This time last week, many of us took comfort in a map. It showed how 18-25 year olds voted in the US presidential election. The landmass was a sea of blue, as most opted for Hillary Clinton. This, some declared, shows the future will be different. The turnout for Trump among everyone else – including some ethnic minorities – was bewildering, but such a trend can’t endure. Coming elections are secure for the left, because those who vote will be younger and wiser.
To which others, myself included, rolled our eyes wearily. Such maps, we explained, were ever the case. Everyone gets more rightwing as they get older. Hopes had to be dashed.
Then I saw Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them, and realised I was wrong. What people of my generation and older often fail to appreciate is the depth of indoctrination of tolerance for anyone under 30. Their literature, their cinema, all sings from the same hymn sheet. Harry Potter, X-Men, The Hunger Games, Twilight are all progressive propaganda. Fantastic Beasts, JK Rowling’s surprisingly delightful expansion of the Harry Potter universe, makes it even more explicit. It is a cautionary tale about the risks of repressing your inner nature. It sounds a clarion call for increased integration, including the abolition of a ban on Muggle/Wizard relationships. It shows how proto-dictators must be voted out before, like President Snow in The Hunger Games, they seize power and rescind our liberties.
So far, so explicit. But the scene that clinched it for me has a baker in mortal danger thanks to a massive magical female hippo eager to mate. She is in heat; he has accidentally become doused in an enticing musk. He runs, she chases desperately, ground shaking, fluid-filled horn threatening amorous horrors. It’s slapstick action, and it’s a long way from the coy Little Mermaid of my childhood.
But today’s youngsters are made of more determined stuff. They know everyone ought to be empowered to express their sexuality. They are also more realistic. As the ruthlessly aroused Himalayan snow leopards on David Attenborough’s Planet Earth II last Sunday showed, every gender, every species, is capable of screwing everything in aid of species survival.
Gravesend’s G-U-T instinct
How do you classy-up a town through its name alone? Adding “-upon-Thames” did the trick for the likes of Kingston, Richmond, Walton and Staines, which rebranded in 2012, seeking to shed the Ali G association.
All these straddle the river; now, a place that lies only on one bank is looking to hyphenate: Gravesend. It’s the brainchild of the Tory councillor Jordan Meade, who believed such a change would “end some of the stigma” and signal a rebirth in Gravesend’s fortunes, particularly in terms of tourism. Yet if people really can’t already be bothered to travel 20 minutes out of London to discover the charms of this most underrated place, they only have themselves to blame. The riches that await – extraordinary architecture, amazing history, splendid views, terrific pizzas, record-breaking temperatures, friendly residents – are, of course, only enhanced by the lowered expectations. Plus, as acronyms go, G-U-T doesn’t totally solve the problem.
Peas in our time
Two of Victoria Beckham’s top dieting tips have long stuck with me. Really hungry? Have a meal consisting entirely of peas. Fancy some ice cream? Feast on frozen grapes instead. She would doubtless approve of a new edict to feed ducks grapes (unfrozen) or peas (defrosted), a much healthier option than chucking bread into ponds. This is good news for me as someone who often wraps fridge-bound shopping in bags of frozen peas if I’m not going home immediately. But once you are back, what to do with them all? Refreezing would be dangerous; binning irresponsible. Yet there’s only so many times you can stomach pea penne; only so much folic acid even a pregnant body can endure. Permission to dump the lot in the nearest pond is a great relief – to me, if not the ducks.
