TOM UTLEY: I'd hate you to think that I don't love my grandchildren... but their Christmas visit brings back all the horrors of parenthood!
My wife made an odd observation after we'd gone to the cinema this week with our two oldest grandchildren, aged six and three, to see the singalong version of The Muppet Christmas Carol. She said she thought that Michael Caine was sadly miscast as Scrooge.
It's not that I didn't agree with her, because what she said was clearly true. But I thought her observation odd because, personally, I thought that Kermit the Frog and Miss Piggy were even more obviously miscast as Mr and Mrs Bob Cratchit, the parents of Tiny Tim.
Nor was I quite sure that Gonzo, a Muppet with blue and purple fur and an extended proboscis, was entirely right for the part of the Victorian genius, Charles Dickens. But then I'm no film critic. What do I know?
The great thing, people will tell you, is that Christmas is a time for children, and all that matters is that they should enjoy every minute of it. Well, I can testify that our grandchildren seemed to enjoy The Muppet Christmas Carol inordinately.
I suspect this was mainly because they'd seen it countless times before, either in the cinema or on some online streaming service. After all, very young children seem never to tire of seeing the same film, or being read the same book, over and over again.
![The great thing, people will tell you, is that Christmas is a time for children, and all that matters is that they should enjoy every minute of it (Stock Image)](https://i.dailymail.co.uk/1s/2023/12/21/22/65865051-12891593-The_great_thing_people_will_tell_you_is_that_Christmas_is_a_time-a-1_1703196768750.jpg)
The great thing, people will tell you, is that Christmas is a time for children, and all that matters is that they should enjoy every minute of it (Stock Image)
Our two young guests, who are visiting from Bristol, even made valiantly tuneless attempts to sing along, at the tops of their voices, to the dismally uncatchy songs.
As for me, this was the first time I'd seen the film — and I pray to the Almighty that when I'm laid to my final rest, it will also turn out to have been the last.
Still, I had reason to be grateful to the Muppets and their dire production.
This was because our trip to the cinema gave me the chance, despite the cacophonous din, to get a few minutes' much needed shut-eye in the stalls, as a brief respite from the duty of entertaining the little brats while they stay with us in the run-up to the Big Day.
Oh, I'd hate you to think I don't love my grandchildren. I do, with all my heart — and not only in theory, but even quite a bit in fact.
Certainly, I have no hesitation in affirming that all four of ours, and counting, are the brightest, most beautiful and engaging grandchildren in the world. More so, dare I say it, even than yours, dear reader, if you are lucky enough to have any.
But, let's face it, very young children can be . . . oh, how can I put this kindly? Let's just say they can be a right pain in the neck — and that's never truer than at this time of year, when they're exhaustingly over-excited.
Indeed, having them to stay this week has brought back to me, at the curmudgeonly age of 70, all the horrors of my own early years of parenthood in the 1980s and 1990s.
I should admit at once that in my case, most of the burden of those years was borne by the saintly Mrs U, who stayed at home looking after our four boys, while I went out to work for a bit of peace and quiet, on the pretext of bringing home the bacon.
But when I was in my 30s and 40s even I couldn't entirely escape the torments of child-rearing. Enough to say that the nightmare has come back to haunt me this week, renewing my heartfelt sympathy and admiration for hands-on mothers and fathers — and particularly the mums, who still bear the brunt of the work in this supposedly liberated age.
![I¿m thinking of the exquisite agony of standing on a Lego brick in one¿s bare feet, when one comes down to the kitchen, bleary-eyed, for that morning mug of coffee (stock image)](https://i.dailymail.co.uk/1s/2023/12/21/22/79231985-12891593-I_m_thinking_of_the_exquisite_agony_of_standing_on_a_Lego_brick_-a-2_1703196768751.jpg)
I'm thinking of the exquisite agony of standing on a Lego brick in one's bare feet, when one comes down to the kitchen, bleary-eyed, for that morning mug of coffee (stock image)
I'm thinking of the exquisite agony of standing on a Lego brick in one's bare feet, when one comes down to the kitchen, bleary-eyed, for that morning mug of coffee. I'm thinking, too, of the children's anguished demands to stay up late, watching some ghastly cartoon on Netflix, when there's something I want to see on the BBC.
Then there are the three-year-old's piercing shrieks of laughter at her own endlessly repeated, inane jokes.
'Grandpa, grandpa, what's your name?'
'It's Grandpa.'
'Grandpa, grandpa, what do you call that on your face?'
'My nose.'
'Grandpa, grandpa, what's in my hand?' (She holds it out, empty).
'Nothing.'
'YOU SAID IT!!!! GRANDPA NOSE NOTHING!!!' Cue raucous hysterics.
All right, it was sweet enough the first time. But after the seventh repetition, the joke tends to pall.
Then there are the sudden bursts of furious tears when the excitement becomes too much for her, or she's gently told to give the poor dog a rest from her incessant, doting attentions.
![My six-year-old grandson been grilling me all week on his three current obsessions ¿ dinosaurs, the Roman Empire and strange facts about the story of our country, as gleaned from the excellent series of children¿s books, Horrible Histories (stock image)](https://i.dailymail.co.uk/1s/2023/12/21/22/79232029-12891593-My_six_year_old_grandson_been_grilling_me_all_week_on_his_three_-a-3_1703196768755.jpg)
My six-year-old grandson been grilling me all week on his three current obsessions — dinosaurs, the Roman Empire and strange facts about the story of our country, as gleaned from the excellent series of children's books, Horrible Histories (stock image)
Her six-year-old brother can be equally trying. When he's not charging around the house, knocking things over, he's been grilling me all week on his three current obsessions — dinosaurs, the Roman Empire and strange facts about the story of our country, as gleaned from the excellent series of children's books, Horrible Histories.
Alas, he finds my knowledge lamentably wanting — and bellows his delighted contempt when I get something wrong. Humiliatingly, he seems to know a lot more about a lot of things, at the age of six, than I do at 70 with an MA in history from Cambridge University.
As for dinosaurs, I thought he might enjoy a trip to Crystal Palace Park, to see the full-size models of them, commissioned in 1852 to accompany the Great Exhibition, after it moved to the site from Hyde Park. But not a bit of it.
Far from being grateful for his little treat, he pronounced himself disgusted by the Victorian modelist's failure to get the details of the iguanodon, the ichthyosaur and the rest exactly right.
All this I've had to endure, on top of the daily hunt for missing shoes and the filthy mess everywhere — the yoghurt on the carpet, the felt-tip on the new tablecloth and the Brio train set scattered all over the sitting room floor.
That's not to mention the murderous toothache I've been suffering all week, or the fact that I'm banned from smoking in my own house when the grandchildren are on the premises, and sent to shiver in the drizzle in the garden.
Grumpy old sod that I am, it's enough to say that I'm not exactly brimming over with the joys of the season, or the delight so many grandparents seem to take in the company of their little ones.
![Yes, I know many people say their ambition is to live long enough to see their grandchildren grow up, but I¿ve never been quite sure why (Stock Image)](https://i.dailymail.co.uk/1s/2023/12/21/22/73608661-12891593-Yes_I_know_many_people_say_their_ambition_is_to_live_long_enough-a-4_1703196768757.jpg)
Yes, I know many people say their ambition is to live long enough to see their grandchildren grow up, but I've never been quite sure why (Stock Image)
Yes, I know many people say their ambition is to live long enough to see their grandchildren grow up. But I've never been quite sure why. Speaking for myself, I have no particularly strong desire to see mine progress to the door-slamming, marching-against-oil-companies, preaching-about-the-sins-of-my-selfish-generation phase.
No, my only ambition, as I write, is to live long enough to see the little darlings go home.
But that's quite enough bah-humbuging from me. So let me end by wishing each and every one of you, young and old, a joyful Christmas — and, please God, a little peace when it's over.