In the right mood, I can enjoy Frank Sinatra, Green Day, Aqua. I know certain Disney soundtracks off by heart (the cool ones, not just The Little Mermaid) and I am more than happy for my Micra to screech onto Morrisons car park with Joe Dolce blaring. Gilbert O'Sullivan, Spice Girls, Queen, Dizzee Rascal, June Carter Cash, T'Pau; if it's one of those days, they're all fair game.
Yet never, ever, have I felt the urge to belt out the theme tune to a kids TV programme, not even in the shower. Except Raggy Dolls, obviously.
But those bloody Wiggles. They're in. They've set up camp inside one of the deepest, darkest corners of my psyche. And sadly, so deep have they dug into my being that the playlist of "Toot, Toot, Chugga, Chugga, Big Red Car", "Doctor Knickerbocker" and "Can You Point Your Fingers And Do The Twist?" circle the turntables of my mind so incessantly that they have, on three occasions now, drowned out peripheral information such as my national insurance number, bank PIN and name. This jukebox of dross is so ingrained on my subconscious that it coerces me into; walking to the photocopier in work at 8:30am whistling "Wave Your Arms Like Henry"; putting petrol in my car while humming "Fruit Salad, Yummy Yummy"; queue in the Post Office while air guitaring to "Quack! Quack! Quack! Quack! Quack! (Cock-A-Doodle-Do)".
The gratingly buoyant tones of the antipodean four piece are ever present between my ears. And not just when I'm awake. Dave said I sat bolt upright in bed last week and sang, with stirring confidence and a real sense of pride, "Wags the dog, he likes to tango".
This, as I'm sure you will appreciate, is unacceptable. It's annoying, it's ridiculous, and it stops now.
We need a break from The Wiggles.
So I had a root through our DVD collection and through Morrisons bargain bin, but unless Betty has a secret penchant for four badly dubbed ninja films for £1.99 (a trait I hope TO GOD she doesn't inherit from her Father), then there wasn't much down for her. So we coloured in, we painted, we played in the sand pit and we had a pretend tea party. Then I looked at the clock, and it was 10.20am.
So we had our dinner.
Then we played peepo.
She had a nap.
And then it was 12.40pm.
So we went for a walk.
Then we tidied her room up, and read a book together.
And it was 2.15pm.
So we caved.
On came those familiar trailers, and with them the wave of relief as the Wiggly title menu flashed before our famished eyes. Half an hour sped by in an instant, as mother and daughter mimed their merry way through the hand clapping, finger pointing, bum wiggling, wave of ecstasy.
We then collapsed, exhausted, our resolve broken but our addiction satiated.
The gratingly buoyant tones of the antipodean four piece are ever present between my ears. And not just when I'm awake. Dave said I sat bolt upright in bed last week and sang, with stirring confidence and a real sense of pride, "Wags the dog, he likes to tango".
This, as I'm sure you will appreciate, is unacceptable. It's annoying, it's ridiculous, and it stops now.
We need a break from The Wiggles.
So I had a root through our DVD collection and through Morrisons bargain bin, but unless Betty has a secret penchant for four badly dubbed ninja films for £1.99 (a trait I hope TO GOD she doesn't inherit from her Father), then there wasn't much down for her. So we coloured in, we painted, we played in the sand pit and we had a pretend tea party. Then I looked at the clock, and it was 10.20am.
So we had our dinner.
Then we played peepo.
She had a nap.
And then it was 12.40pm.
So we went for a walk.
Then we tidied her room up, and read a book together.
And it was 2.15pm.
So we caved.
On came those familiar trailers, and with them the wave of relief as the Wiggly title menu flashed before our famished eyes. Half an hour sped by in an instant, as mother and daughter mimed their merry way through the hand clapping, finger pointing, bum wiggling, wave of ecstasy.
We then collapsed, exhausted, our resolve broken but our addiction satiated.
Clearly, our Wiggle problem is more serious than I first suspected. So, if anyone knows of some sort of a singing/dancing kids programme we could use to ease our withdrawl symptoms, something of a 'Rod, Jane and Freddy' patch to ease the burden of a Wiggle-less afternoon, please pass it our way.
*sashays away*
"Move your arms like Henry. Move your arms like Henry. Move your arms around and around and around and around like Henry. Shake your arms like Henry..."
*sashays away*
"Move your arms like Henry. Move your arms like Henry. Move your arms around and around and around and around like Henry. Shake your arms like Henry..."
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