I walked into the sitting room.
The TV was on. Loud.
Wearing helmets and snug-fitting, silver suits, human-like people, with strange-looking weapons, fired lethal, green rays, that deleted (that’s the only word for it) scaly-skinned, non-earth-beings who also had strange weapons, but seemed not to have been very well trained in their use because they never seemed to hit any of the opposition. This was all taking place on a colourful battleground made up of sharp-looking, purple rocks, pools of pure blue liquid and a backdrop of dark, jagged mountains against an even darker sky pierced with a myriad of silver-white stars. The musical accompaniment to this one-sided battle was fast-moving and dramatic, punctuated by the pchiouw sounds of the green rays slicing across the scene to decimate more scaly-skinned, non-earth beings, and cries from male and female voices, in English, making comic-book battlefield noises like: ‘gotcha ya bastard’ or ‘die you galactic dungball’ (I made that bit up).
I took all of this on board in the time I spent looking past the just-opened-door and deciding I didn’t need to sit in my sitting-room armchair. I retreated to my little office in what used to be the lean-to conservatory at the back of the house. It’s comfortable there too.
I sat back and mentally revisited the TV scenario that was still bright in my mind’s eye. Then I projected my thoughts a bit further, towards stories I have read and films I’ve watched, and the plays and musicals we go to the theatre to see: ‘Midsummer Murderers’, ‘Non-Cooperation Street’, ‘East End Antagonists’, Macbeth, Les Mis, and, and, and so-on. Confrontation and violence the main ingredients.
Think about it.
So many of our heroes are gladiators, male and female, who win victories against the odds.
Should we wonder why children grow up to be violent?
Southsea Storytellers 