There was a piece in the Guardian last week in defence of the ‘yummy mummies’ accused of causing the downfall of a blini-selling tea-room, Trojka, in North London’s Primrose Hill. I have tried to trace the original story and actually, it’s rather unclear who made the original ‘yummy mummy’ comment but it appears to be attributable to another Primrose Hill cafe owner, Amit Jain.
Whatever the truth of the original story is, the subsequent emphasis on the ‘yummy mummy’ angle highlights the fact that, if things rhyme or alliterate, IT’S REALLY HANDY FOR JOURNALISTS! It’s especially useful if you can dismiss or target large groups of women gathering together with one sweeping derisory phrase such as ‘yummy mummies’, ‘pram faces’, ‘lipstick lesbians’ or ‘witches’. Ok, so they don’t all rhyme or alliterate, but there does seem to be a witch-hunt mentality behind all this. So, before we get to witness a huge bonfire consisting of melting Bugaboo prams at this year’s Primrose Hill fireworks display, let’s just hold on a second. Here is my letter to the PUMPs (People Upset with the Mummies of Primrose Hill):
I understand that it is VERY LIKELY INDEED that the terrible fate which has befallen your High Street is more likely to have been caused by a group of lactating women than, for example, world recession or triple rent increases. Yep, definitely a bunch of ladies, especially those breeders with muffin tops and leaky boobs who should not really be seen in public until they have ‘got their body back’. But come on PUMPs, if you are going to blame an entire substrata of society for ruining your world, you must GET YOUR LINGUISTIC CATEGORISATION OF PARENTAL GROUPS SHITE TOGETHER! It’s a bit like botany; you’ve got your Daisy family, and then all sorts of sub Daisy…
Are you sure, for example, it was not in fact the LADDY DADDIES who destroyed your business? It is the laddy daddy who blocks your doorway, not only with an SUV-sized pram , but also an actual SUV every Sunday. This happens because their yummy mummy wife abandons her ‘domestic duties’ every weekend in favour of having a pedicure and getting her chakras realigned by that buff yoga master who wears tiny pants at Tri Yoga. Yes, it’s because of the laddy daddies, those hipster fathers with their Converse clad feet and G-Star jeans, who idle away so many hours over one Gluten-free muffin while perusing the Sunday papers and ignoring their kids, that you have thought on many occasions about homicide. Perhaps Primrose Hill cafes are closing because the laddy daddy (unlike the yummy mummy) never notices when their hemp-clothed offspring Tarquin and Rainbow have failed, yet again, to stop the family’s Cockapoo from shitting under the table.
Or are the Zappa Pappa’s to blame? These carefully bearded men-with-children who are still intent on pursuing the career of a Rock God are not to be confused with DJ Dad (carefully bald) whose children were conceived at a rave in Brighton years ago to the sound of Sean Ryder’s twisted melon. Their kids, Tiger and Wilderness, pop Smarties like pills and wait for the blue ones to kick in before ramming other customers with their scooters in a repetitive manner while DJ Dad orders a fry up.
LET’S BE CLEAR. Was it the Wanker Bankers? The Trad Dads? The Tubby Hubbies? WHO IS REALLY TO BLAME FOR THERE BEING NO MORE BLINIS IN PRIMROSE HILL? Or is it, like Freud always said, really mummy’s fault?
Love Me x
(A slummy mummy who can’t afford one of your lavishly iced cupcakes anyway)