Tag Archives: Rainbow

The Madness of Greenclaws

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In the late 1980s children in the UK were introduced to the eponymous Greenclaws, a king-sized, waddling worm-beast, with – it probably won’t surprise you to discover – green skin and claws. Physically, he was a monstrous medley of Jabba the Hutt, the Azorbaloff from Doctor Who, and Penn Jillette; psychologically, he was a creepy co-mingling of Norman Bates and Alan Titchmarsh.

He lumbered around his house with the wide, unblinking eyes of a man who’d been pumped full of psychotropic chemicals and then forcibly mutated into a gigantic maggot as part of some failed government experiment. He wore dainty little SS-style spectacles, and dragged behind him both a ponytail and an actual tail, between which two points of protrusion sat enough body-fat to make a week’s worth of jumbo fry-ups for King Kong, and still have enough left over to sculpt a life-sized chess-set made entirely of saggy-titted, puffy-faced Piers Morgans.

Of course, Greenclaws wasn’t called Greenclaws simply because he was green and had claws; his name was also a monstery spin on ‘greenfingers’, the phrase we humans use to describe people with a love of plants and horticulture. That’s why greenclaws had a greenhouse and loved plants, see? Do you see? Do you understand? DOES IT MAKE SENSE TO YOU NOW? It’s layered, see. Oh, the layers. The exquisite layers. I can feel a dissertation coming on. Once I’ve finished my current thesis, of course. The world shouldn’t be made to wait any longer for my bold masterpiece: Jess and Feminism: Postman Pat and the Patriarchy’s Last Parcel.

Greenclaws lived in a cluttered house that looked as though a messy pensioner had lain dead in it for sixteen years. Appended to the house was a greenhouse, inside of which lived Greenclaws’ best pal, a robot owl called, I don’t know, owl-face or something. Owly? Mrs Owl? Owlma? Yes, Owlma, that was it. Pretty poor effort, if you ask me. I would’ve opted for something a bit funkier, like Owl-abama, Owling Wolf, or Owlmageddon. Or gone completely left-field and blended hip-hop and scat chat to bring the world ‘Owl Movement’, a rapping robot owl with a talent for free-style shitting. A wasted opportunity.

Most episodes began with Greenclaws getting excited about taking part in some human ritual or milestone – going on holiday, taking a trip to the supermarket, learning how to synthesise meth – and then not actually doing it, because doing it would entail going outside, which Greenclaws couldn’t do, presumably because he suffered from some description of serious anxiety disorder and agoraphobia. Or perhaps he couldn’t go outside because he was prohibited from leaving his property under the terms of a recent court order. That seems the most likely explanation, given that Greenclaws had the soft drawl of John Wayne Gacy and the same terrifying, bulging eyes as Ted-Bundy.

So instead of venturing out into the world, Greenclaws would recreate inside of his greenhouse whatever it was he’d been day-dreaming or fussing about at the start of the episode, usually with the help of some obscene plant he’d spent the episode growing inside of a magical tree, which he’d only be permitted to harvest if his robot owl was satisfied that he’d correctly answered three arbitrary general knowledge questions…. erm… It seems a bit crazy when I write it all down like that, doesn’t it? No wonder I’m so fucked up. Kids’ TV was an acid-trip back then, wasn’t it? A nightmare factory. Where was Paw Patrol when I needed it? A bunch of dogs driving police cars and recycling trucks seems positively normal when set against the bug-eyed, botany-based insanity of Greenclaws.

Greenclaws had a human pal called Iris, who was always dropping in to keep an eye on Greenclaws and… Wow, wow, wow. Back up. Wait a minute… Iris. Iris… Iris? An eye. Keeping an eye on him. Iris. The woman who teaches Greenclaws all about the real world; a teacher, so that makes Greenclaws her… pupil. Iris, eye, pupil…. Wow. I mean…

THAT MEANS GREENCLAWS WAS KEYSER SOZE ALL ALONG, RIGHT?!

See what I mean about layers? When I get around to writing this thesis it’s going to make my last paper, Mopatop’s Shop and the Rise of Capitalism in the Communist East, look like something Bodger scrawled in mashed potato with his dying hand.

Anyway, Iris certainly made you wish that you didn’t have any eyes. She was a walking showcase for every horrific fashion faux pas and wardrobe atrocity that was ever spat forth from the dying womb of the 1980s. Her look was more of a clothes-based virus than a style: imagine, if you will, an amorphous, multi-dimensional denim beast enveloping the Sixth Doctor Who’s legs, and then booting him into one of Gayle and Gillian Blakeney’s music videos.

Iris was guilty of the crime of being over-. ‘Over-what?’ you may ask. Over- everything, I say to you. She was over-board, over-enthusiastic, over-enunciating, and, if Greenclaws’ ample bosom was anything to go by, over-feeding. The big beast never left the house, so it figures that someone must’ve been helping him maintain his corpulent physique. Perhaps it’s not fair to lay the blame for Greenclaws’ poor diet squarely at Iris’s feet. That owl was a bit of a wrong ‘un, too, what with it constantly growing things lke beef-burger trees, cake plants, and the like. I guess everyone in that poor monster’s life wanted him dead.

It’s become something of a running joke for those of us who grew up watching children’s television in the 70s and 80s to say that the shows we so enjoyed and accepted as pure and innocent were actually, unbeknownst to us, swimming in sleazy subtext and scandalous filth. Thus, when we look back on them through adult eyes we see their true horror laid bare. This belief, however, is mostly apocryphal: Captain Pugwash didn’t have a crew composed entirely of double-entendres; that episode of Rainbow where Zippy peels a banana and makes a foreskin joke was only made to amuse the programme’s makers and was never actually broadcast. It’s our own developed brains that are the real perverts here. The kids’ shows were fine.

All that being said, Greenclaws is the clear exception to that rule, the dirty fat green bastard. What the hell was going on in that glasshouse of sin? For example, when Iris came round to visit she always asked Greenclaws to ‘plant one of his fabulous seeds in the secret groin place’. ARE YOU KIDDING ME, IRIS? Ah, you might counter, what she actually said was ‘secret growing place’, but I would counter your counter by saying, a) SILENCE! I HAVE SPOKEN! and b) even if she did say ‘secret growing place’… that’s just as bad! I’ve been a little unfair to Owlma in this article. I should’ve acknowledged the fact that the poor beast was witness to years of horrendous sexual abuse. I’m going to start a #meTooTooToToToo movement on her behalf.

Let’s talk Owlma, the owl who replies to every question with the answer ‘Doo Doo Doo-do Doo’. To be fair, every statement she makes is also ‘Doo Doo Doo-do Doo’. That’s literally all she’s able to say, like some backing singer from a 1980s pop group stuck in an infinite time loop.

‘Doo Doo Doo-do Doo’, however, can carry an infinite range of meanings, and be used to convey questions and statements of every length imaginable. When Owlma says ‘Doo Doo Doo-do Doo’ she could be saying ‘yes’, ‘no’, ‘this’, ‘that’, or ‘maybe’. But she could also be saying: ‘My agent got me THIS gig? I made it explicitly clear that I wanted to be in Rainbow. This weird, greenhouse-based bollocks is probably going to get cancelled after two seasons, leaving yours truly here up a tree without a hoot. And then what? Casualty? Coronation Street? I’m a fucking robot owl! I should’ve listened to dad and followed him into the accountancy firm. I’m finished. FINISHED!’

In the end, it’s probably best not to interpret Greenclaws literally, but to see it as the story of Iris, the care-worker for a fat drug addict, one day discovering his naked, unconscious body on the floor of the greenhouse following a bad trip, next to a tree with beef-burgers selotaped to it, and an owl nailed to one of the branches, hoo-ing in agony.

Rainbow: A Work of True Evil

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If you’re a person of a certain age – and by that I mean somewhere around the precipice of middle age – then there’s no doubt you’ll remember Rainbow: the bright, colourful, quasi-educational TV show for young ‘uns that ran – in some form or another – from the late 1970s to the early 1990s.

The star of the show is Geoffrey, an adult man who lives with a menagerie of bizarre and terrifying creatures in a house decorated to look like a children’s nursery. His bunk-mates are Bungle, a seven-foot ursine version of Norman Bates, who spends the day naked but always insists upon pyjamas for bed; George, a sexually-precocious, passive-aggressive pink hippo, whose smug, sleepy drawl suggests that whomever he’s speaking to is both the butt of a private joke, and the intended recipient of twelve sleeping tablets and a sore arse later that evening; and Zippy, the kind of puzzling ‘whatever’ that even Gonzo would shun for being too freakish.

And Gonzo has a nose like a big blue cock!

Seriously, though, how exactly did Geoffrey come to live with these creatures? Did he abduct them? Did he create them with a needle and thread, a bucket of DNA and a set of jump leads? Doesn’t he have a wife, or an ex-wife or something? A family? Someone in his life to raise an eyebrow at his incredibly creepy lifestyle that appears to be a strange blend of Dr Moreau, Hugh Hefner and Jimmy Savile?

Doesn’t the gas man at least come round now and again to read the meter?

“Hello, sir, I’m just here to check your meter to make sure that… AARRGGHH! WHAT THE FUCK IS THAT THING? THE THING WITH THE ZIP FACE?!! OH HELP ME! OH GOD HELP ME! PLEASE DON’T HURT ME, I WON’T TELL, I PROMISE I WON’T! THE POWER OF CHRIST COMPELS YOU! THE POWER OF CHRIST COMPELS YOU!”

I’d be very interested to see how Geoffrey fills out his census.

“I live with a depressed bear, a pansexual hippo and a creature who crawled out of Tobe Hooper’s darkest nightmares, honest I do, I’m not fucking mental or anything. PS: sorry I wrote this in blood, I ran out of pens.”

Occasionally Geoffrey’s friends Rod, Jane and Freddy come round to sing songs about abstract things like the concept of sharing, something they’re all too familiar with, given that Jane fucked both Rod and Freddy in real life and let’s be honest probably fucked Geoffrey and Bungle, too. Jane practically invented the whole ‘furries’ thing.

Now let’s talk Zippy. What the fuck is he? Was he born with that zip across his mouth, or was he cruelly disfigured in the course of some vile experiment? I’m imagining an origin story along the lines of ‘The Human Centizippy’, in which the poor creature is forced to spend long, hideous weeks with his mouth secured by zip to Big Bird’s quaking bumhole. Perhaps as Mopatop sobs into Zippy’s back-end through a wet strap of velcro.

However it was that Zippy’s zip came to be, why would any sane and compassionate man ever use it to silence him? “Hey, Geoffrey, why not just break a chair over Zippy’s head or shoot him in the shoulder if he starts mouthing off, you total psycho?” And if somebody did do that to Zippy – if some sick, pseudo-Nazi surgeon added a zip to his face without his consent – why would you compound his misery by continuing to call him Zippy? Surely you’d change his name at the earliest opportunity, call him James or Timothy or Geoffrey Junior or something?

If I adopted a mute kid who’d been rendered paraplegic following a hit and run incident, I wouldn’t greet him each morning with a cheery: “Hey Chairy, what do you want for breakfast?” before wheeling him down a hill for not answering quickly enough.

Never mind just changing his name: we have one of the greatest healthcare systems in the world. And it’s free! Why has Geoffrey never referred Zippy to the hospital for surgery? That, I’m sure, is what any one of us would do if Zippy were ever to land in our care. We’d help him. We’d fix his face and accompany him on his journey to reclaim his dignity. We probably wouldn’t look at him and say: “Cool zip you’ve got stitched through your face there, Zippy. That’ll be great for the times when I want you to shut the fuck up.”

The only scenario that makes sense is that the world of Rainbow exists only inside the mind of Geoffrey, who in reality is an unemployed alcoholic and heavy drug-user. He sits all day long in a dowdy, ply-panelled bedsit, with lank, greasy hair and no teeth, waiting for his social workers Rod, Jane and Freddy to come visit him. He rubs his arms raw and rocks back and forth crying in the corner, arguing with himself and alternating between his own voice and his dead mother’s harsh, disapproving tone: “Naughty Geoffrey, going to zip you up. Don’t zip me up momma, don’t zip ol’ Geoffrey up. Oh, I’m gonna zip you up, Geoffrey, no son of mine be lisping like some soft pink hippo. Gonna speak proper, gonna be a man or momma gonna skin you like a bear and zip you up, zip you right up in the mouth. OH NO, MOMMA, DON’T ZIP OL’ GEOFFREY UP, I LOVES YOU MORE’N THE RAINBOW, MOMMA! MORE’N THE RAINBOW! OH SON MOMMA GONNA ZIP YOU UP, ZIP YOU UP REAL TIGHT AND LEAVE YOU HANGING FROM THE CEILING, TILL YOU TURN GOOD AND BLUE AND LET THE RATS NIBBLE ON YOUR DEAD TOES.”

We know a song about that, don’t we, children?

The Unspeakable Evil of Children’s Television

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Whenever I watch contemporary kids’ TV with my young son I find myself yearning for the simplicity and innocence of my own, long-ago youth: back in the halcyon days when there were only four tightly regulated TV channels, and no mobile phones or internet to hold our attentions hostage with a cavalcade of frivolity, violence, and disquieting pictures of strangers’ genitalia.

Back in my day (as I hurtle towards the grave, I suspect that this is a phrase I’ll be uttering with ever more depressing frequency), kids’ shows were good, clean fun. Systems were in place to ensure it. Shows that fell foul of the era’s high standards of morality would answer to the Mean Queen of Clean herself, the ferocious Mary Whitehouse. If Whitehouse thought you were peddling filth to our nation’s kids, she wouldn’t muck about. She’d send hitmen to your door. Naturally, in-keeping with her credo, the severity of the assassinations would be commensurate with the time of day, with more violent murders being saved for after the watershed. Neck-breaking was okay at 9pm, just as long as both hitman and victim remembered that swearing was never permissible. A family-friendly lunch-time kill would typically involve a hitman passing a note to their target which read: “PLEASE DIE OF NATURAL CAUSES, BUT ONLY IF YOU WANT TO. LOVE, YOUR FRIENDLY NEIGHBOURHOOD HITMAN.”

In kids’ shows back then, there were no missiles loaded with sexual references – or clever deconstructions of TV itself – aimed above young heads. Instead, there were only the serene sounds of surf and seagulls down at Cockleshell Bay, the mesmeric chirping of birds in Postman Pat’s sleepy glen, and the gentle tones of Tony Hart as he tried to find nice things to say about the abominable artwork hanging in his gallery. “Oh, this one of a dog is really nice. I love the deep slash mark down one of its cheeks, suggestive of a recent knife fight. And just look at the sexual death threat the artist has scrawled at the bottom of the picture in his own faecal residue. Lovely work there from Harry in Glasgow, aged 4.”

My two-year-old son’s current favourite is the unspeakably hellish In the Night Garden: a garishly bright Nightbreed-ian nightmare that appears to be set in the Hungarian afterlife, as imagined by David Lynch. The show stars David Cameron as Iggle Piggle, a hideous, lop-sided blue peanut with a penchant for sailing on kids’ hands and making weird farting noises. Piggle’s best friends are a little girl with half-Peloquin/half-Predator hydraulic hair; an obsessive-compulsive zombie Teletubby who lives in a rock; tiny beings dressed as the Spanish Inquisition who continually abandon their 8000 children; and a trio of creatures that have crawled straight from a disturbed serial killer’s acid flashbacks. The characters travel around in something called the Ninky Nonk, which sounds like the sort of unhelpful slur once favoured by my racist grandfather. In the Night Garden is bizarre and terrifying, like waking up next to your dead grandmother who’s inexplicably dressed as a clown.

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I resolved to expose my son only to the healthy and wholesome kids’ shows of old, which I tracked down on-line and on DVD for the betterment of his tiny soul.

But then I actually re-watched some of them.  I quickly discovered – to paraphrase Herman Munster – that sometimes dead is better. Certainly my televisual era had been no oasis in the brain-deadening desert.There was horror and betrayal around every corner. He-Man had lied to me: told me that I could remove my clothes and go on a sword rampage without fear of being recognised. Bertha, lovely Bertha, had coaxed me into a life of low-paid drudgery by convincing me that factories were magical places with futuristic robots and vast sentient machines. Uncle Rolf had been exposed as the worst kind of crook. Goodbye wobble-board, goodbye didgeridoo, goodbye Rolf-a-roo. Off to maximum security memory prison with the lot of you (flicks through Rolodex of possible jokes based upon Rolf’s pantheon of catchphrases, and rejects most of them on grounds of obviousness and poor taste). How could the man whose famous catchphrase was a prolonged sexual pant have gone so completely wrong?

God damn you, TV childhood: you were a sham! What follows are the highlights (perhaps lowlights) of my journey through the chilling subtexts and undisguised horror of the shows that formed my youth. It’s certainly easy to see why my adult mind is such a labyrinth of depravity.

Let’s get izzy wizzy busy living, or let’s get izzy wizzy busy dying

sooty1Civil War rages in the Marvel Movieverse. Heroes – humans and Gods, mutants and monsters – clash over issues of moral authority. To whom are these heroes accountable? Does any government have the right to control or command them? Who will protect society from the excesses of our so-called saviours?

Whether you find yourself siding with House Stark or planting your feet firmly in Mr Rogers’ Neighbourhood, there’s one thing on which we all can agree: at least the Marvel lot know how to put a shift in. At least they’re actually doing something about the horrors of the world, unlike some lazy magical bastards I could mention.

Yes, I’m talking about Sooty. Here is a bear more powerful than all of the Avengers combined, and who holds in his tiny, wand-packed paw the power to end world hunger, reverse global warming and bring the dead back to life, but who seems content to spend his days using his magic to splat pies into Matthew Corbett’s face. ‘Screw you, Africa,’ his little bear face seems to say, ‘I’m too busy continually assaulting a beleagured middle-aged man to tackle drought.’

Sooty is so callous he won’t even grant his best friend Sweep the power of intelligible speech, condemning the sad-faced little dog to a lifetime of squeaking like a bloody imbecile. And Matthew, poor Matthew, who is supposed to be Sooty’s closest friend, mentor and confidante, is forced – like his father Harry before him – to act as Sooty’s intermediary on earth, a relationship that’s clearly conducted in the same spirit as the one between Kilgrave and Jessica Jones. The little rat could speak if he wanted to; that Sooty never lowers himself to engage directly with the human race makes his disdain for us – and for Corbett – painfully apparent. Come on, Corbett, stick your hand up my little arse, you slag!

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MATTHEW: “What’s that Sooty? [whisperwhisper] You want to use your magic powers to make me a helpless vessel for your wickedness? I don’t think that’s very nice, Sooty, I… [whisperwhisper] What’s that, Sooty? [whisperwhisper] If I don’t do it the next pie will have hydrofluoric acid in it? [Sooty taps desk with wand].”

Sooty never even used his magic to cure Matthew Corbett’s cancer. Now THAT’S a cunt.

I’d also be interested to know exactly where Sooty was on the day Rod Hull took his tumble. I think it’s time to re-open the case.

The terrible truth about chipmunks

alvin-and-the-chipmunks1In the 1940s, Disney perpetuated the stork myth in its movies. It showed babies arriving by parachute rather than by the more conventional, and ickier, womb-based route. I guess the puritans of the time didn’t want children imagining animals – or, by extension, their own parents – rutting like beasts. In the late 1960s, Hannah Barbera gave Scooby Doo a nephew instead of a son, presumably for similar reasons. Scooby was a friendly, goofy, asexual pal to his young fans. This was no time or place for the birds and the bees. Kids couldn’t be made to imagine our hero hammering away at some horny street-bitch like a four-legged sexual machine-gun.

Unfortunately, by the time the 1990s rolled around it seemed that these varieties of restraint were already a relic of a by-gone era. I recall an episode of Alvin and the Chipmunks that showed one of the chipmunks getting all goggle-eyed over a beautiful blonde woman with a big bust. The chipmunk’s eyebrows jumped up and down in that old-timey hubba-hubba way that cartoons used to sell as cute, but which we now recognise as the unspeakably licentious gesture of a burgeoning sex offender. CHIPMUNK HAS HOTS FOR HUMAN WOMAN. I think I could’ve lived with that headline, had that been the end of it. But it wasn’t. Because the human woman flirted back: giving a saucy little wiggle and blowing a kiss at the sex-struck rodent. Yes, people. You have interpreted the subtext correctly: I had just watched a woman signalling her sexual availability to a chipmunk.

Thanks, Alvin, Simon and Theodore, you depraved little assholes.Every time I wake from a fugue state in the living room with a David Attenborough documentary playing on the TV and my pants round my ankles, I’ll think of you and your terrible sexual guidance.

One more rankle about the chipmunks. This was a show about a dude who lived with a trio of talking animals in a world where there doesn’t appear to be any other talking animals… and at no point did the government bust his door down to take these creatures away to be cut open and studied? What a load of rubbish.

Open Sesame: now please close it again

sesame_1973I ordered a copy of Sesame Street Old School on DVD to introduce my young son to the bygone era of Sesame Street I grew up with, and which I still remember fondly. I was taken aback to find a warning attached to the purchase: “These early Sesame Street episodes are intended for grownups and may not suit the needs of today’s preschool child.” What? But Sesame Street is just The Muppets with an educational remit. Then as now, there are fluffy creatures teaching kids to count, and adults dispensing pearls of wisdom about sharing your toys, not being mean, and loving your neighbour. How could any of that fail to benefit my son, whatever decade of Sesame Street it’s sampled from?

So I watched a few episodes. The title sequence shows a gang of kids making their way through an industrial wasteland that’s bedecked with gang graffiti. Next they bound over an incredibly unsafe construction site. To compound the danger, they take to the streets on their bikes minus safety helmets. Just when I thought I was maybe being a bit woolly and overcautious, the first episode started proper and a grown man took a little girl’s hand he’d never met before and invited her back to his house for milk and cookies. Cookie Monster was up next, eating crockery and… smoking? Cookie Monster’s smoking? He’s actually smoking. And now he’s eaten the pipe too. As if that wasn’t hellish enough, in the next episode The Count takes out a Latino gang with an RPG, and laughs loudly at their delicious screams (OK, maybe that last thing never happened, but you get the point).

It looks like everything that’s ever been said about the 60s, 70s and 80s is true. What a bunch of savages we were (Please also see ‘The Muppet Show’, a viewing of which moved my partner to comment: “Why are you letting our impressionable young son watch a grown woman dressed as a slutty schoolgirl sing a song about kidnapping and murdering people as she locks puppets in cellars?”) Still, at least Sesame Street of old can’t be faulted for its promotion of an inclusive society where kids and grown-ups of all different ethnicities can co-exist naturally, peacefully and happily. That’s something that was sorely lacking in other televisual neighbourhoods of the time…

There’ll be knock, ring, BNP pamphlets through your door

patHow are you enjoying your 1980s Aryan paradise, ObergruppenfĂźhrer Pat? Why not just fully commit and get yourself a white-and-white cat? Maybe take the kids on a Jew-hunt across field and dale?

I used to watch Postman Pat with my racist grandfather. The show’s hark-back to a less integrated time only served to reinforce his prejudices of white supremacy. Maybe if Pat’s creators had smuggled a little diversity into the mix we could’ve saved my grandfather, or at the very least modified his world-view a little. I wasn’t looking for a miracle. A tiny concession would’ve done. As it stands my grandfather went to his grave without ever uttering the words I had so longed to hear: “I guess Sidney Poitier’s alright.” And that’s on you, Pat.

Why are there so many wrongs about Rainbow?

rainbowitvLet’s talk about Geoffrey, a grown man who lives with a menagerie of bizarre and terrifying creatures in a house that’s been decorated like a children’s nursery. Geoffrey’s bunk-mates are Bungle, a seven-foot ursine version of Norman Bates; George, a sexually precocious passive-aggressive pink hippo; and Zippy, the kind of ‘whatever’ that even Gonzo would shun. How did Geoffrey come to live with these creatures? Did he abduct them? Did he create them with a needle and thread, a bucket of DNA and a set of jump leads? Doesn’t he have a wife, or an ex-wife? A family? Someone in his life to raise an eyebrow at this rather unorthodox living arrangement? Doesn’t the gas man ever come round to read the meter?

“Hello, sir, I’m just here to check your… AARRGGHH, WHAT THE FUCK IS THAT THING WITH THE ZIP FACE?!! HELP ME! OH GOD HELP ME! THE POWER OF CHRIST COMPELS YOU! THE POWER OF CHRIST COMPELS YOU!”

I’d be very interested to see how Geoffrey fills out his census.

Anyway, let’s talk Zippy. What is he? Was he born with that zip across his mouth, or was he cruelly disfigured in the course of some vile experiment? At this point, I’m imagining a Human Centizippy-style origin story, in which the poor creature was forced to spend long, hideous weeks with his mouth secured by zip to Big Bird’s quaking bumhole. Perhaps as Mopatop sobbed into Zippy’s back-end through a wet strap of velcro.

However it was that Zippy’s zip came to be, why would any sane and compassionate man ever use it to silence him? Hey, Geoffrey, why not just break a chair over Zippy’s head or shoot him in the shoulder if he starts mouthing off, you total psycho? And if somebody did that to Zippy – if some sick, pseudo-Nazi surgeon added a zip to his face without his consent – why would you compound his misery by continuing to call him Zippy? Surely you’d change his name at the earliest opportunity, call him James or Timothy or Geoffrey Junior or something. If I adopted a mute kid who’d been rendered paraplegic following a hit and run incident, I wouldn’t greet him each morning with a cheery: “Hey Chairy, what do you want for breakfast?” before wheeling him down a hill for not answering quickly enough.

zipNever mind just changing his name; we have one of the greatest healthcare systems in the world. Why has Geoffrey never referred Zippy to the hospital for surgery? That, I’m sure, is what any one of us would do if Zippy ever landed in our care. We’d help him. We’d fix his face and help him to reclaim his dignity. We probably wouldn’t look at him and say: “Cool zip you’ve got stitched through your face there, Zippy. That’ll be great for the times when I want you to shut the fuck up.”

The only scenario that makes sense is that the world of Rainbow exists only inside the mind of Geoffrey, who is in reality an unemployed alcoholic and heavy drug-user. He sits all day long in a dowdy, ply-panelled bedsit, with lank, greasy hair and no teeth, waiting for his social workers Rod, Jane and Freddy to visit, rubbing his arms raw and rocking and crying in the corner chanting: “Naughty Geoffrey, going to zip you up. Don’t zip me up momma, don’t zip ol’ Geoffrey up. Oh, I’m gonna zip you up, Geoffrey, no son of mine be lisping like some pink hippo. Gonna speak proper or momma gonna skin you like a bear and zip you up, zip you right up in the mouth. OH NO, MOMMA, DON’T ZIP OL’ GEOFFREY UP, I LOVES YOU MORE’N THE RAINBOW, MOMMA! MORE’N THE RAINBOW!”

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And with that, I’m off to buy the complete box-set of In the Night Garden.