Every now and again the plot-lines will dry up and the writers will dust off the 'Phil falls off the wagon' story. That's the good thing about addiction, it's always there for you in times of trouble.
I love a soap alcoholic, partly because it invariably opens up the inner-ham in the relevant actor and we can enjoy their attempts to channel Oliver Reed's 'Wild One' appearance on Aspel and Co for a few minutes - special mention must go to The Bill's Jim Carver for providing a particularly delightful example of this. It is also partly because of the predictability of it all. No sooner has the wagon lightened its load but out comes the Smirnoff bottle full of tap-water or the Bells full of apple juice (depending upon budget). There will also be some ill-advised romantic entanglements. Which brings us back to Phil. During his most recent wagon-departure Mr Mitchell willingly stumbled down the dusty track of Queen Crow Shirley Carter.
Ouch.
Now sober he is currently laying siege to the sugar walls of lovely Dawn Swann. If ever one were required, you would struggle to find a better arguement for sobriety.
Sadly the actress who plays Ms Swann is due to be written out of the programme later this year. Presumably through having vomited herself inside out.
Tuesday, 7 July 2009
There's Something in the Water
I am currently on holiday. Well, actually I'm not any more. By now I will have returned home and uttered the phrase "very nice thanks" seventeen or eighteen times. But that's a future now. 'Now' is elastic like that. My current now involves me camping in Wiltshire, sat in my tent with a can of warm lager perched precariously on a beach towel in case of spillage.
See? Truth be told, it's not been much of a holiday for that towel, when it isn't braced for saturation it forms the basis of my pillow. I pity its return to the other towels.
"Alright Tattystripes, how was Wiltshire?"
"Which part, the mopping up of beer or the being squashed beneath a fat bloke's sweaty cranium for eight hours?"
It doesn't sound so bad now I look at it. Do you notice the can's white backdrop? That's the flyscreen. It's far too hot to zip the tent's main door shut. This is the first time I've slept in such a way and I've noticed that it provides both the benefit of allowing air to circulate about my nocturnal perspirations, but also imbues the camping with a (admittedly, small) sense of bold adventure. After all, there is mere netting between my slumbering heap of self and the horrors of the outside world. It's either 'bold adventure' or 'naked vulnerability', I forget which.
For a lot of people their main camping experience is as a (relatively) economical way of attending festivals, primarily because it gives you a base at which to leave both your clean clothes and any foolish intention towards clean living that may have stowed away in your rucsac. Of course, the festival cliche that sends many running to the hills is the distressing state that one may find the toilet facilities. A benefit of regulated campsites (such as the one upon which I currently find myself) is that bathroom terrors are rare. They are cleaned/fumigated/cleansed by fire every day so they can be used with some degree of justified optimism, unlike festival loos whose doors must be opened with trepidation, the knowledge that unpleasantness may lurk within that is so unspeakable as to force you to question the humanity and self respect of the previous resident. And make you poo behind a hedge instead.
Being a biologically functioning human who lacks a desire for floating teeth, I visted the campsite facilities earlier today (by 'today', I refer you back the previous discussion of 'now') and felt my heart sink as I followed a fellow camper through the door. "Balls" thought I, with the knowledge that there are only two urinals, "I'll have to use a cubicle". You see, urinals are complicated numerically. A single is fine, as are three or more, but two is horrible when they are both occupied. There's a feeling of teamwork that hangs between you which I'm not particularly comfortable with. It's like you've become Brothers in Piss. A manly nod is exchanged as if to say 'we're here to do the same job, together we can get this done [zzzip]', an acknowledgment which I would rather not be involved in. Therefore, to avoid sharing another man's hosedown, I dart into a cubicle. Locking the door, I raise the seat. I am confronted by something that resembles the decomposing thigh of a black bodybuilder. I shut the lid immediately, retching quietly to myself and wondering why there was no blood. Surely noone could birth something like that without splitting themselves in two? Disgusted, quizzical, and still needing a wee, I decamp to the next cubicle and shut the door.
I almost open it again to check whether I actually moved.
It is exactly the same, like someone has clumsily parked a brown camper van at a jaunty angle at the base of the u-bend, the owner having snorkelled off to phone the AA. Escaping again I find that within each of the five cubicles lurks a monstrous water-logged torpedo, each more intimidating than the last. This was ridiculous. Had a family of lumberjacks brought their work on holiday with them? I felt like a lion tamer realising he's out of his depth, realising that a whip and a chair won't come close to defending against the advancing horde of drooling beasts, eyes blazing with vindictive hunger and teeth glistening in perilous moonlight. Eventually, with a sense of grim resignation hanging on my shoulders like a drab overcoat you are obliged to wear because it cost your auntie a week's pension, I return to the first cubicle, lair of the smallest bowel-evacuee, taking care to fill the bowl with a large quanity of toilet tissue. If I had to share a room with it, at least I didn't have to look at it. I pulled the lever allowing the cistern to empty and vacated the cubicle to wash my hands. I'm certain that, as I left, I could hear a gurgly voice growl after me.
"I'm still here you fucker."
See? Truth be told, it's not been much of a holiday for that towel, when it isn't braced for saturation it forms the basis of my pillow. I pity its return to the other towels.
"Alright Tattystripes, how was Wiltshire?"
"Which part, the mopping up of beer or the being squashed beneath a fat bloke's sweaty cranium for eight hours?"
It doesn't sound so bad now I look at it. Do you notice the can's white backdrop? That's the flyscreen. It's far too hot to zip the tent's main door shut. This is the first time I've slept in such a way and I've noticed that it provides both the benefit of allowing air to circulate about my nocturnal perspirations, but also imbues the camping with a (admittedly, small) sense of bold adventure. After all, there is mere netting between my slumbering heap of self and the horrors of the outside world. It's either 'bold adventure' or 'naked vulnerability', I forget which.
For a lot of people their main camping experience is as a (relatively) economical way of attending festivals, primarily because it gives you a base at which to leave both your clean clothes and any foolish intention towards clean living that may have stowed away in your rucsac. Of course, the festival cliche that sends many running to the hills is the distressing state that one may find the toilet facilities. A benefit of regulated campsites (such as the one upon which I currently find myself) is that bathroom terrors are rare. They are cleaned/fumigated/cleansed by fire every day so they can be used with some degree of justified optimism, unlike festival loos whose doors must be opened with trepidation, the knowledge that unpleasantness may lurk within that is so unspeakable as to force you to question the humanity and self respect of the previous resident. And make you poo behind a hedge instead.
Being a biologically functioning human who lacks a desire for floating teeth, I visted the campsite facilities earlier today (by 'today', I refer you back the previous discussion of 'now') and felt my heart sink as I followed a fellow camper through the door. "Balls" thought I, with the knowledge that there are only two urinals, "I'll have to use a cubicle". You see, urinals are complicated numerically. A single is fine, as are three or more, but two is horrible when they are both occupied. There's a feeling of teamwork that hangs between you which I'm not particularly comfortable with. It's like you've become Brothers in Piss. A manly nod is exchanged as if to say 'we're here to do the same job, together we can get this done [zzzip]', an acknowledgment which I would rather not be involved in. Therefore, to avoid sharing another man's hosedown, I dart into a cubicle. Locking the door, I raise the seat. I am confronted by something that resembles the decomposing thigh of a black bodybuilder. I shut the lid immediately, retching quietly to myself and wondering why there was no blood. Surely noone could birth something like that without splitting themselves in two? Disgusted, quizzical, and still needing a wee, I decamp to the next cubicle and shut the door.
I almost open it again to check whether I actually moved.
It is exactly the same, like someone has clumsily parked a brown camper van at a jaunty angle at the base of the u-bend, the owner having snorkelled off to phone the AA. Escaping again I find that within each of the five cubicles lurks a monstrous water-logged torpedo, each more intimidating than the last. This was ridiculous. Had a family of lumberjacks brought their work on holiday with them? I felt like a lion tamer realising he's out of his depth, realising that a whip and a chair won't come close to defending against the advancing horde of drooling beasts, eyes blazing with vindictive hunger and teeth glistening in perilous moonlight. Eventually, with a sense of grim resignation hanging on my shoulders like a drab overcoat you are obliged to wear because it cost your auntie a week's pension, I return to the first cubicle, lair of the smallest bowel-evacuee, taking care to fill the bowl with a large quanity of toilet tissue. If I had to share a room with it, at least I didn't have to look at it. I pulled the lever allowing the cistern to empty and vacated the cubicle to wash my hands. I'm certain that, as I left, I could hear a gurgly voice growl after me.
"I'm still here you fucker."
Friday, 26 June 2009
Satan no longer has all the best tunes
After a long and painful battle with a particularly nasty bum-cancer, blonde 70's sexpot Farrah Fawcett has died. Shortly afterwards Michael Jackson (other Kings of Pop are available) popped himself into a coma and was pronounced dead of not breathing two hours later. Earlier this month David Carradine was found hanging neatly in his closet, so the rule of celebrities dying in threes can sit back in its chair with a smug look plastered on its fat face as it reaches over to the honey roasted cashews on the side table.
As is to be expected, this is very sad news. Death is like that. Though if Jackson (other Pops are available) was hoping to drum up excitement for his 50-date 'This Is It' O2 residency, I can't help but feel that dying was a rather poor marketing decision. I feel for his fans. Especially as they wailed great troughs of tears when they saw him perform, so as news of his death is beamed across the globe we are sure to see entire continents disappear beneath tsunamis of boo. I'm also concerned about congestion in London as 170,000 Jacko (other Popos are available) fans queue outside the O2 Arena seeking a refund. But then, as I don't live in London, my concern is about as short-lived as MJ (other KoPs are available)'s coma, which at two hours was really more of a nap. But let's not get dwell upon semantics.
Squeeking on the BBC website, Jermaine Jackson has asked for the media to respect the family's privacy during this difficult time. This shouldn't be difficult for the media, especially since Michael Jackson (other Kings of Pop are available) spent so much time out of the limelight anyway, and it's not as if the public has ever consumed Jackson-based conjecture like builders at a burger van. Jermaine always seems like quite a pleasant sort of chap to me, despite his painted on hair and the ethereal quality that comes with being part of the Jackson family. When he appeared in Celebrity Big Brother a few years ago he managed to avoid the whole 'Shilpa Popodom' idiocy by hiding behind dinner-plate sized Ray-Bans, and we all respected him for it. He was the voice of reason in a house riddled with imbicilic woodworm.
"And Allah be with you Michael".
I'm sorry?
You see as well as wafting through life like a celestial being, Jermaine Jackson has religion. Specifically he is a Muslim (according to Wikipedia, since 1989). Fortunately Michael (other Kings are available) also cuddled up to Islam, otherwise this Allah bloke could be making himself very unpopular with the recently de-lifed, turning up at funerals like an annoying neighbour, only to be turned away because "Ben never knew anyone called Alan".
As is to be expected, this is very sad news. Death is like that. Though if Jackson (other Pops are available) was hoping to drum up excitement for his 50-date 'This Is It' O2 residency, I can't help but feel that dying was a rather poor marketing decision. I feel for his fans. Especially as they wailed great troughs of tears when they saw him perform, so as news of his death is beamed across the globe we are sure to see entire continents disappear beneath tsunamis of boo. I'm also concerned about congestion in London as 170,000 Jacko (other Popos are available) fans queue outside the O2 Arena seeking a refund. But then, as I don't live in London, my concern is about as short-lived as MJ (other KoPs are available)'s coma, which at two hours was really more of a nap. But let's not get dwell upon semantics.
Squeeking on the BBC website, Jermaine Jackson has asked for the media to respect the family's privacy during this difficult time. This shouldn't be difficult for the media, especially since Michael Jackson (other Kings of Pop are available) spent so much time out of the limelight anyway, and it's not as if the public has ever consumed Jackson-based conjecture like builders at a burger van. Jermaine always seems like quite a pleasant sort of chap to me, despite his painted on hair and the ethereal quality that comes with being part of the Jackson family. When he appeared in Celebrity Big Brother a few years ago he managed to avoid the whole 'Shilpa Popodom' idiocy by hiding behind dinner-plate sized Ray-Bans, and we all respected him for it. He was the voice of reason in a house riddled with imbicilic woodworm.
"And Allah be with you Michael".
I'm sorry?
You see as well as wafting through life like a celestial being, Jermaine Jackson has religion. Specifically he is a Muslim (according to Wikipedia, since 1989). Fortunately Michael (other Kings are available) also cuddled up to Islam, otherwise this Allah bloke could be making himself very unpopular with the recently de-lifed, turning up at funerals like an annoying neighbour, only to be turned away because "Ben never knew anyone called Alan".
Friday, 19 June 2009
Windy
I saw this picture on the Guardian website, in a story entitled 'A Celebration of Old Age'.
Notice how noone wants to sit next to the lady on the left.
Notice how noone wants to sit next to the lady on the left.
That's Lady Trumpington.
My Marmoset, to get things done...
Aren't pets lovely. I mean seriously, aren't they. Look at their little faces, doesn't it make you all excited and gooey and make you want to dress them up in frocks and take them to restuarants pretending that they are your babies? No? That's because you are not mental. Unlike the subjects in Channel 4's recent sniggerfest 'My Monkey Baby'.
This is the latest from Channel 4's unending supply of documentaries that serve no purpose other than to provide us with a conveyor belt of freaks and misfits at which to point and laugh at like a Robert Ripley produced 'Generation Game' final. Make no mistake, I love these programmes and I am always excited when new ones are advertised. The trouble is, they are often a bit of a let-down, most notably in 'Tourettes Camp' where I was hoping for an hour of 'John's Not Mad' style tourettes-based hilarity, but actually got a fairly sensitive documentary about a group of children coming to terms with their problem. If it hadn't been for a lovely scene of all the kids walking up the driveway to Tourettes Camp, twitching and cursing as they went, I would have felt cheated.
So anyway, 'My Monkey Baby' is the story of various...wait for it...Americans...who, for a variety of reasons (most of which fall under a Darwinian umbrella) do not have children. They haven't let this get them down though as they have invested in the next best thing. Monkeys. Which they then treat as their offspring (the clue was in the title really), by dressing them in nappies and dresses and teaching them typical human behaviours such as drinking from cups, using the internet, going to restaurants and poking their tongue into their dad's mouth. Often the only non-human aspect of the relationship in fact (from the owner/parent perspective) is that they name the monkeys things like 'Butters' and 'Silly Willy'. Silly Willy? Seriously, if you're going to anthropomorphise your pets, call them Susan or Dave, not Silly Willy. Surely they cover that on day one of 'Being a Mad Pet Owner'?
Butters was actually quite a sorry case, the last we saw of him was his wide-eyed, terrified face having the features licked from its visage by a pitbull and a bull-mastiff. He had been in his new home for five minutes and he was already staring at the camera, pleading to be taken away from these bizarre people. "Ah his brother and sister are saying hello" gurgle the proud parents, not realising that they are actually trying to decide which pedigree chum best accompanies monkey.
It can't be denied how human the monkeys appear. At one point another 'mum' looks off camera and says "Maggie, get off the phone" and you find yourself being mildly surprised that when the camera pans around we don't see monkey Maggie slam the receiver down and slope off to her room like a sulky teenager complaining about how unfair she finds it all (instead Maggie hops from the telephone and disappears to have a poo in her cage), so it's easy to see how the parents can become a little deluded by the relationship. Having said that, I do feel that the lady who, upon being asked 'what do you think will happen when you get older?' replies matter-of-factly "well, Jesse will have to look after me" was being slightly optimistic.
The best (by which I mean most mental) parents are the couple who take their baby to a local restaurant, sit down and are perusing the menu when the restaurant manager appears and tells them, unsurprisingly, that monkeys aren't allowed to dine in their establishment. This outrages the couple, who secure their zoo exhibit back into its pram and storm out. "We'll not be coming back!" shouts the mum, having learned nothing from Rosa Parks.
Later the mum finds pills missing from her handbag. Worried that her baby may have eaten them she phones an Animal Psychic. I should point out that this is not an animal that is skilled at tarot, but a lady that can read animals' minds.
Over the phone.
"Can you ask him if he swallowed the pink thyroid pill?" says the mum, rather too specifically, and then holds the phone next to to her monkey, who tries to eat it. A few moments later she brings the phone back and the psychic tells her the good news.
"He said 'no I did not take that pill mommy, I would never do that'".
"Thank God" says mum, oblivious to the ridiculousness of it all.
At the end of the hour you are left with the overwhelming feeling that these parents, utterly insane though they are, still have tremendous hearts, but they are hearts bursting with delusion, and like so many doddery old lady cat owners before them, they live in blissful ignorance to the knowledge that if they fell off their perch, their furry darlings would not organise a flower-filled funeral, but would instead eat their bonkers faces.
I suppose it serves them right for standing on a fish in the first place.
This is the latest from Channel 4's unending supply of documentaries that serve no purpose other than to provide us with a conveyor belt of freaks and misfits at which to point and laugh at like a Robert Ripley produced 'Generation Game' final. Make no mistake, I love these programmes and I am always excited when new ones are advertised. The trouble is, they are often a bit of a let-down, most notably in 'Tourettes Camp' where I was hoping for an hour of 'John's Not Mad' style tourettes-based hilarity, but actually got a fairly sensitive documentary about a group of children coming to terms with their problem. If it hadn't been for a lovely scene of all the kids walking up the driveway to Tourettes Camp, twitching and cursing as they went, I would have felt cheated.
So anyway, 'My Monkey Baby' is the story of various...wait for it...Americans...who, for a variety of reasons (most of which fall under a Darwinian umbrella) do not have children. They haven't let this get them down though as they have invested in the next best thing. Monkeys. Which they then treat as their offspring (the clue was in the title really), by dressing them in nappies and dresses and teaching them typical human behaviours such as drinking from cups, using the internet, going to restaurants and poking their tongue into their dad's mouth. Often the only non-human aspect of the relationship in fact (from the owner/parent perspective) is that they name the monkeys things like 'Butters' and 'Silly Willy'. Silly Willy? Seriously, if you're going to anthropomorphise your pets, call them Susan or Dave, not Silly Willy. Surely they cover that on day one of 'Being a Mad Pet Owner'?
Butters was actually quite a sorry case, the last we saw of him was his wide-eyed, terrified face having the features licked from its visage by a pitbull and a bull-mastiff. He had been in his new home for five minutes and he was already staring at the camera, pleading to be taken away from these bizarre people. "Ah his brother and sister are saying hello" gurgle the proud parents, not realising that they are actually trying to decide which pedigree chum best accompanies monkey.
It can't be denied how human the monkeys appear. At one point another 'mum' looks off camera and says "Maggie, get off the phone" and you find yourself being mildly surprised that when the camera pans around we don't see monkey Maggie slam the receiver down and slope off to her room like a sulky teenager complaining about how unfair she finds it all (instead Maggie hops from the telephone and disappears to have a poo in her cage), so it's easy to see how the parents can become a little deluded by the relationship. Having said that, I do feel that the lady who, upon being asked 'what do you think will happen when you get older?' replies matter-of-factly "well, Jesse will have to look after me" was being slightly optimistic.
The best (by which I mean most mental) parents are the couple who take their baby to a local restaurant, sit down and are perusing the menu when the restaurant manager appears and tells them, unsurprisingly, that monkeys aren't allowed to dine in their establishment. This outrages the couple, who secure their zoo exhibit back into its pram and storm out. "We'll not be coming back!" shouts the mum, having learned nothing from Rosa Parks.
Later the mum finds pills missing from her handbag. Worried that her baby may have eaten them she phones an Animal Psychic. I should point out that this is not an animal that is skilled at tarot, but a lady that can read animals' minds.
Over the phone.
"Can you ask him if he swallowed the pink thyroid pill?" says the mum, rather too specifically, and then holds the phone next to to her monkey, who tries to eat it. A few moments later she brings the phone back and the psychic tells her the good news.
"He said 'no I did not take that pill mommy, I would never do that'".
"Thank God" says mum, oblivious to the ridiculousness of it all.
At the end of the hour you are left with the overwhelming feeling that these parents, utterly insane though they are, still have tremendous hearts, but they are hearts bursting with delusion, and like so many doddery old lady cat owners before them, they live in blissful ignorance to the knowledge that if they fell off their perch, their furry darlings would not organise a flower-filled funeral, but would instead eat their bonkers faces.
I suppose it serves them right for standing on a fish in the first place.
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