Cautionary Tales of F.

“Oh, it’s adorable, just like a doll’s house. I like it here.”

They found some people in a cellar – did you hear? Of course you fucking heard; everyone did. The press are scrambling over themselves trying to piece together the past, feeding the wires with everything from horror and self-pity to pro-active hysteria.

They’ve really gone to town on the seven children, trying as often as they can to end each and every sentence with the words, ‘and her seven children’. And, you know, it’s true – there were seven children. Just like I have seven fingers and two thumbs (don’t ask about the eighth finger. FORGET IT.). Just like I wake up with that nightmare every Sunday morning.

This whole process of repetition, asides from being called repetition (which is, by the way, a perfectly reasonable thing to call it) is really just a Deep throat of the Facts. Deepthroating the Facts is journalese on a grand scale. It’s Christian morality as filtered through the ass of a security guard with too many tv screens to watch. In short -it’s totally gay. And by ‘gay’ I mean ‘unbelieavably insensitive to humanity at large’ and by ‘unbelievably insensitive to humanity at large’, I really mean ‘forget I said gay’.

Cool, so you forgot I said gay.

Can’t do that anymore.

There’s nothing wrong with having seven children, just as provided you’re willing to understand why society turns its back on you, there’s nothing wrong with having seven fingers. But, you know, there’s something really wrong when those seven children somehow become the pornographic fantasy of an unloved, sycophantic machine.

I expect this grim autopsy from the tabloid media. I expect it. Hell, I want it from them; I wouldn’t know how to feel otherwise. The difference here is that the autopsy is being performed openly by everyone. The BBC, The Independent, My own mother. Ok, so that’s not ‘everyone’ and only shows to highlight the small world I inhabit but the point remains the same: everyone wants a piece of this story ’and her seven children’. So are we surrogate parents now? Hardly, we’re something worse. We’re the things proliferating with each emergent detail around the edges of fact; not giving a fuck if we’re seen.

There’s an allegory in all of this.

If you’re not dead inside, you’ll remember that the Queen, blinded by her own vanity and upset at her step-daughter’s objectively greater beauty hires a Huntsman to first lure Snow White into the forest and then to dispose of her, bringing back her heart as proof of this deed. The problem is, the Huntsman’s a total Christian fag and he pusses out at the last minute, dropping to his knees and crying out to the Queen for redemption. He bids Snow White to run off far, far into the woods where she cannot be found. She duly obliges.

So Snow White meets some dwarves. Blah-blah. The queen then disguises herself as an old hag and sells a poisoned apple to Snow White who HAPPY TO PAY TOP DOLLAR FOR A PRETTY SHIT LOOKING APPLE bites into and dies/falls into a deep coma. She’s eventually brought back to life/out of the deep coma by the kiss of a handsome prince. Why the prince had to be handsome is never fully explained.

I don’t know what happed to Snow White thereafter either, but can we really blame the Prince if he didn’t want to spend his life with a vegetable?

So where am I going with this?

“Oh, it’s adorable, just like a doll’s house. I like it here.”

That’s where.

Now that we have our fairytale everyone’s going to press.

I’m not sure whether to be aroused or ashamed. The reality is somewhere in between.

Snow White has had her seven children and now she’s been lured out of her coma.

She might have left the cellar but who says it’s any better on the surface?

SIDENOTE: THIS AUTHOR, THAT’S WHO.