“Yes – my name is Igglepiggle, Igglepiggle, wiggle, niggle, diggle! Yes – my name is Igglepiggle, Igglepiggle, wiggle, niggle, woo!”. I was humming this CBeebies earworm terrible on the bus to work the other day before slipping into a mild post-procreational depression. Fast-forward three weeks and I’m clinging to that sky blue fuzzy monstrosity like there’s no tomorrow.
And it seems I’m not alone as 38,777 distraught parents so far – who see their TV umbilical cord cruelly being snipped off by BBC strategy chief James Purnell – have scrabbled to sign a petition to save CBeebies. The parental televisual mothership. The epicentre of our familial realm. The home of shtum.
Here’s some responses so far:
How. Can. This. Be. Happening… *open mouth face* #saveCBeebies
Dear god the BBC are thinking about scrapping #CBeebies to save money. This is horrendous news for parents.
Can’t even describe how important CBeebies is to my mental well-being. And you don’t want to see a toddler protest
There will be tears and tantrums across the land if they take it away and that’s just the parents.
Is this parental karma? Who hasn’t bitched about Topsy’s irksome voice penetrating those 10 minutes as you scrabble together some fish fingers and pretend chips have vitamins. Whatever anyone says, Upsy Daisy is a bit of a floozy. Who hasn’t questioned the creative team behind ‘Dinopaws’? What’s with the paws? They don’t have paws. And don’t get us started on Mr Tumble.
But it was all said in a sleep-deprived, frazzled, not-sure-if-I’m-wearing-pants craze; we didn’t mean it; it was just a bit of light maternal bitchery – don’t take this lifeline away from us. Don’t leave us with Peppa Pig on repeat, punctuated only with hollers of ‘I want BING, where’s BING?” as plastic IKEA plates of yellow food are brutally swept onto the floor across the nation.
We’re the only people in televisual realms that actually need this service. Who hasn’t thwarted a CODE RED meltdown with the promise of unlimited Octonauts and Skips? How many ratty toddlers refusing to hit the sack have been lulled into a dreamy stupor by Mr Piggle’s bat shit crazy Night Garden? Whose toddler hasn’t nursed a daycare grot bug with streams of Sarah and her beloved duck?
Other than the news (and Don’t Tell The Bride; useful to make one feel reassured about your own marital decisions), who genuinely needs TV? Who uses it as a bartering tool for homework? Homework that’ll see the nurses, doctors, tractor-makers, cookie bakers and ukele players come to fruition. Whose sanity is secured by the mere knowledge that educational silence is there at the click of a button?
38,777 people so far, apparently. The parents who are charged extortionate amounts for daycare (I earn £3 an hour after daycare costs) and the people who are feeding, cleaning, wiping, nurturing and loving the next generation of BBC bosses and their viewers.
Mr Purnell, we’re working on life. What are you doing?