An open letter to Daddy Pig

Dear Daddy Pig,

My son recently returned from a day trip with his mother brandishing a crumpled carrier bag he informed me he obtained from Peppa Pig World.

Inside said bag, by now discoloured from a couple of hours’ dribble and vomit, was a pair of socks emblazoned with your mugshot and the slogan ‘Stop: Daddy Time’ imprinted upon them. Presumably this was a clever play on the words of ‘U Can’t Touch This’, though what business a middle-aged pig like you has with the works of MC Hammer is questionable.

After exchanging the necessary pleasantries with my offspring – and some time after Windy Castle and Grandpa Pig’s Little Train had taken their toll and sent him into his night’s slumber, I took a closer look at my early Christmas present.

What my brain processed at a late hour prompted this immediate Instagram post, a knee-jerk reaction to the shock which beset my eyes.

Expecting innocent imagery, I instead interpreted what appeared to be you stationed on the loo.

The accuracy was all wrong, here. Yes, a leisurely poo with your favourite broadsheet pre-sprogs may well have been the ideal point to ‘stop’ and escape the world’s troubles.

But as we know, not least by your first name, ‘Daddy’, you have piglets of your own now. In the case of your eldest, she’s a right know it all. Regardless of her general annoyance every Dad knows that when children come on the scene, lavatories are no longer a safe zone.

If the little cherubs haven’t developed an attachment to you and aren’t already screaming blue murder because of your unauthorised absence, it won’t be long before the little buggers are hammering on the door or driving a plastic fire engine up and down it, shouting ‘NEE NAW DADDY, NEE NAW’!

You can imagine my disgust at such an inaccuracy, however the next morning my partner became involved. She’s a bit like Edmond Elephant in these matters and the clever cloggs piped up: “It’s not a toilet, it’s an armchair, stupid.”

Upon forensic inspection, she sadly appeared to be right. It took a lot of effort to validate her claims, though, given the appallingly pixellated image selected (or perhaps I’m really just getting too old to see) but I nevertheless apologise for my untimely rant and unintended damage to your good name.

If you could, however, alter your merchandise to be a little more realistic of the pinky-purple sofas you actually own, I would be most grateful. I don’t think even DFS sell jagged-edged white and blue numbers…


Daddy Oli



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