We can probably all agree that, these days, nothing is sacred. If you can (as a few very insistent YouTube videos have told me) pay to watch live snuff films on the dark web, there\u2019s probably someone out there \u2013 in the thronging nest of perversions that is the internet \u2013 ready to take something special from your childhood (say, a favourite TV programme) and make it unclean.
Which is exactly what happened when an internet-spawned theory found history\u2019s least sexual fictional character, Postman Pat, to be a stop motion sex monster. The theory goes that he has fathered a lot of children in the village school, many of whom have ginger hair; Pat is the only red head in Greendale.
Postman Pat is the ONLY red head in Greendale.
This is the village school. #PatMustard #HairyBabies pic.twitter.com\/UbY19HHztp
\u2014 Dinneen Dictionary (@AnDuinnineach) December 31, 2016
And now to ride Mrs O’Reilly … pic.twitter.com\/p3mDUpuD9q
\u2014 Dinneen Dictionary (@AnDuinnineach) January 2, 2017
Because humans are incapable of not picking at every innocent thing until it goes gangrenous, here are some other childhood-ruining fan theories.
Babar is a colonial stooge
Babar lording it over the colonies. Photo: Flickr\/Vanessa
Could everyone\u2019s favourite anthropomorphic French elephant be an apologist for centuries of Western brutality and conquest? Well, yes, obviously. According to the \u201cHoly Hell Is Babar Problematic\u201d theory, the fact that the titular character was born in Africa, raised and \u201ccivilised\u201d in Paris, then sent back to Elephant Land to be king and teach all the other elephants how to be French, makes Babar about as suitable for children as a Ladybird introduction to eugenics and a Playmobil King Leopold.
For further proof that this theory isn\u2019t \u201cpolitical correctness gone mad\u201d, but actually political correctness gone quite sensible, just look at some of the (deeply un-OK) illustrations from the 1949 book Babar\u2019s Picnic .
The Smurfs are white supremacists
A horrifying vision of ethnic uniformity. Photo: Getty
Or maybe \u201cblue supremacists\u201d would be more accurate. Either way, they\u2019re racist. Possibly. It\u2019s been pointed out that the Smurfs all wear pointy white hats. Apart from their leader, Papa Smurf (the ultimate patriarch..?), who wears a red one. Meaning these tiny munchkin thingies are (maybe, just maybe) sartorially influenced by none other than the Ku Klux Klan.
This seems tenuous at best, until you look at a few other factors in this theory brought to light by French political scientist Antoine Bu\u00e9no. Bu\u00e9no suggests that the dictatorial political structure of Smurf Village paired with some actually quite convincing racism (when Smurfs turn black, for example, they become barbaric and lose the power of speech), equals Nazism.
What\u2019s more, the Smurfs\u2019 main antagonist \u2013 a wizard called Gargamel \u2013 is not unlike an antisemitic caricature from Nazi propaganda magazine Der St\u00fcrmer. He\u2019s dark haired, hook-nosed and obsessed with gold. Oh, and he has a cat called Azrael, which is the Hebrew name for the Angel of Death.
A photo posted by furkan (@furkanhaytaoglu) on Jan 15, 2017 at 3:47am PST
And, in case you\u2019re not already far enough down the \u201cSmurfs are racist\u201d rabbit hole, just look at Smurfette and her long, blonde hair. Aryan much?
SpongeBob SquarePants is a post-nuclear mutant
Forever running from haunting memories of radioactive atrocity. Photo: Flickr\/Kooroshication
According to one fan theory, this Nickelodeon classic may have more in common with The Hills Have Eyes than we think. SpongeBob, a talking sponge who lives in an underwater pineapple with a meowing snail, may well be the product of nuclear testing.
In the Forties, the US detonated two nukes in an area of the Pacific called Bikini Atoll. SpongeBob lives somewhere called Bikini Bottom. Coincidence, or an especially dark analogy for the dangers of radiation and man\u2019s lust for destruction? Hm.
Tom and Jerry is Nazi propaganda
Skipping merrily through the Third Reich. Photo: Flickr\/momokacma
Either we\u2019re so obsessed with Nazism that we look for it (and find it\u2026) in literally everything, or the antics of a classic cat and mouse duo really do contain coded messages about the futility of the Allies\u2019 war with the Third Reich.
If we\u2019re going for the latter, let\u2019s start with the characters\u2019 names. Tom (Tommies were British soldiers) and Jerry (Jerries were German ones). Now remember, Tom is the bad guy. In every episode, he tries to kill Jerry by any means possible, but is foiled every single time, getting blown up by sticks of dynamite and flattened by falling anvils along the way.
Tom and Jerry first aired in 1940 \u2013 the same year as the Battle of Britain. So, if the reference to slang for Brits and Germans was unintentional, it was more than a little bit unfortunate. And, according to some albeit sketchy-looking corners of the internet, this was no accident at all but a message (in that Jerry constantly outwits Tom) about superior German intelligence.
Although this may seem like the least compelling of all of these dark fan theories, it would explain why I always had a gut feeling the painfully smug Jerry was the actual baddie.
One of the clich\u00e9s about celebrity life is that all celebrities know each other. Back in the Eighties, when we were moderately famous, Ben and I did often bump into other famous people, and because of mutual recognition, there was a sort of acquaintance, if not friendship.
There was a random element to it, as well. Some celebrities you might never catch a glimpse of, while others seemed to pop up with an unexpected regularity.
In 1987, the car we drove was a 1970s Austin Princess, all leather seats and walnut dashboard. In many ways, it symbolised what people thought of as the basic qualities of our band: unassuming, a little bit quirky, a little bit vintage. We\u2019d had it for a year or so, but Ben was running out of patience. It had a habit of letting us down at inconvenient moments \u2013 for instance, at the top of the long, steep climbs that you encounter when driving through Italy, which we had just recklessly done for a holiday. The car was such a novelty out there that it attracted crowds whenever we parked. They would gather round, nodding appreciatively, stroking the bonnet and murmuring, \u201c Bella macchina. . .\u201d
Having recently banked a couple of royalty cheques, Ben was thinking of a complete change of style \u2013 a rock\u2019n\u2019roll, grand-gesture kind of car.
\u201cI wanna get an old Mercedes 300 SL,\u201d he said to me.
\u201cWhat\u2019s one of those?\u201d
\u201cI\u2019ll let you know next time we pass one,\u201d he said.
We were driving through London in the Princess, and as we swung round into Sloane Square, Ben called out, \u201cThere\u2019s one, look, coming up on the inside now!\u201d I looked round at this vision of gleaming steel and chrome, gliding along effortlessly beside us, and at the same moment the driver glanced over towards our funny little car. We made eye contact, then the Merc roared away. It was George Michael.
\u201cThat was George Michael!\u201d we both shouted. \u201cAnd he was driving the car we want!\u201d
We\u2019d always had a soft spot for George, even though we seemed to inhabit opposite ends of the pop spectrum. He\u2019d once been on a TV review show and said nice things about our first album, and I knew he had liked my solo single \u201cPlain Sailing\u201d. We\u2019d done a miners\u2019 benefit gig where Wham! had appeared, slightly out of place in their vests, tans and blond bouffants. There had been a bit of sneering because they\u2019d mimed. But I remember thinking, \u201cGood on you for even being here.\u201d Their presence showed that being politically active, or even just caring , wasn\u2019t the sole preserve of righteous indie groups.
A couple of weeks later, we were driving along again in the Princess, when who should pull up beside us in traffic? George again. He wound down his window, and so did we. He was charming and called across to say that, yes, he had recognised us the other day in Sloane Square. He went on to complain that BBC Radio 1 wouldn\u2019t play his new single \u201cbecause it was too crude\u201d. \u201cWhat\u2019s it called?\u201d asked Ben. \u201c \u2018I Want Your Sex\u2019!\u201d he shouted, and roared away again, leaving us laughing.
We\u2019d made up our minds by now, and so we went down to the showroom, flashed the cash, bought the pop-star car and spent the next few weeks driving our parents up and down the motorway with the roof off. It was amazing: even I had to admit that it was a thrill to be speeding along in such a machine.
A little time passed. We were happy with our glamorous new purchase, when one day we were driving down the M1 and, yes, you\u2019ve guessed it, in the rear-view mirror Ben saw the familiar shape coming up behind. \u201cBloody hell, it\u2019s George Michael again. I think he must be stalking us.\u201d
George pulled out into the lane alongside and slowed down as he drew level with us. We wound down the windows. He gave the car a long look, up and down, smiled that smile and said, \u201cThat\u2019s a bit more like it.\u201d Then he sped away from us for the last time.
Cheers, George. You were friendly, and generous, and kind, and you were good at being a pop star.<\/p>\n

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