I hate the Gruffalo.
I hate all the books and that stupid TV adaptation makes me want to drown things (the only thing I hate more than the Gruffalo is James Corden, so that had me rocking in a corner when my toddler wanted to watch it on repeat).
When my now teenage son was a toddler, the Gruffalo was the epitome of middle class parenting.
“Have you read the Gruffalo?” Boden clad Mummies would ask me, while looking me up and down pityingly (I was a young Mum, so obviously too thick and too busy throwing back bottles of WKD to read to my child).
“Haha, yes!” I would reply in my best telephone voice, we love it!
Did we fuck.
My toddler could take it or leave it; he preferred Bob the Builder on a loop, and I thought it was poorly written and pretnetious.
But I wanted to fit in with those 30-something Mums who looked down on me, so I pretended. I took it far too far as I always do: I ordered tickets to see a Gruffalo play put on by a fringe theatre company.
It was the worst 7 hours of my life.
Ok, so I was probably only an hour long, but it felt like I was there all day. Fifteen minutes into the play my two year old announced that he was hungry, bored and needed a poo, so his father grabbed the opportunity to get the hell out of there and whisked him out to the foyer for chips at the speed of lightening.
We were sat in the front row so I felt I had to stay. Being an actor wanker myself, I felt for the cast having to watch people leave, so I stayed out of some misguided sense of solidarity.
I thought I was going to die of boredom. I hate the theatre anyway, for anything, but watching an adaptation of a children’s book I despise was the icing on the cake.
I never forgave my now ex husband for getting in there first and whisking the child away. I honestly think it contributed to the reasons we are now divorced.
Fast forward a decade and I have another toddler and the Gruffalo once again came into fashion with he help of some crappy, christmas cash in and James Corden. She fell for it completely.
She loves that stupid little mouse.
I will the snake to shut up and eat the little bastard so we can all move on with our lives.
I am the one sat there shouting “call yourself a fucking fox, mate? You deserve to be chased by Tory toffs and ripped apart by dogs, you bastard.”
The character I hate more than anything though, is that fucking Mother squirrel.
She lives up a tree, right? She could get an amazing Sky signal up there. But no, she has to live like it’s the middle ages. If she had satellite television, when her whining children asked for a story, instead of being all perfect and wholesome she could have said, “I was almost eaten by an owl to get you that nut you won’t bother eating you little twats – go and watch CBeebies I need a fag and a drink after that” and she would never have made up the ridiculous Gruffalo story in the first place.
He children would have watched Mr. Tumble while eating pasta with ketchup on it like normal kids.
I think that’s why I hate the Gruffalo so much: A squirrel makes me feel like an inadequate parent.