Fantasy worlds are a wondrous thing.
Some of you are currently living in the dying world of Harry Potter, entranced by spells and wands and magic. Others are loitering about impatiently waiting for a similar journey into the world of the Hobbit, holding Lord of the Rings marathons just to get you through the days before you venture once more towards Mordor.
Many of you live in the past, or future, depending on the depth of your scorn upon those who live in the world of Star Wars, dreaming dreams full of lightsabers, planet Kashyyk, and characters with names that double as slang for self abuse.
In our house we live in yet another world. A simpler world, with simpler heroes, simpler adventures. A certain little girl has developed a fascination with all the goings on in the animated world of Greendale.
Greendale is home to its local hero Pat Clifden. Pat is a postman, a role that has earned him the witty title of ‘Postman Pat’. Pat enthralls us with daily adventures in his wee red van, always accompanied by his sidekick Jess. A bloody cat.
Now, if we put aside the madness of a feline assistant, even in an unofficial capacity, Pat just doesn’t cut it as a postman.
In fact, Pat is without doubt the most useless postman on the planet. Considering I’ve discovered that in real life we never get any post delivered when it rains, to bestow such a title on Greendale’s fictional Postman Pat is no throwaway gift. While I’m sure the intention of his creators was to provide fodder for his daily adventures, I’m yet to see Pat successfully deliver a parcel in one piece. If Scottish terriers aren’t running off with Indian charms destined for a school show n’tell, or the bats (yes, bats) he has to deliver haven’t flown off somewhere, then he is too busy stopping Vicar-driven runaway trains to actually deliver any bloody post.
Even with this incompetence on display, I can’t tear the child’s eyes away from this televisual massacre. Or Pat’s incessant humming.
The theme song insists that ‘Pat feels he’s a really happy man’, well yes, so would you be if you were so thick as to make your cat seem the brightest intellect on your postal round, and yet you manage to retain your position with the national postal service. Either the creators have missed a beat with that one, or I’ve just missed the episode where it’s revealed Pat has photographic evidence of his CEO in a compromising position with a penguin. And several cabinet backbenchers.
My torment doesn’t stop with the star of the show, Greendale’s other residents have to be seen to believed. There is the Indian family with the surname ‘Baines’. Of the New Delhi Baines no doubt. I really hope that bizarre choice of surname to be a nod towards the fact that whenever I attempt a Welsh accent it ends up sounding Indian.
The town’s carless, not careless, doctor is Welsh, the decrepit Post Mistress is Scottish, and the rest of Greendale’s inhabitants all have accents from every corner of Britain and beyond, making it undoubtedly the most diverse town on the planet with a population of 14, every one of which my daughter simply adores.
Without Postman Pat humming like a simpleton in the background morning, noon, and night it’s quite the challenge to stop our beloved offspring going ballistic.
All of this I can cope with, just. It might very well be eroding the part of my brain that keeps me from attempting to climb up a tree in a sleeping bag but all these irritations I can live with.
All except for one.
The doorbells. Being a series based around the concept of delivering post, ‘Postman Pat’ sees a lot of doorbells being rung. This in itself would be fine, if it weren’t for the fact every doorbell in Greendale sounds exactly the same, and more importantly, exactly the same as ours. As a result, since my dear daughter’s obsession with this animated atrocity has started, I’ve spent about 30% of my days running to the front door or peering out windows for no good reason.
Screw you Postman Pat, you incompetent humming bastard, screw you.