Well look what I just went out and spent thirty quid on:

Thirty quid! For a couple of pieces of badly sculpted plastic!! You could get three hundred packets of Space Raiders for that amount! Or forty hours worth of parking in the Huddersfield bus station car park. Or even better – six Smokey and the Bandit 3 disk DVD box sets! (that’s my entire Christmas shopping sorted out then).

But no, I have to spend £30 on Hannah Mon-bloody-tana and her mutant faced horse Blue Jeans. Goddamn Disney corporation exploiting the fact that my love for my daughter is stronger than my half baked principles.

It’s not like it will ever get played with, that’s the galling thing. It’ll just get thrown on the pile with all the other bits of pink plastic. But Amy’s birthday is next weekend and she’s been consistently pining for this toy for six months now. And to be honest it’ll be worth the £30 to see her excitement when she opens it, especially since I’ve told her that the shop was sold out and I bought her a Batman action figure instead.

To make matters even worse Evan was with me at the toy shop so I also ended up shelling out fifteen pounds for this:

Fifteen pounds! For a couple of chunks of wood with some wheels nailed to them! I mean who the hell is it supposed to be anyway. The package says it’s “Flora” and her carriage from Thomas the Tank Engine and Friends, but she’s never been in any of the episodes that I’ve seen.

Goddamn Thomas the Tank Engine franchise exploiting the fact that I want to be able to get through the checkout of Toys R Us without having to deal with a major meltdown.

Actually ten pounds of that fifteen was Evans birthday money, which is why I was willing to part with it. And he does play with his wooden trains a hell of a lot, but still – that doesn’t change the fact that it was incredibly overpriced.

There is a serious post to be had here somewhere about the increasing lack of non-franchised toys and the ridiculous premium that we parents are duped into paying for a brand logo. But at the moment I’m not up to writing it. I’m still in shock from my sudden short sharpe pain in the wallet. I think I might have to go out and buy myself something to ease my trauma.

This £269 Star Wars Lego Death Star should just about do it.

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If you ask Amy what she wants to be when she grows up she’ll give you one of two answers – either “a famous pop star” or “a horse riding teacher”. It’s very hard not to take these responses as a indication that I’ve failed as a father.

Well I’m delighted to inform you that I am not quite the parental wash-out that I first feared. Because although I’m still struggling to work out a strategy to steer my daughter through the cultural mire of banal vapid role models; my son has quietly forged his own path. And a glorious path it is too.

Evan will not grow up to be a pop star, or a horse rider, or a princess. Not for him is the cliched career of the soldier, fireman, or football player. No, Evan is going to be a member of the noblest profession of all – someone who hits other people over the head with a frying pan for a living.

Evan has discovered Tom and Jerry. To say he likes them is a bit like saying that my brother Sam likes looking at himself in the mirror. The boy is obsessed.

Evan’s attraction to the show could have something to do with the fact he’s been watching it up in our bedroom. There is something rather luxurious about watching TV in bed, and often that sense of opulence bleeds through and gives an additional shine to whatever you happen to be watching. How else can you explain how I managed to sit through three quarters of Spiderman 3 the other night before turning it off.

But, whatever the reason, Evan loves his Tom and Jerry. And to be honest I couldn’t be happier.

Which is interesting.

Time was Tom and Jerry was held up as an example of hyper violent children’s programming. As the worst specimen of a genre of cartoons that warped fragile minds and were bound to produce a generation of psychopaths. Recently repeats of the show have even been reviewed by OFCOM after complaints that it’s unsuitable for young children.

So why am I happy about Evan watching it? Why aren’t I as concerned about it as I am about Amy watching Hannah Montana? Surely if I am worried about the cultural influence of the Cyrus clan on my daughter’s aspirations then I should be even more worried about teaching my son that extreme violence is a form of entertainment? Why have I decided that one is acceptable, and one is a cultural canker?

Because I’m a hypocrite, that’s why. Quite simply I like Tom and Jerry and I don’t like Hannah Montana, it’s a plain and pathetic as that. I’ve even gone as far as actively encouraging his fascination with the cartoon. This morning I spent £25 on a 6 volume boxed set of Tom and Jerry cartoons (unless of course Kerry is reading this – then it only cost £6.99). I’ve even begun to consider whether to supplement it with a set of Daffy Duck and Bugs Bunny cartoons as well. My hypocrisy knows no bounds and I should be ashamed of myself .

Now here’s the bit where I try and justify myself.

Tom and Jerry is a classic. It was created by artists, and shows real craftsmanship. Sure, the artists were working to commercial pressures in an genre which was given little credibility at the time., but then again so was Raymond Chandler. Tom and Jerry theatrical shorts won 7 Oscars and were nominated for a further 6. The cartoons ooze a quality that is only surpassed by Warner Bro’s Looney Tunes and possibly the output of Pixar Studios today. They are full to the brim with slapstick, satire, and effortless comedy timing, and are a joy to watch even now nearly 70 years after they were first produced.

Compare that to the bland and tepid extended merchandising advert that is Hannah Montana. It’s just not a fair fight.

In addition I think there are huge cultural benefits in consuming entertainment from previous generations. My own love of shows such as Hancock’s Half Hour, Sgt Bilko, and Laurel and Hardy is pretty well documented here on the blog, and it started developing during childhood. Not only do such programs give me a stick by which to measure more modern media, but they expand my horizons and ability to cultivate a more refined palate. You only get to watch a finite number of TV shows in your lifetime, it’s probably best to try to make sure you consume as little shit as possible.

But still, I’m a hypocrite. And so I must continue to struggle to work out what I really think about TV and the effect it has on my kids. But the fact that the struggle even exists in my mind gives me some comfort. It shows that at least I’m not completely passive in all this. That I’m aware that there are decisions to be made, even if I’m not sure yet what those decisions should be.

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It’s very hard not to take these responses as a indication that I’ve failed as a father. I’ve already blogged at length about my dislike of the horsey set. And as for aspirations of pop stardom – well let me assure you, if Simon Cowell or his ilk came within an inch of my daughter then I’d give them jolly good punch up the bracket.

But really Amy’s aspirations aren’t really my fault – it’s society wots to blame. Well, society and the Disney Corporation.

Hanna Montana is a bloody awful program. The acting is dire, the plotlines and humor humdrum, and the overall production values are just plain bland. What’s worse is that it implants the all pervasive obsession with fame and stardom into minds that are just too young. It contributes to that overwhelming modern pressure that drives girls towards adulthood far too early. And that is not good. It’s not good at all.

And furthermore, because it has the full force of the Disney marketing machine behind it, it can often seem like it permeates every single aspect of a child’s life. I challenge you to walk through a UK supermarket and not be able to find a Hannah Montana piece of merchandising on every single shelf. Shampoo, spaghetti shapes, tissue paper, magazines, sweets, donuts, it’s all there for the eager consumer.

I don’t approve of Hannah Montana.

So why do I let Amy watch it then? Because I’m weak, that’s why. And because I’m too liberal to start banning things in our house without a lengthy period of angst and indecision. As much as I’d love to indoctrinate my kids into liking only Peppa Pig, Laurel and Hardy, and Fraggle Rock I just can’t bring myself to enforce any form of cultural dictatorship. We’ve banned Bratz, but that was an easy one – anyone with half a clue can see though the camouflage and recognise the poisonous toxins beneath that particular product.

But Hannah Montanna, High School Musical, and all the rest are a little more complex than that. They walk their path in a very grey area, and if you start banning those you’re on a rocky road that can eventually see you smugly proclaiming that you only allow your children half an hour of television a week, and only then to watch a nature documentary hosted by that nice Mr Attenborough

So the theory is that the values that Kerry and I instil in our children should counteract any negative stereotyping she gets exposed to through popular culture. But I don’t know sometimes if that’s enough. Popular culture seems pretty big and powerful and we as parents seem pretty small. Plus we’re human, and therefore horribly inconsistent ad flawed (especially me).

As a society there has never been a time when our children have been more exposed to such powerful, pervasive, and homogenised cultural influences. I have no answers, but really hope our kids can stay kids as long as they can, and that they come out ok on the other side.

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