“Barney, Barney, Barney,” the children chant at 5 30 on a Saturday morning. It’s his purple skin, his shiny white teeth, fixed smile, and sycophantic friends—but most of all his nauseating singing voice and phoney sugary lyrics—that I object to. I have endured his presence in my house for years and suffered his music tapes on car journeys. I deeply resent Barney the dinosaur. And with early mornings come early nights. So usually I can stand only 10 minutes of Question Time; bored by …