The children of the biological revolution

Every time I board an overcrowded sardine tin, more commonly known as the tube, I am confronted with something of great concern.

To avoid committing the mortal sin of looking in the general direction of another human being, passengers spend the duration of their journey reading and re-reading various posters for anything from life insurance to charity campaigns urging commuters to donate their entire life savings to the welfare of orphaned guinea pigs with levels of interest generally reserved for the likes of 50 Shades of Grey.

And I follow suit.

London’s impersonality led to my latest bugbear, in the form of a poster which seems to crop up more than any other. Targeting single women reaching the end of their childbearing capabilities, the general gist is: “Biological clock ticking so loudly it has become to men what a whistle is to a dog? Fear not, let our clinic impregnate you with an illegitimate child.”

It would be cheaper for said women to drink 241 bottles of Blue WKD to oblivion down at their local Inferno or other such classy all-night cattle market, linger around on the dance floor at throwing out time and go home with whatever reprobate is lurking in the sidings desperate to dip his unprotected penis inside whatever gaping chasm presents itself.  

But I don’t suppose following in the footsteps of a typical Stoke-on-Trent teenager is strictly the soundest of advice to offer females due to expel their final egg at any given moment. Ill-educated teenagers have already contributed to an influx of just short of 400,000 children currently being used in a vast game of human ping-pong, tossed between the fostering population of the UK.

Single women, homosexual partnerships, even straight couples desperate to rescue one of the country’s more unfortunate children from a future of special brew and Jeremey Kyle, have battled with the authorities since records began.

And with figures for the bi-products of a post-club scuffle up an alleyway, leading to mothers who have no recollection of the conception and claiming to bear the second-coming insurmountable, the number of children soon to be taken into care should be of grave concern.

But having a phantom baby is fast becoming In-Vogue. Intelligent, caring, upstanding, financially sound women are opting to take the easier route of artificial insemination over attempting to convince the authorities to extract a child from a squalid existence and give them the chance for a better life that they deserve.

If children spiral into an identity meltdown when their adoptive parents have “the talk,” I cannot even begin to imagine the head-fucking impact that clinics advertising down in the depths of London’s underground network will have on the children of the future.

The 'life changing' world of modern day parenting

Over the festive break the less intelligent of the two offspring my parents gave life to declared, with an unfounded air of wisdom, that having children has made him better placed to pass judgement on practically everything.

“Until you’ve had children you don’t know what it’s like. It’s life changing and I know so much more about the world than people who don’t have children,” he said. 

In this one sweeping statement he categorised himself among an overcrowded pigeon hole jammed full of ill equipped human beings, including all the positive DNA fodder ever to grace the screens of Jeremy Kyle.

Delivering his beliefs with all the conviction that his status, as father of two, made him wholly capable of successfully fulfilling a top role for NASA, I can picture the interviews for future space expeditions now:

“I’m sorry Mr Jones, you seem to have excessive experience in our field but Wayne has a DNA certificate from the Jeremy Kyle show that states he IS the real dad.”

Like all socially superior siblings, I like an argument.

“I think it’s entirely egotistical to want to bring more children into existence, adding to an already overcrowded population when there are already so many unfortunate youngsters out there in need of a loving and supportive home.”

“I totally agree, I don’t think anyone should have more than two children and then if they want any more they can adopt,” he said, totally disagreeing.

Sadly my brother is just one example of a whole strain of new-aged delusional parents who are seemingly oblivious, until they make a baby, to a phenomenon that has been occurring since the beginning of time. That you’ll have to look after it.

We’ve all been born, it’s nothing special. And being part of the baby making process does not make you more worldly wise than the remaining childless population.

Brother Banks then went off on a tangent about the risks of adoption, mainly the possibility of raising an axe murderer in a war between nature and nurture, losing my parents and myself entirely.

My Christmas loathing father’s attention turned to the television: “Here here, I totally agree,” he shouted at Michael Caine’s outburst at Kermit the Frog.

Offering to do a trade-off, my class of 30 children with varying levels of autism, most with an inability to speak English and severe behavioural issues, for his two, for one day, he reiterated: “It’s totally different when you’ve got your own, you don’t know what it’s like. It’s much harder to look after two, you have them from first thing in the morning.”

My brother had offered to do the parenting the following morning, to let his wife have a well- deserved lie in. I went downstairs at 9.30am to discover two children and not an adult in sight.

“Where’s daddy?” I asked.

“He put Finding Nemo on and went back to bed, I went upstairs after him and asked him for some breakfast but he said he needed to get to the next level on Temple Run,” offered Jack.

“Please can I take my nappy off?” asked Issy, tugging at her urine drenched pyjamas.

I stand corrected.