So I’m having an argument about Peppa Pig’s father. He’s called Daddy Pig and he’s pure love, you just want to wrap your arms around his big, fat, hairy pigbear tummy. But someone else says that Daddy Pig is actually quite shady and has a certain darkness about him – in fact, he reckons that Daddy Pig goes off on whoring holidays to Thailand.
I’m all, look, the bar for dads in my house is set pretty low, i.e. my kid hasn’t got one, so if Daddy Pig wants to come to us on the weeks he’s not renting women in Bangkok, we could make this work. My daughter is fully obsessed with Peppa Pig and seems to be in love with the little brother pig, George, so I’ll take Daddy P and snuggle my life away in his porcine curves. I’ll be able to say I’ve pulled pork. Then someone else says that he bets the young Daddy Pig was beating them bitches off with a shitty stick, which is an arresting image, by which I mean, he should be arrested.
I tell my friend Diane, who is staying in our house for a bit, about this conversation. I wrote about Diane in this column before. She’s my friend who grew up in a smoky pub round here in Hackney and is quite unamused by media cunts like me having priced her out of her own area. For some reason she tolerates me though, even though every time she comes to stay she finds herself overwhelmed by the urge to scrub my kitchen. Even though I keep telling her that the E. coli bacteria can now produce diesel biofuel and we’re going to be rich in alternative energy circles, and she’s all like, Soph, these are not laboratory conditions, this is a high chair. Then she asks how many days that wet washing has been in the machine and do I realise that the tap that has been dripping for a week will now be costing me more on the water meter than it would have cost to ring a plumber. It is not my fault that Diane has such a limited imagination regarding the creative forces that govern the Heawood Imaginarium.
Anyway, it turns out that Diane is totally fine about the idea of Daddy Pig going whoring in Thailand.
"Look,” she says, “as long as Mummy Pig knows about it, and Daddy Pig wraps it up before he slaps it up, and Mummy Pig is not that bothered and she's just quite happy to have some time alone then fair play to them. I know some sexual deviants who've had kids. It works out fine."
Then she tells me she’s been through the post piling up in my hallway and there are at least 50 letters there addressed to strange men. She reels off their names. Igor, Ranjit, Eduardo. I don’t want to put money on it as the attic is weirdly spacious but I am pretty certain that those men do not live here. “So I’m chucking them on the bonfire, and then there’s a pile of shit leaflets, they’re going too. I’ve kept you the pile of shit takeaway ones though, 'cos we all know you’re not very clever with cooking.”
She looks around my house and sighs a sigh that contains a galaxy of better worlds. “You wouldn’t catch the working classes living like this,” she says. Then she reconsiders. “Well, unless they were tramps.”
Diane’s mum used to take her mum, Diane’s nan, shoplifting down Bethnal Green Road. She says their abuse of the pick ’n’ mix facility is the real reason Woolworths closed down. “My mum and my nan singlehandedly destroyed their whole operation. But only the pick ’n’ mix – Mum did used to pay for other stuff, but she used to fill those little plastic pick ’n’ mix bags with sweets and hang them from the handlebars of Nana’s wheelchair and wheel her out of the shop. People used to come round our house and ask if my mum really loved sweets. She’d go, don’t be stupid, they just fit really well on the wheelchair.”
They never got caught. Well, not in Woolies anyway. She did get a lifetime ban from Tesco, though. “Two or three times.” Diane’s grandad once told the local gangster, "Mad" Frankie Fraser, about a couple of guys who were bothering him, and asked Frankie if he could have a word in their ear. The next day, Frankie came back to see him with a cardboard box. Her grandad opened the box. Inside it were two ears. It’s alright though, because they weren’t a matching pair – he had only cut one ear from each man’s head. It’s not like they were left fully deaf or anything. Frankie was also in prison at the same time as Grandad, but Frankie laughed afterwards that Grandad had “kipped his bird away”, because when all the riots happened, he just slept.
Frankie Fraser is in the news again this week – the man has just achieved the impressive feat of being given an Asbo at the age of 90, after getting into a fight with another resident at his old people’s home. Oh I know it’s not impressive at all, it’s a terrible thing, this is a man who used to get paid by the stitch by his gangland bosses (so he’d make £50 if he cut a victim up so badly he needed 50 stitches). He’d electrocute people. He chopped those blokes’ ears off. And I’m not saying it’s entirely great that he once appeared in a one-man show at the Jermyn Street Theatre in Soho, called "An Evening with 'Mad' Frankie Fraser", or that it’s not a bit criminal that I’ve just ordered his memoirs on Amazon. I mean, Amazon don’t pay tax. But an Asbo – at 90! For beating up someone else’s grandad! No, you’re right, it’s terrible.
Anyway, Diane’s just been made redundant from her job so if anybody’s got any openings, she’s asked me to tell you all that she’s great with babies and dogs. And sexual deviants. Spare pizza leaflets. Spare ears.
Follow Sophie on Twitter: @heawood
Previously – Here Are My Ideas for a New Female Sex Pill