Bing Bunny: The Reason Britain Has Lost It's Way

For any of you who are not held hostage by your children and forced to become over familiar with children’s television; the gruesome twosome pictured above are Bing Bunny and his carer Flop.

I say carer. To be honest, the exact nature of Flops relationship to the dark rabbit is a little uncertain. Is he Bings father? his childminder? some sort of teacher? A beanbag that Bing has imagined as having a gentle voice and happy personality ?

 

Actually the last suggestion might make perfect sense given the observable fact that Flop is (not to put too fine a point on it), one of the most ineffective and useless parents ever to have been given custody of a child.

The little terrorist Bing is pretty much allowed to get away with any bad behaviour with no comeuppance at all. This despite having always been warned by Flop that it is an inadvisable course of action.

 

On any given episode the formula is generally the same. Bing and flop are happily doing something. Bing proposes an utterly stupid or reckless course of action. Flop gently cautions Bing against this madness. Bing then does it anyway and then comes to flop in tears when something bad happens as a result. Flop then gently comforts Bing and makes it all better.

I am going to write to Cbeebies (or whoever the stupid company is) with the following (in my opinion much better) script for an episode.

 

[camera in…establishing shot…the zoo exterior daytime]

Narration: ‘it’s Saturday afternoon and Bing & Flop are visiting the zoo’

Flop: ‘Look Bing, the wolves enclosure’

Bing: ‘Oh wow Flop, wolves are so furry, look…that one is having a wee’

Flop: ‘[chuckles] yes, so he is. Do you need a wee Bing’

Bing: ‘No. I want to go & pet the wolves flop, please can I?’

Flop: ‘No Bing, wolves can be quite dangerous you know. They aren’t like dogs’

[we see Flop being distracted for a moment as he helps a passing old lady to pick up her dropped bag. Bing uses this distraction to clamber over the barrier and into the wolf enclosure]

 

Flop: ‘Oh Bing no….Come back!’

[Bing ignores Flop, he runs recklessly after one of the wolves in an attempt to stroke it. The wolf turns around and bites Bing’s hand]

Bing: [Bursting Into tears as he rushes back to Flop] ‘Oh Flop…Flop, the wolf was nasty and it bit me on the hand…look, there’s blood coming out Flop’

Flop: [giving Bing a smack around the ears] ‘I told you not to go in there you stupid bastard. You could very well have been killed. Let’s hope you haven’t contracted rabies from that bite. Now stop blubbing and let me have a look’

[the rest of the episode concerns Flop taking Bing to the emergency room whilst lecturing him on the importance of respecting and obeying your betters].

 

If Bing is not stopped, his sense of narcissistic entitlement will doom any future lady bunnies to a miserable relationship with him.

 I imagine him in his thirties, frittering away payday loans on yet more online casino spins from a dirty two seater sofa surrounded by empty plastic microwavable curry packaging. His signature adorable dungarees are shabby and stained . Straining in a vain attempt to cover the massive expanse of his beer belly. The stench of skunk lies heavy across the fetid bedsit.

 

Bing: [on phone] ‘Hi is that Flop? Hi buddy …. Sorry to be a pain but could you lend me some more money mate?’

Viking Funeral For My Pants

As has previously been discussed here; I find it hard to let go of things. Nowhere is this more apparent than in the area of my wardrobe. Some of the clothing items there have been with me for over a decade. This is not because of any environmentally conscious mind-set  on my part. But rather due to the fact that, at some unconscious level, I expect  all of my clothing to last forever and cannot really appreciate that some vestments need to be consigned to the dustbin. I often refer to certain shirts as ‘my new shirt’ despite the fact that I actually purchased it three of four years hence.

As a psychotically organised individual; I have a strict method to clothing storage. Trousers on one side, then shirts then warm clothing. As I am the only one in the household who every puts laundry away, this system has been rigidly observed for some years. I have two rails of clothing (one atop the other). The top rail for smart work wear and the bottom for the shambolic crap that I dress in at home.

When a new item of clothing arrives it heralds the  beginning of an arduous, decade long process of being digested by the Salak of my wardrobe system. For two or three years it will remain  on the ‘best work wear’ rack. But then the inevitable happens and I must sadly admit that it is looking frayed and old. At which point it is demoted to the lower ‘casual wear’ rack.

From this point on it is a slow decline for another four years or so until it has too many holes or stains in to be safe to wear outside the house.  The last three years are a shameful time for it as I refuse to throw it out but wear it when relaxing at home . Then finally I have to get rid of it.

My last pair of jeans reached this Nadir a few months back and I just couldn’t bring myself to chuck them out. They had holes in which I had repeatedly repaired but even I had to admit that jeans with a massive rip across the groinal area were a fashion ‘faux pa’s even for me. It had gotten to the point that I couldn’t sit across from anyone without the risk of seriously indecent exposure.

In the end I have landed upon the perfect solution. Like the Vikings of old, I now send the ‘honoured dead’ to their fabric afterlife upon a flame filled chariot (which is to say that I chuck my old clothing in the stolid fuel burner in the winter mornings in order to keep warm).

Watching  as my clothing gradually surrenders to the fierce glory of the flames  feels epic and allows me some form of primal closure. I feel as if I am some ancient warrior  shooting a fiery shaft  into a longboat  and standing in solemn silence to watch it burn  as it drifts away.

‘ A pair of great trousers comes to meet their fellows in Valhalla this day. Trousers that have rode out many storms in this life. Though vicious stains were visited upon them and farts beyond number ravaged the brave fabric of their gusset they stood true. But now they come home. To the great Levi 501’s store of the skies. There they will be born aloft on the legs of worthy hero’s and never again kicked under my bed and forgotten about for weeks on end’

And then I set a match to them and watch them burn. But only after cutting off some of the material to make Barbie doll dresses for my daughter. I mean for goodness sakes, I have to have SOMETHING to remember them by!

 

New and better blogsite coming later this year!