We’ve all made questionable decisions in our lives. I know I’ve made a few. Choosing a blog name that only a select few zombie aficionados get, almost panic buying the wrong house (twice) and one visit to the barber that could only be described as a ‘scarecut’ are up there among them. But this one is so much worse.
Just before Christmas last year, a friendly PR person got in touch to offer me some well-known batteries as well as a toy to demonstrate just how long they last.
The batteries have been unparalleled in their ability to keep said plaything running. They are excellent and I don’t have a bad word to say about them. They’re terrific and I’ll be buying from their excellent range again. The toy, however, is another matter and I don’t think it’s exaggerating to say that I actually hate it. The Furby must go.
Ever since this demented cross between an owl and a Christmas jumper arrived in our house, my life has become a living hell. You have to use an app to cater for its every whim while it excitedly babbles gibberish, undoing good language skills in the process.
If you don’t do its bidding, its irritatingly chipper voice and demeanour gives way to one that sounds like a stoned version of Marvin the Paranoid Android. “I don’t like it, Daddy… it sounds like you,” whinged Xander. Charming.
Then there are the things you have to do to remove the need to carry out a factory reset. You have to feed it, bathe it and take it to the toilet via the app that has basically killed our tablet. It only likes junk food, complains if the water is more than tepid and does the most obnoxiously large turds in the unfortunate virtual toilet.
That’s not the end of the woe though. It lays virtual eggs too. Well it does at first. But then you have to ‘buy’ them from other Furbies using credits you’ve amassed by basically being its slave. And when you hatch them, they have complicated births during which the Furby panics. Fucking hell.
It also sporadically howls like a wolf when there’s a full moon and says things that sound suspiciously like the ominous Latin phrases that crop up in The Exorcist. Maybe it’s actually possessed. Or psychotic – it talks about itself in the third person too.
The thing that bothers me most though is the way in which Dylan and Xander have taken the bloody thing to their hearts. So much so, that they refer to it as one of the family. They often mention its name before mine when they’re reeling off a list of who’ll be at Sunday lunch. Hoisted by my own petard. That’ll teach me for being so thoughtful.
So what should I do, dear reader? I hate the thing and, though the boys love it. I think it’s about as good for their education as Michael Gove. I’ve thought about selling it, but wouldn’t wish the sodding thing on my worst enemy.
Would an ‘accident’ be out of order?