Most of us, at some stage of our
lives, have wanted nothing more (or less) than not to be in the firing line for something which, quite clearly, was our fault.
When I was younger, this often
masqueraded as a pseudo-sincere attempt to relate the unfortunate misadventures
of my intrepid feline (read “blamed the cat”).
Alternatively – and what I believe to be the other mainstay of the guilty
unjustly accused – deny everything. I
mean everything. No matter what. Even if that means refuting the very laws of
physics: That sneaky cigarette enjoyed
from a friend’s bedroom window; that one relished when too young to legally buy
a pack of fags; the one that dropped onto the garden furniture below, melting
the plastic seat which was discovered by my compadre’s father the following
morning and which led me to stand in the firing line for more than a few
hours. Did I break? Did I fuck!
Did it mean denying the obvious trajectory of falling fag end? Yes it did!
“It must’ve been flicked over the
garden wall...” Believe me, this was
clearly bollocks.
But it worked . . . sort of. I mean, everybody knew it was me. There was no
one else it really could have been. Yet,
my utter refusal to back down in the face of the blatantly obvious had stood me
in good stead. Incalcitrance flavoured
with the merest hint of a garnish of wilful self-delusion – this was clearly
the key to success.
Older now, I’ve learned that this
isn’t necessarily so. Until quite
recently, I didn’t even have a cat.
Although, I seem to be coming across an increasing number of examples of
people that don’t seem to have learned the same lesson. Granted, their techniques and general
approach may appear a little more well-honed but the same adolescent approach
to divesting themselves of all responsibility nonetheless pervades.
What got me on to this train of
thought was the recently reported story of a woman who complained about theHalloween decorations of a house she frequently passed with her son. Her son who burst into tears each time he was
confronted with the horrific display.
Well, I say horrific, but personally I think the whole thing’s rather
tame. High street Halloween decorations
never seem to have the ability to strike mortal terror into the heart. Then again, I guess I am – nominally at least
– an adult. And, some might say, a
slightly skewed one at that – although I can’t help but think this is a prime
example of raising insipidly wet children.
And, before I’m lambasted by a
nappy-bag and burp-cloth wielding mob of irate dwarf herders, as a relatively
recent inductee into the esteemed ranks of parenthood, I am, for some reason,
allowed to say this, whereas the childless multitudes are apparently forbidden
from uttering such statements. Not
entirely sure why this is, although I think the cause may be the same one that
makes it acceptable to go to the supermarket wearing vomit stained PJ’s and
mismatched shoes. Then again, so does
alcohol, so maybe the less said about that incident the better.
The whole absurd incident
culminated in the police getting involved and telling the child-traumatising
Halloween devotee to block the display from public view. Now, there’s a few things going on here, even
without bringing the whole ‘done for charity’ element into proceedings: Firstly, for the amount of time we have to
spend listening to how over-stretched our police force is, they seem more than
willing to get embroiled in petit bugbears of people with nothing better to do
than find something to be offended by.
Secondly, covering the display with a black tarpaulin is, in my opinion,
far more sinister. Who’s to say that
beyond the visual barrier, instead of plastic skeletons and fake cobwebs, the
lawn is piled high with dead hookers and missing children? It’s like the forensics department getting
into the seasonal mood!
So, what does this have to do with
responsibility? Well, since obtaining my
dwarf herding licence, I’ve added to my mental resume: Not only is it now filled with the
aforementioned sure-fire tactics of blame avoidance but also the import of
certain other duties and the wider responsibilities thereby entailed. Particularly pertinent is the one that says “don’t
let your sprog grow up to be unjustifiably scared of inanimate objects,”
closely followed by the one that says “neither shall you let them think it
acceptable to call local law enforcement because you happen not to like
something perfectly legal.”
It comes down to penguins. Well, one penguin in particular: This particular penguin is of the plastic
variety, has a face like a duck on crank and careens about the place in an
unpredictable fashion while making unintelligible noises. Perhaps it’s not surprising that my son
reacted badly to this when it was first plonked in front of him. But where was this going to end? An irrational fear of plastic? Existential terror at the sight of
penguins? Dreams haunted with a
soundtrack featuring the lyrics “one, two :
Pingu’s coming for you,”? Maybe
he’s the future mayor of a small village and would be destined to establish the
annual avian round-up where anything with feathers is grouped together and
forced into a crusher? Well, I guess
it’d do wonders for any local bird-flu outbreaks, but I’m sure the potential
backlash would be catastrophic.
Well, I wasn’t going to stand idly
by and let my son face the end of his political career, just like that! It took several attempts but, with a little
perseverance, I managed to turn this fearsome figure into one of his favourite
toys – at least until he found the remote for the TV. Why?
Because it’s my responsibility to teach him that there’s nothing to be scared
of – to make light of something that scared him while still offering the
parental support that was necessary.
Now, maybe it’s me, but isn’t that all that was required by the woman
above? If it failed – take a different
route! If she really thought it
necessary – speak to the chap in person!
Maybe I’m wrong. Maybe I had it right when I was younger. Maybe what I should’ve done is prosecute the
friend who purchased the penguin and sued them for damages – mental scarring,
don’tyerknow?
In fact, it all makes sense: I’ll sue the ISPs for sending me porn, the
milkman for sending me a bottle which went off and made me ill when I left it
in front of the fire, the office for the numerous paper-cuts, the movie studios
and book publishers for everything I’ve read and seen that I didn’t like, put
on the straightjacket, take the drugs and walk into the nearest padded cell
where I can stick my head in the metaphorical sand and let someone else worry
about my mental and physical welfare.
And if everything goes to
shit? The cat did it!
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