The Fairytale is F**ked

The Fairytale, as we know it, is F**ked: six reasons why any woman worth her womb is turning her back on the traditional fairytale.

1) For a start, the girls are always simpering Messes in Distresses, waiting for a man to come along and sort their sh*t out for them.

Contrary to every fairy tale or rom com ever written, the RIGHT man is NEVER  going to come along when you’re ‘in distress’.

What sort of freak-man would be interested in a girl whose sat in a tower on her own for her entire life, with nothing but her hair to keep her amused (there’s only so many YouTube videos of fishtail braiding and easy updos one girl can watch)? I’ll tell you what sort of man: the sort of man whose going to feel the perishables in his pants shrivel up and fall off when she finally gets her act together and starts that ball-busting, multi-million pound wig-making business.

No, far better to meet Him for the first time when you’re winging your way down from the tower on that self-made zip-wire of yours, with your well-brushed hair flinging behind you in a brazen but beautiful display of rebellion: the man you give your happily-ever-after to needs to know he’s playing with fire from the outset.

2) And now, onto the (whisper it!) SEX. Let us pity poor Snow White, desperately pretending to be in an apple-provoked coma hoping to avoid it, or Sleeping Beauty, with her extreme narcolepsy bo**ocks (both better than the ‘Not tonight, darling, I’ve got a headache’ cliche, I’ll give them that). Eventually, though, the women give in and, both so keen to have the whole affair over with, fake a life-reinducing (but silent and ‘ladylike’) orgasm after just one chaste kiss from Blandy Blanderson, Prince Charming.

Ladies, we are not our grandmothers. We don’t need to lie back with gritted teeth and think of England (or Wales, preferably) anymore. We are allowed to say no. (On a side note, if the Prince wasn’t her cup of tea, I always thought Snow White should’ve given one of the dwarves a go. He would’ve been so grateful for the opportunity there’s no telling what lengths (ahem) he might have gone to, to please her.)

3) Perhaps I’m hopelessly romantic, but I like a man to at least be able to recognize my face after the deed; you know, should there be a lineup on the morning after. Take poor Cinderella, she’s already endured the Walk of Shame with only one shoe on (we’ve all been there, lovely) but then comes the real slap in the face: he’s totally forgotten what she looks like; so much so that’s he’s letting every woman in the land try on her shoe (even her so-called ugly sisters) in a humiliating attempt to jog his worryingly poor memory.

4) And why do the girls in Fairytale Land never make their own money or have any ambitions beyond meeting a prince? Shame on our Little Mermaid, Ariel, for selling her pretty voice to fat, slimy Ursula (seriously, can we stop making little girls terrified of post-menopausal women; that’s what they’re going to become eventually). Just for one chance with Eric (not the brightest tool in the box, God love him, he spends half the film chasing that catchy tune he heard once, unwittingly almost marrying Ursula-in-disguise in the process).

I agree with Sebastien the Crab, ‘darling, it’s better down where it’s wetter’ (the lyricist was having a right laugh on that day). Ariel should have stayed under the sea and started a function band with all of those talented animal-musicians. If it was meant to be, Eric would (eventually) (HOPEFULLY) work out a way to sell his (comparatively mediocre) voice to live under the sea, and off of her earnings, instead.

5) And, dear God, the lack of imagination on the princesses’ wish list for a man: Tall, dark and handsome. Is that really all she wants for the rest of her life: a constant crick in her neck from looking up, and a bad back from bending over to fish dark hairs out of the plug hole? What about thinking outside of the box, for a change. For example, I can personally vouch for the skinhead (God, no, not for political reasons) but because the bath is always clear of hair and they smell endearingly like babies. (There’s really something about being with a man who smells reminiscent of your past – and your future – at the same time.)

6) And as if more proof were needed that the traditional fairytale has had its day, I give you Frozen: the highest grossing animated film of all time (it took 1.274 billion at the box office) – and it ends not with the promise of romantic love but a declaration, instead, of sisterly devotion. And the protagonist, far from being a simpering Mess in Distress, is so badass that, when she’s having a shite day, she creates an eternal winter and an entire castle of ice with her own bare hands, but even more impressive than that: she sings a song that goes as low as an F and as high as a top E flat. What a legend.

Please like me!

Oh God. It’s exhausting, it really is: being one of life’s people-pleasers.

Only this morning, I was walking our dog, Otis, when he was attacked by another dog. And while my little treasure was being mauled, I spent the whole time apologizing to the other owner profusely. Worse than that, Otis has picked up my terrible penchant for pleasing others: as the other dog was tearing into him, Otis merely cowered and wagged his tail frantically, like a white (black in his case) flag of surrender.

I know what you’re thinking, I’ve written a thinly veiled account on ‘look how nice I am’, but no, I promise you, it’s not nice. I suppose it’s quite arrogant, really, to think you can keep the whole world happy.

No, it’s not nice. It’s an affliction. And it affects every area of my life.

Lets take…meal times. Just last week I selected a Mexican street food van in London for lunch for my family. When, unsurprisingly, there was nothing there for my ten year old niece to eat (what ten year old wants Mexican street food?), I was so worried that I’d ruined everyone’s lunch, that I burst into tears and…ruined everyone’s lunch: an alarmingly frequent self-fulfilling prophecy of mine.

Dinner parties at other people’s homes can also be particularly treacherous territory for me. I’m Coeliac (allergic to wheat and gluten), and most people just can’t seem to get their head around it (‘You can eat bread, right?’). But if the food has been cooked and put in front of me, I just can’t bring myself to say ‘no’ (it’s just too rude!) And even when forced to be honest by my husband, I find myself playing it down so they won’t think I’m a drama queen, ‘oh no, no, the allergy isn’t serious. What’s a bit of infertility and bowel cancer between friends? Pass me the breaded mushrooms.’

Oh and the trauma, the absolutely devastating trauma, when I find that someone doesn’t like me (a shiver runs through me as I type the very words). My poor, pathetic heart just can’t seem to cope with that simple fact of life: not everyone will like you. I was working on one show where the other singer just…well, she hated me, for want of a prettier, more euphemistic phrase. She told me I should buy ‘Singing for Dummies,’ and she spread a rumour that I’d had a threesome with two of my cast members (Ha! A people-pleaser in a threesome: can you imagine? No established etiquette, all those parts to keep happy, the balls to juggle, the ‘No, you first,’ ‘No, you go first,’ ‘No, really, I don’t mind…’ It would be disastrous.) Of course, with hindsight, I should have confronted her. Instead I lay awake at night trying to think of ways to change her opinion of me.

Work is particularly tricky: my people-pleasing won’t allow me to sell myself (no one likes a big head, right?), so I stay quiet about any qualifications or experience I’ve got, and nod my head and smile at the the ten-year-old-with-one-good-spelling-test-behind-him who just got promoted above me. I’m so bad at selling myself that at my own wedding, when my lovely, proud dad started boasting about my A/level and degree results during his speech, everyone burst out laughing – they assumed he was joking.

Teaching, as a people-pleaser, is particularly tricky. I live in constant fear that I’ll turn X Factor on, and one of my ex-students will be up there humiliating themselves, and it’ll be my fault, because I wasn’t brave enough to tell them they’re an absolutely shocking singer.

And it’s even worse with young children. Once, I’d been leading a workshop for 8 year olds (for a full 90 minutes) before a little boy said, ‘Howay, man, are you the teacher, like? Whey, I never! I thought you were just playing, like the rest of us…’

Oh and the subtext! I read subtext into everything. Someone could text me a completely innocuous ‘How are you?’ with a harmless smiley face at the end, but for me that opens a whole can of worms: Why would they think I’m not ok? Have I said something that worried them? Do they want me to ask them back because there’s something wrong with them and they need to talk? And why the smiley face, and not a kiss? Have I upset them?

See, exhausting!

I hope you’ve enjoyed reading this.

No, I mean it, I really hope you did.

You did, didn’t you?

Oh God, why aren’t you saying thing? I haven’t offended you, have I?!

Copyright Kelly People-Pleasing Rickard May 2014