Golliwoggs, and all that jazz

You might think it a tad premature – I haven’t even applied for probate yet – but we (me, Sis and Bro) have decided to put Mum and Dad’s bungalow on the market. Yes, Dear Reader, at the age of somewhere between 49 and 79, I am an orphan.

It’s not that I’m rushing things or that I’m ahead of the game; it’s the savings institutions, utility companies and pension bods that have been sooooooooo slooooooooooooooooow, even hanging on to the death certificates for over a week sometimes. I can’t move forward with them so might as well start something new.

By the way, when I say “utility companies”, I mean gas, electric, phone and broadband. The WATER COMPANY WAS VERY EFFICIENT AND HELPFUL; will someone please show this to that obnoxious punk, Feargal Sharkey?

Two estate agents have been round so far. Both suggested the same market analysis and sales price, so I don’t think I’ll bother with a third. Which of these two to go with was tricky. Both chaps were professional, experienced, polite and likeable. In the end, I chose the one who was based in Milton Keynes and had sold more properties in this immediate area than the agent based in the nearby little town.

I’m assuming the chosen agent wants us as clients because, while touring the property, he said something no middle-aged lady wishes to hear from an ethnic-Indian gentleman: “Oh, a Golliwogg!”

He’d spotted a Golliwogg fridge magnet, and I was desperately trying to spot a hole in the floor through which I might disappear. Mum and Dad had started to buy Golliwogg memorabilia when these cute little guys were first deemed to be politically incorrect and anyone who had any were said to be racist. Up until then, my parents couldn’t give two hoots about them, but from then on they bought fridge magnets, photo frames, rag dolls, mugs and lots more. They weren’t racist; they just objected to something that had been a small part of Britain’s innocent fun-culture since the late 19th century suddenly being ‘cancelled’ by small-minded, humourless, pretentious, grandiose, self-important (need a noun, need a noun, need a …. got one!) punks.

I thought they were hilarious (my parents and the Golliwoggs, not the punks). The first time I had any concerns was when my parents had a visitor, who was originally from Somalia. I arrived shortly after she did, walked into the living room, and immediately honed in on one of the Golliwogg rag dolls slumped next to the TV. It had been there for a number of years but I’d never taken any notice before.

The lady visitor must have seen it so I couldn’t try and distract her and snatch it away. Should I laugh? Scream? Throw up? 

In for a penny, I thought, and asked, “Mum, what must Mrs (sorry can’t remember her name) think of your rag doll?”

“You mean the Golliwogg?” exclaimed Mrs X. “I think he’s gorgeous.”

It is said that God looks after his own, and I was mighty relieved at that moment that Mum and Dad were regular Church-goers.

Fast-forward to last week and, remembering I’d had a lucky escape with Mrs X, before the first estate agent arrived I went through each room, collected all the Golliwogg paraphernalia and hid everything in the back of the wardrobe. But I missed the fridge magnet. The estate agent didn’t. 

Fortunately, I got off scot-free again; he said, “Oh, a Golliwogg! I haven’t seen one for ages.”

I responded, “I’m dreadfully sorry. I knew Mum had a few of these around and I thought I’d got rid of them all. Sorry I missed one. Can I offer you a cup of tea?”

“Not at all. They’re a part of our [yes he said ‘our’ – he was born in Blighty] heritage. I remember them when I was growing up.”

What a nice man. What a very nice man. 

Back home, I was telling everything to Hubby, who scared the living daylights out of me when he asked, “Did you remember to hide the jazz band that was in the conservatory?”

No. No I hadn’t. 

It was still in the conservatory. It hadn’t caught my eye when I’d shown the agent that room. He must have seen it but didn’t say anything that time. Strange?

No. Not really. 

Because, this jazz band, composed of individual figurines of up to 4” tall, did not feature Golliwoggs but dark-skinned male musicians, i.e. a typical, traditional American jazz band. Jazz is, after all, a fundamentally African-American genre. Jazz bands in Mum and Dad’s youth were all ‘black’. Had these figurines featured just white musicians or a mixture of ethnicities, it would have been historically and culturally inaccurate, and insulting to the talented, brave musicians who suffered through racist America back then. I therefore can’t imagine the woke brigade of blah-de-blah-de-blah-de punks shrieking that such historically accurate figurines shouldn’t be manufactured and sold. But I can imagine them saying that they shouldn’t be owned by white people, as that would be racist.

Question – how many households of ethnic origins own figurines, dolls, and fridge magnets depicting white people? Quite a few I bet. Does that make them racist? Course not.

So I’ve decided that I’m not going to remove the jazz band from the conservatory. I’m going to leave it exactly where it is, surrounded by books about music of all genres, history books about many nations and cultures, Bibles, the Koran, the Torah, the Kama Sutra (nah – I made that up), and works by Chaucer, Bronte(s), Kipling and Plath. Because that is who my parents were in all their intellectual and cultural identity and glory.

If anyone viewing the property objects, they can stuff their offer of purchase where the sun don’t shine, because I don’t want people like that ruling the roost in what was, up until very recently, Mum and Dad’s home.