Some years ago
I had about 10 months of unemployment, back in the days of REAL recession, not this namby-pamby bankers-running out-of-cash-because-they-are-all-useless-wankers type of recession, but I digress.
I offered to assist in my local secondary school in the CDT department and jolly glad they were to have me (me being a Rolls-Royce trained toolmaker and all).
I had absolutely no trouble with the kids except one who I shall call Kevin, for that was his name.
Kevin would do no work. Not a tap. He wouldn't reply to his name on the register on purpose so he could get his mates to back him up as present when the teachers reported him as absent. Every time he was chastised his reply was "I'll tell my dad you touched me and you'll be fired, he's one of the governors" so the teachers left him alone.
One day he was farting about and saw me showing a couple of the eager students how an oxy-acetylene torch worked. He pushed his way in to the group and said "Gimme that" and tried to snatch it from me. I fended him off and said "Careful, this is hot". He started screaming "It's MY turn it's MY turn", I told him to get out of my face. He then put the same old tired line "I'll tell my dad you etc etc."
After the lesson was over I plotted with the teachers how to make him be a useful citizen (other than by culling the twat and selling his organs). Luckily I was also a governor of the school and knew his father (a decent bloke but one who spent too much time working and left the childrearing to his useless weak lump of a wife). Having primed his dad with the latest of his son's escapades I was given carte blanche to "Put the fear of God in him, if you can".
OK!
The next lesson was arranged so I'd get Kevin alone. In his typical way he'd not replied to the register, smirking all the time.
We retired to the "hot room" where all the burny things were.
Once the doors were firmly shut I turned to him with a lit gas axe in my hand and said "RIGHT YOU LITTLE SHIT, I'VE HAD ENOUGH OF YOU, TIME TO DIE!" and pressed the extra oxygen lever, shooting a jet of flame over his head. Advancing toward the now trembling, sobbing 15 year old DNA waste I almost inaudibly whispered
"You didn't register, you're not here so I can do EXACTLY what I like to you and no-one will know".
He pissed himself in fear.
I opened the door and paraded him before his classmates.
"He's scared of the flames, somebody take him to get cleaned up".
A huge braying cheer came from his classmates (15 year olds have NO sympathy) and he was henceforth known as "Pissy Kevin". People used to flick lighters at him and throw matches to see if he'd piss himself again through the rest of his school life.

I wish I felt bad about this.



But I don't.
(Captain Placid 24/7 ball gags, brownie mix and clown porn, Mon 13 Oct 2008, 16:09, 23 replies)

I went to a private school...
so I've met quite a few of these brats. Now I was there on a scholarship, a Rugby scholarship in fact; on account of me being not so bright and fond of running face first in to things, so 75% of my fees were paid for me. This meant I was treated as "working class" (their words) by most of the arseholes there, including the teachers.

I was never bullied as I was always quite big for my age but my mate, also there on a scholarship but for Art, had the shit kicked out of him a regular basis. Not because he was your stereotypical bully fodder but because he was poor (by poor I mean his parents couldn't afford £6000 a year on school fees but could still live comfortably).

The worst thing about this was during one of our weekly trips to the head masters office to explain why I'd been in a fight with a bunch of other kids. In we stroll looking forward to getting it over with and heading of down the park for some illicit drinking. Standing in the office was the main protagonist, Graeme, flanked by two very rich and extremely pompous looking people. Turns out Graemes mummy and daddy were very big benefactors of the school and couldn't have their son getting bullied by, as they put it ,"common lower class scum who didn't belong there". I was suspended for 1 week and told if it happened again I would get kicked out for good. Anyway I spent the next 6 months until I turned 16 watching my mate getting the shit kicked out of him on a weekly basis. As soon as I reached legal cherry popping age I walked out of school with fuck all qualifications and haven't looked back since.

Anyway a few months back I was advertising for some staff for my shop and who should hand in his C.V. but Greame. The tosser is still exactly the same as he was, even demanding I give him the job now. I told him to fuck off in no uncertain terms obviously. I had to find out why such a rich little prick felt compelled to work in a shop seeing as mummy and daddy would normally pay for these kind of things.

Turns out my old artist buddy had dropped out shortly after me and has forged a pretty decent living as a painter and decorator. I got in touch with him to found out if he knew anything about Graeme and why he was scrounging for part-time work in a shop.

Through a rather bizarre twist it turns out my mate had been commissioned to do some work in Graemes parents home. That's not a big deal, good money, usually a couple of hot females to stare at whilst doing the work. Good times. Whilst doing this work my mate got speaking to Graemes mum, who in turn recognised him. They got chatting, she asked him to stay back for some drinks after he had finished, he agreed, they fucked. On Graemes bed.

The dad opened the door only to be greeted by the sight of a skinny wee chap with nothing on but a dirty flat cap and a fag dangling from his mouth going at his wife like adultery was gong out of fashion. He even gave him a cheeky wee wave and carried on going.

In the end it turned out the mum had been having several flings behind the dads back and promptly left him. Leaving him enough money to look after himself but not enough to give the kids the lives leisure they'd been used too.

I got Graeme in for an interview after I found this out. The only question I was able to ask before bursting out laughing was "So I heard your mum is single again...?"

He left in tears. God bless Karma.
(Holy Cremola Foam Batman will be back on, Fri 10 Oct 2008, 11:47, 20 replies)

Victoria Bitchbury
I lived with a frog sluttin’ brat from Hades at university for three months that seemed to last for a glacial ice age period (at least as long as the current Holocene, glacier fans).

Her name was Vicky (I will post her surname as well when I remember it) and she was a posh talking mummy’s girl who had gone to Cheltenham Ladies College (and never let anyone forget it). Her harpy-like face was at odds with her admittedly hot body. She actually looked like one of those witches from the end of ‘Army of Darkness’ and was a living embodiment of a BOBFOC.

She used to regularly get mummy to come down (from Surrey) down to Exeter to go shopping. Mummy used to love it as well and bought her all sorts of treats and furniture for her room. One occasion she ordered mummy to bring a computer and a computer desk as she needed them. Mummy and a handyman arrived to put the desk together, and I was asked to ‘sort out the computer’. I told the smirking harridan that I was currently suffering from ‘statics’ and could literally blow the computer inside out if I touched it. Fearfully, they then called up for a ‘computer expert’ to help them.

She was studying classics but found studying at university to be ‘trying’. This was the reason she failed all three years and later I found out that she actually spent six years doing a three years course.

She carefully and studiously ignored all cleaning rotas and on one occasion when the rest of my housemates and I had totally deep cleaned the entire house including doing all her washing up (we had taken a stand and not done it but the smell got to be too much), she came down to the kitchen where I was drying some glasses, took a knife out the drawer and some cheese out of the fridge, cut a slice directly on the counter, ate it, and left the knife, cheese, and cheese crumbs where they were and wandered off. With my face aghast, I promptly put the remaining cheese carefully into the pocket of one of her pairs of jeans that was on top of her laundry.

Other highlights include:

- Asked for an extra pizza to be ordered when we were ordering and refused to pay for it because she ‘only had a little pizza and we could sort it out’. This led to a big argument and we ended up sending the little pizza back and got us blacklisted from perfect pizza.

- Initially refused to pay for fairly split gas and electricity bills as ‘she didn’t use any’. We switched off her radiator and disconnected her room from the electricity. She did end up paying.

- One of our housemates had a car and we all used to go shopping on a Sunday. We would then get a list from her of the stuff she wanted while she went a coffee shop with her horsy friends. No money was provided and it proved to be a nightmare to recover the money as apparently ‘we had deliberately chosen sub-standard vegetables and fruit’. Needless to say we never got her any food again.

- She used to be absolutely obsessed with calling up the mega premium numbers that come with those guaranteed win scratchcards that come in shitty magazines and would invariably win a holiday for one to Norfolk on the 29th February departing from the Isle of Skye. Of course when we got the phone bill she denied that she had called anybody anywhere until we managed to prove that only she was in the house when the calls got made.

- Got her dad to buy her a Mercedes EVEN THOUGH SHE COULDN’T DRIVE. It was for learning in apparently.

- Tried to get us to agree to have one of her horses in our back garden living out of a trailer. We said no but she had the horse brought down anyway. She soon had him taken back to her stables when we called the RSPCA to come and inspect our property and they threatened to prosecute her.

In the end we kicked her out.

Then we had a party.

Then we were sick

Then we went to McDonalds.

Then we were sick again.
(powervator and NONE SHALL PASS, Fri 10 Oct 2008, 15:11, 13 replies)

America.
Waa waa waa! - World Trade Centre.

Waa waa waa! - War on terror.

Waa waa waa! - We police the world.

Waa waa waa! - Economic recession.

Waa waa waa! - Everyone hates us.

Yeah, well you fucking caused it you spoilt cunts.
(Tugnut Ex of this parish, Thu 9 Oct 2008, 16:53, 24 replies)

But I want the bunny...
A few years back, I was eating at a quiet little local restaurant in Paris. An american man and his family entered, to the obvious disgust of the owner. The daughter (about 10 years old) saw a rabbit in a cage near the entrance and started pleading with her parents, in the whiniest voice you've ever heard.

"Can I have the bunny wabbit? Daddy, I want the bunny - he's cute! Please? Oh daddy, get me the bunny wabbit, he looks so sad in that cage."

She scowled at the restauranteur. Her father insisted that they couldn't take a rabbit back home and the girl got in a terrible huff - tears, stamping feet, etc. When the owner came to take their order, she interrupted him:

"You're mean! Why do you keep the poor bunny in a cage?"

He turned around and looked at the rabbit, turned back to the little girl, pointed to one of the main courses on the menu, and smiled...

Moments later, and without being served, the family left the restaurant, literally having to prise the screaming daughter's fingers from the bars of the cage as the wabbit hopped happily around.

It turns out that particular rabbit was actually a family pet, but after seeing the kid's attitude the owner couldn't resist having some fun...
(MiscellaneousFiles, Tue 14 Oct 2008, 17:29, 5 replies)

Poor ickle Kittehs
When I was about 9 or 10 I used to go to my Gran's after school for an hour or so before my Mum got home from work. There was a stray cat that used to hang about that my Gran would feed. She was the most beautiful tortoiseshell and I called her Sally.

Next door to my Gran there was a similar setup although the little girl there lived with her Granny and Grandad during the week because her Dad was in the Army and her Mum used to work the Graveyard shift. This lack of interaction with their daughter inevitably made them quite guilty and they spoiled to hell out of her. Bear in mind this was the late 80s when the dole queue used to reach around the block. She had every material object that a little girl could want. She had a villiage of Sylvanian Families (as opposed to my 3 rabbits I got for my birthday), she had as many My Little Ponies as I had ever seen. She was the first person ever that I had seen that had their room painted with a 4 wall mural (a fairytale kingdom). Looking back I don't think her Mum could have afforded to eat to provide her with this stuff.

One Christmas I asked Santy for an Etch-A-Sketch as I'd seen an ad for it. It wasn't available in Ireland at the time, so Santy got me something similar and left me a note saying sorry. I was a little gutted but I was grand, I still had my Selection Box to contend with! I told the neighbour child this after Christmas. A week later she had an Etch-A-Sketch, "Daddy got it imported for me." My little heart broke a bit. Had Santy lied when he said that he couldn't get one?

Anyway, back to the kitteh. During the summer we noticed that Sally was getting round, not being a naive child I knew this meant only one thing... she had eaten too many cheezeburgers. Or that ickle kittehs were coming. A few weeks later in the middle of the spider plant we found Sally and her 3 kittens, it was like a manger scene the way the spider plant had splayed out.

Over the next week or so we found homes for 2 of the kitties and waited for them to be old enough to go. We were going to hold on to the third, Sphinxy, and she would be our very own kitteh.

Neighbour girl was not happy. Her grandad had Emphysema and her Gran hated cats so even though her parents begged them, there was no way she was getting one of our kittehs. My family was delighted at this because we knew they wouldn't be in the safest hands with her.

One Monday I came back to my Gran's and ran through the house only to have her stop me going into the garden. "Sally took the kittens away." She told me and explained that as she was a stray that she was never going to stay longterm. I didn't go outside that day but I looked at the empty spider plant through the kitchen window forlornly.

On Tuesday I went outside though. Neighbour girl had a smug look on her face. "What happened to your cats?" she asked. "Sally took them away to hide them." Then came the most chilling words ever. My stomach is doing a flip now just thinking of it.

"No she didn't, I took them, I put them under this box (an orange crate) and I jumped inside and squished them!" The crate was covered in kitty blood. :(

My blood drained into my feet and a fierce ball gathered in my chest and throat.

Still in my mind this is the most evil act I have ever come across committed by a child, it's like the work of a young serial killer. It really illustrated why it's such a bad thing to acquiesce to all of a child's desires and why it's called spoiling them. Such was her jealousy that someone else would have something that she couldn't that she was willing to kill tiny 2 week old kittens.

I asked my Mum if I could come straight home after school after that. Sally never came back either.




I hope this is cathartic in the long run but I'm feeling like crap now after dredging this up.
(BonzoDogDooDah, Sat 11 Oct 2008, 8:56, 31 replies)

Just Say No.
There was a time, just after I’d finished University, when I really did feel that I wanted to build a career in the Restaurant industry. I had spent my spare time and vacations working bars in Restaurants. It was easy work, it tipped well, and I enjoyed it.

I was working, at the time, in a very posh restaurant just outside of Wakefield. This was the sort of place where we actually had some customers who would come to lunch - on their helicopters. Dickie Bird ate there regularly (and he’s a miserable old sod). I had the pleasure of talking to Sir Ian McKellen. In short, I was enjoying my lot. I’d been there for a few months, and a promotion to Assistant Manager was in the air.

And then, in one fell swoop, my attitude to the whole thing changed.

The fog had just begun to burn off from Emley Moor on the crisp October morning when my life changed. We had been at work for a couple of hours when we opened our doors and began the lunchtime service. The restaurant was filled with happy chatter, the clinking of glasses, the scrapes of knives on plate and white-shirted waiters buzzing back and forth. Occasionally, the door to the kitchen would open, and you would hear a brief clattering of pans as a smiling waitress span away from the door piled high with plates of perfect food. It was a good day.

And then, the entrance door opened, and in they stepped. A family of four people. He, clearly a carpet warehouse owner from Huddersfield, She, a trophy wife, and They, the collective sputum of his over productive loins. Without waiting to be shown, they threw themselves at a table, grabbed menus, and began their systemic assault on the staff.

The worst of them all, however, was the youngest child. At a guess, I would say she would have been around six at the time. As I approached the table to take their order, I could hear her whiny, nasal braying.

“Daddy! Daddy! Daddy! Daddy! Daddy! Daddy!” She wailed, while her father quietly ignored her.

“Excuse me,” I said, “are you ready to...”

Noticing me, the girl wailed:

“I WANT A STEAK TARTARE.”

Now I’m flustered. I turn to the parents for help.

“Sir, the Steak Tartare is raw. In that it hasn’t been cooked. Maybe it’s not the best choice for your daughter.”

There followed a brief but heated debate: “Darling, you won’t like it.” “But I want it.” “Darling, it’s not cooked, sweetheart.” “I don’t care, I want it!” “Darling...” “WANT!”

By now, other eaters are starting to look over. Eventually, the parents cede to her demands, and a Steak Tartare is ordered.

When it is served, it is almost immediately sent back.

Soon after, the girl achieved the pinnacle of spolit behaviour. At the restaurant, we served a brandy (Louis XIII, if you’re interested) which came out at a modest £75 for 25ml. You could buy the bottle for £1,500 or, if you just wanted to impress the neighbours, you could buy an empty bottle (made from cut crystal) for £1,000. Apparently, one had never been sold.

As this family were leaving, the daughter spies the empty bottle on display. She began pulling at the coat of her father.

“Daddy! Daddy! Daddy! Daddy! I want that bottle, Daddy! Get me that bottle!”

The giant of a man looked down at her. She scowled back up at him. Their silence spoke a thousand words and eventually the shoulders of the man who looked so strong sagged in defeat. He turned to me.

“How much for th’ bottle, lad?”

“Erm. It’s, ah, a thousand pounds sir.”

“A grand?”

“Yes, sir. It’s cut crystal, see, it’s very expensive.”

With visible resentment, he chucked his AMEX at me. I ran it through, bagged the bottle, and handed it over. As I opened the door to the car park to show them out, The Evil One began her whining once again in earnest.

“Daddy! I want to carry the bottle, Daddy! Daddy!”

The bag was handed over. She grasped it by the handles, and began swinging it around like it didn’t contain a very expensive drinks container. As they were about half way to their car, her grip slipped. The bag fell to the ground, making a very audible crack sound. The family was ushered in to the car with red-faced anger, and we never saw them again.

So it’s true. I want never gets.
( Devil_In_Tights the *real* DiT!, Tue 14 Oct 2008, 10:36, 18 replies)

Pooflake's attempt at a bit of 'culture'...(you lucky people)...

Disclaimer: You can blame Chickenlady for this outrage...Her reply on one of my earlier posts gave me the idea...

The following effort is about some spoilt fucker unjustifiably over-affluent young individual and his college experience:

Student Bill

Student Bill – the spoilt Brat
Was rich, but selfish, short and fat
His daddy bought a penthouse flat
Just for the self-indulgent twat

His parents gave him loads of dosh
Designer clothes and all things posh
He sat there bleating 'Golly Gosh!'
Whilst I ate 'Happy Shopper' nosh

He sneered: ‘Some guys have all the luck’
I’d like to cunt him in the fuck
...or hang him on a rusty hook,
Then twonk him with a forklift truck

But one day Billy went too far
Said 'not to touch' his 'little’ car
Then parked his new Merc SLR
And strolled into the student bar

Whilst there, he guzzled fine Champagne
His drunken boasts grew more inane
He climbed back in his car again
Then bollocked down some country lane...

Despite his alcoholic shakes
He said he ‘never made mistakes’
But one false move is all it takes...

…..Oh, I also cut his fucking brakes

Now Bill's a spoilt brat no more
A gear knob’s stuck up his 'back door'
He might be rich, but I'm quite sure
You can’t eat Lobster through a straw.

.
( Pooflake braces for an onslaught..., Tue 14 Oct 2008, 10:32, 16 replies)

Technically child abuse…

I was about 12 years old...when, due to the shockingly shitewad facilities at our school, we had to go on a weekly coach excursion to the local sports centre for our P.E lessons.

During these tortuous attempts to get my hulking mass of blubbering wobble-bottom-ness into shape, we would occasionally mingle with kids from other schools and sometimes, people from ‘out in the world’.

Actually…before I go on…I’ll get this next bit over with…

I didn’t have much as a kid, but I was the last of three children and as my parents got increasingly more secure I was the most spoiled of the three…and therefore I know what it’s like to be both poor and privileged at the same time…

However, I still know the value of things…and bloody kids today don’t know they’re born…and I’ll tell ya something else...…(rant cut short for humanitarian reasons)

Anyhoo…one torrid afternoon, I was sat in the changing rooms putting on my ‘Dweebok’ shorts and ‘Adidas-with-an-extra-stripe’ trainers, when I heard an obnoxious little jizzgargler launch into a ‘double-barrelled’ hissy fit of pseudo-cosmic proportions.

The lad was about 10 years old and not with our school. He was short, portly, ginger, and dripping with every designer label imaginable to anyone (except possibly Rachelswipe). His school bag alone was worth more than my dad’s car.

As his mother led him into the changing rooms he had suddenly gone off like a pre-pubescent petrol bomb with a side order of Semtex and shrapnel.

But what was the heinous crime that had been commited against him?

Apparently, his mother had bought him the latest £125 Nike ‘Air’ trainers (that I would happily have donated a testicle for), but they were not in the precise colour he had specifically requested. Christ-on-a-cunting-cockblister!

Now, as many of you rational people are thinking, this was obviously an unequivocal act of selfish treachery and heartless betrayal, and the vindictive harpy blatantly deserved whatever was coming to her…

…Oh, by jingo’s sainted haemorrhoid cream…she got it.

“These are FACKIN’ WANK!” he yelped at her as she smiled meekly at him and attempted to calm him down (to no avail). “You stupid BITCH!” he continued, his face contorted with anger.

My mouth agape, I was embarrassed for him as he spat, jabbed his finger and threw the trainers in her face. His mother (who looked like a throwback from ‘Dynasty’) just scuttled off and left him to his monumental eye-popping stroppage.

I then watched him grab the trainers with a strange look of pure unadulterated evil swept across his freckled mush…

…

At this point I decided I’d seen enough…and briefly left the changing area as I went to spread some gossip discuss my feelings of outrage regarding the spoilt little twat-bat’s behaviour with my friends.

When I returned just a few moments later, the pint-sized ginger piss-biscuit approached me…with the trainers held in his outstretched hand.

I had seen his previous outburst. This was obviously a spoilt cock-blister of the highest order…with no understanding of cost and expense…thoughts raced through my head…

Was he going to give the trainers to me in an act of charity? Was he going to throw them at me in some spoilt rage against the downtrodden? Was he going to break down and cry in shame at his previous performance?

Was.he.fuck.

“Look at this” he spluttered, his face flushed with pride. As I got nearer to him I spotted a perfectly formed, still-steaming turd poking out from the top of one of the trainers.

The little bollock had decided to profess his personal disgust with his mother by squatting down in the changing room and gurning a gargantuan brown trout into an almost priceless piece of sports footwear.

Well, what could I do?

I proceeded to gag and screamed “EEEeeeuuuuww – You filthy fucker!” as manfully as I could for a 12 year old. As he got to within 6 inches of me, I put my arm out to keep him at bay; and inadvertently pushed the trainers back towards him. As they flipped in mid-air with him still holding on to them, the tapered end of this whopping walnut-whip squidged all the way down his designer outfit before splatting on the changing room floor.

“Uuuurgh!” screeched Bratface McSpackalot, and his cheeks puffed out as he started to turn a subtle and fruity shade of aubergine.

At this point, I would like to say that everybody howled with laughter at him and that it taught him a lesson he sorely deserved…but it wasn’t like that…in fact, everyone just stood around in stoney silence, the odd gasp of utter disbelief resonating round the room…before a teacher strode in, sent us all off to the badminton hall, and called for some unfortunate staff member to help clean up the trembling tubby twunt and his turd-tarnished T-shirt.

I never saw him again.

Thinking back, I never even found out the kid’s name…or why his mum was taking him to the gym on his own…perhaps there might have been some tragic and lonely reason for his situation…but that’s still no excuse for being an prize-winning cunt.

In fact…wherever he is now…I bet he’s still one.
( Pooflake braces for an onslaught..., Fri 10 Oct 2008, 15:27, 11 replies)

This guy I once knew...
had to be the most spoilt little fucktard in the entire universe. We used to hang around with him when we were about 9 or 10, mainly because his single mum (anyone else spotted a pattern forming ?) had bought him this enormous go-kart thing that she used to let him hare around in at breakneck speeds without any concern for anyone else, god forbid if anyone complained, her "special one" could do no wrong.
He eventually pissed off to quite an exclusive boarding school at about 11, and by all accounts despite the fact that this school took him on some of the most fantastic field trips imaginable, and they even let him sit in on governors meetings (btw he was indignant when they wouldn't let him have a vote ! ) he still threw regular strops about how they didn't recognise his potential !
He also managed to knock-up one of the local girls, and even though all the teachers knew it was all brushed under the carpet.Even the local mayor had taken a shine to him. Then one day, completely out of the blue, he flipped and went on a rampage with a sword and killed most of the kids and teachers.

God that kid was a tit.
(sheps, Fri 10 Oct 2008, 19:41, 23 replies)

Oh but he can't help it
I am a member of a forum for parents with kids with autistic spectrum disorders (as I have mentioned many times my 8 year old is autistic) and I swear the place riles the fuck out of me. Everyday I log on and see so many of these parents moaning and whining about how their child does this that and the other but "they can't help it cause they got a special need innit". I swear it boils my blood. Slightly off topic but I shall tell you my story of how I turned what looked like a spoiled brat into my lovely star wars obsessed son. I am going to blow my own trumpet here because I think I've done a damn good job with my son.

Back when he was 3 he wouldn't join in with any of the other kids at nursery and wandered around at story time. The nursery staff had a different tale about my sons behaviour everyday and I absolutely dreaded picking him up. I have to admit my son was like the spawn of satan back then, would scream no in your face if you asked him to do anything, ran riot around rooms breaking things and generally being loud and verbally aggressive. Anyway the nursery decided to get child health involved by putting us in contact with someone who could guide us through getting him sorted out. I had never even considered the idea that he might have a special need (or additional need as the PC crowd demand it to be called nowadays) We were put in touch with a local childrens centre and was told that we would be getting a family support worker in the for of a special educational needs co-ordinator. At first I was totally against any idea of any help fearing being labelled a family of chavs who needed help from the system to control their unruly brat. We applied for a place for him at the local school and I could tell they didn't really want him there so this lady set the wheels in motion for a diagnosis, what she suspected was the cause of his behaviour I did not know, but I went along with it all expecting it to be a long and tiring task with no outcome other than a label of some sort of "Behavioural disorder" (You know the kind I mean, the one they stick on kids that they can't stick anything else on). Life went on with a whirlwind of appointments and meetings to discuss my son. It all changed at one appointment when my husband and I were sat behind two way mirror and watching my son interact with psychiatrists and paediatricians, he was running wild and creating havoc, when I was asked to go to him and calm him down. I walked into the room and picked him up and sat him on a chair and kneeled down next to him and said "Stop this now, we're going to sit here together until you calm down" it was exactly what I had been doing to calm him down all along and seemed to work pretty well. After the appointment I was told he wouldn't be able to attend mainstream school and a few weeks later I was told he had suspected Autism and that I was actually quite a good mum and hadn't been doing anything wring HURRAH. Now apart from watching the film Rainman I had never really heard of it before so I came home and read up about it on the internet. Joined many groups and learnt as much as I could about it. After learning all about it everything clicked in place, why Thomas the Tank engines had to be lined up in a certain colour order, why he chewed his clothes and repeated everyone's sentences but never able to make one of his own. A few months on we got the full diagnosis through the post in the form of a statement. Finding out it wasn't his fault to begin with was the start of something fantastic, I learned he was angry because he couldn't communicate what he wanted so my son and I learned Makaton together, I had stickers everywhere on wardrobes on the toy box kitchen cupboards and he carried a little book around with him and whenever he wanted to something he would show me a picture of it. Then we established a strict routine (being very anti Gina Ford this was extremely difficult for me) but he was like a changed child. He was happy and never angry and even managed to bond with his new baby brother. He now attends a special school and is excelling at everything, he comes home every day and can't wait to get through the door and tell me everything he's learned (usually after he's explained that R2D2 and C3PO are not Jedi Knights but Luke Skywalker is Annakin Skywalker and Queen Amidalas son and that Annakin skywalker is REALLY Darth Vader) *prouds*

Five years on I can honestly hold my hands up and say that his bad behaviour has vanished and he is the most placid and loving child I have ever met. He has tantrums occasionally but most children do, and when he does he just shouts "I'm going away" and he does, he goes and has 10 minutes quiet time on his own and then comes back and carries on as if nothing has happened. As for me, I now run the local special needs parents support group, and I am also on the board of directors for the very organisation that got me through the tough times.

So this takes me back to my original thought and it's a controversial one at that. A child having special needs is NOT an excuse for bad behaviour. If my child is rude, throws a hissy fit for no reason other than to be a little shit he will get told off for it. None of this Namby pamby shit here thanks, if you're naughty then I take something away, If I have to take away everything you own then so be it.

I rambled far too much here and haven't been able to get my thoughts in order properly for this but meh fuck it, it's been nice to type all that up.
( Mrs Sp@m, Tue 14 Oct 2008, 10:26, 19 replies)

“Be very careful with this one. I don’t want to hear that your weird sense of humour has upset her and that I’m going to be facing some sort of tribunal!”

I re-read the words in the email from one of the firm’s partners. I’d been lobbying for an assistant for some time but the partner didn’t trust me to oversee the selection process, so he took care of it himself.

I thought I was going to be mentoring Doris Day judging by the way my trainee was described to me as sixteen years old and this was her very first job.

Sure enough she turns up the following Monday and seems polite, if possessed of an estuary accent, which she seemed to be attempting to soften, something like Kathy Burke’s “Yess Missus Patter-sahn” when playing “Perry” the teenager. I had to balance her training with trying to do a two person job single-handedly, but she was quick to learn and seems enthusiastic. Initial impressions were good.

The hierarchy in practice means that trainees often end up making the drinks, doing the filing and most of the simple but time consuming work. I did my best to lead by example and not unload all the drudgery, but at the same time explaining that she needed to learn the firm from the bottom up. Her Dad was a well to do builder who decided that his youngest daughter was going to get a job in return for a generous allowance. So she appeared to be cool with an initial low wage and the crappy jobs and for three few weeks she didn’t put a foot wrong, so the partner decided to take her on full time and paid her a decent wage.

Which was when my problems started.

“I ain’t farkin doin’ that!” she wailed

What? The suddenness and venom in her tone startled me. I’d asked her to use the telephone on her desk to call a client and verify the instructions on a smudged fax one Monday morning.

“I don’t wanna talk to no farkin client on the phone!”

I politely attempted to get to the bottom of her issue, given that she’d used the phone before without any problems when she dropped the bombshell.

“I told yer I ain’t using the farkin phone, yer farkin khant!”

I was gobsmacked. Seething, I tersely replied “Boardroom. Right now”

The office was open plan and the best way to tell her in no uncertain terms not to speak to me like that in this office was to frogmarch her to the boardroom and let rip there.

“I didn’t wanna get no farkin job! Mi Dahd told me I had tah! I’m gonna look fur summing else, but don’t tell no farkah yet till I’m ready. Waaah…”

I wasn’t sure how to react; I explained that such outbursts weren’t acceptable, but that if she had a problem she was welcome to calmly explain the issue to me and I’d be sympathetic. I gave her a second chance, not least of all because I knew I'd be dropped in the proverbial if she went ape - Doris Day doesn't go ape, not according to the partners of the firm, anyway.

For a week or so, she meekly toed the line but it wasn’t to last. Over the weeks, the polite professional façade crumbled just like a bit of dodgy plasterboard supported by some shoddy scaffolding that her dad had let the apprentices put up in their tea breaks. Her fag breaks became frequent, as did hissy fits whenever she was asked to do some work. I explained that the firm’s bonus scheme was paid out according to attitude and productivity.

“I dun wahnt no ‘I got nuffink for ya’ or nuffink, gimme some farkin decent work to do” she demanded.

Within days she was telling me how to run the department. Another boardroom meeting was arranged.

“I know I’m being a fahkin spoiled bitch an’ a pain in the harse, but I’m used to gettin what I ask for at ‘ome” she defended, as the sobbing started once again. “It’s not easy, I kno I’m a difficul’ caah sometimes an’ll, I kno I’m farkin this job right up”.

She sobbed about how difficult her life was and how no-one understood her etc, etc.

I’m usually a sucker for damsels in distress and a young lady in tears generally pushes all the right buttons for me. However, I knew that this particular damsel was less in distress and more crocodile than her fake handbag. How did I know? She’d pulled this stunt at least three times with different members of the firm in order to get her own way. If it worked on Daddy surely it would work with the old gits here too.


One of the other partners worked in the office next to mine. I stopped by one Thursday evening to talk the issue through with him.

“Put it this way mate, she’s sixteen years old. You aren’t looked upon kindly each and every time she throws a hissy fit” he exclaimed, which translated as “we know the score, but we’re testing you pal”.

“Starting tomorrow, I want you to give her more work to do. Let’s put her to the test. You have my full support”. He avoided looking me in the eye as he delivered the last sentence. I was pretty much persona non-grata and was being manoeuvred into a no win situation. The term “Kobayashi Maru” sprung to mind.

The next day I explained that I’d be giving her some additional responsibilities to see how she got on. Sure enough, the new regime lasted roughly half a day before another hissy fit.

“Every farkin Friday this ‘appens. Every farkin Friday you gimme some farkin work to do that I don’t like!”.

I’d got a bloody cheek really – I mean, why on earth should I ask her to do some work when she had plans to make for the weekend?

Yet again I seethed – in fact I seemed to spend a good deal of my time seething when she was working there – not that I felt impotent with rage or anything.

My hands were around her throat, I was shaking some sense into her... and every time reality interrupted me.


The next week was the same – her - sullen all week then hissy fit on a Friday, me – seething quietly all week and murderous by Friday.

The following week? Sullen, hissy. Seethe, murderous.

The week after? Ditto.

Ditto. Ditto. Ad nauseum. Ad infinitum. Ad three fucking months.


Eventually came salvation.

A new guy was moved into the vacant desk in my office and took an immediate dislike to her – I was obviously rather surprised at this turn of events.

Within a week he’d pulled some strings and she was moved elsewhere – I could no longer seethe – have you ever tried seething when your mouth is open in stunned amazement that some smooth git manages to achieve what you’ve been attempting to do for fucking months in a matter of days.


She was thank goodness out of my life and my seething days were over – albeit temporarily as I am considering putting forward competitive seething as the 2012 London Olympics demonstration event instead of morris dancing or happy slapping.

Her story doesn’t end there. Oh no. Her new line manager had carte blanche to fire her if she put a foot wrong and she knew it.

For a few weeks she’d toed the line and been pleasant. She’d even managed to pass the milestones of her seventeenth birthday and her driving test without incident.
She was a reformed character, a roughly hewn diamond. Her father rewarded her with a car.

And a couple of weeks later, three times over the drink drive limit she span off the road and stuffed the car into someone's lounge, narrowly missing the startled occupants of the house who had been quietly watching ‘Who Wants To Be A Millionaire’ and were seconds away from winning £16,000 if only they could guess which one of the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles painted the Mona Lisa.


What did she get out of this mishap?

An eighteen month driving ban.

Then she discovered to her horror that it wasn’t just Fridays that caused her problems at work. Post traumatic stress is a bitch.

Mondays were bad, Tuesdays weren’t too good, neither were Wednesdays or Thursdays.

There was only one remedy – she had to give up work for good and let Daddy pay for all the shoes.
(Bicycle Repairman "you're also a bit of a wanker", Thu 9 Oct 2008, 23:34, 8 replies)

My little sister
My little sister went through a phase of believing that the entire world revolved around her, and the rest of the family should cater to her every whim and dislike.

Once, my father came back from visiting friends in Germany with a generously-sized package of sausages, which of course my sister took an instant dislike to without even trying. Now most little prima donnas would have been happy with managing to be allowed to eat something else after a shameful display of pouting and foot-stamping, but this wasn't good enough for my sister, who decided that this unwanted food was going to make everything else in the fridge condemned, so hid the whole package behind the bookcase full of yarn in my mum's sewing room.

Of course the smell eventually drew attention to the stash, and the sausages were found. I wasn't too bothered about all the franks that had gone off, but I was gutted about the spoilt brats.
(Vice Admiral Sir Charles Cockbrush KCB MBE DSO, who is finding it increasingly difficult to log into b3ta.com wants to duck your aunt and kick your puppy, Thu 9 Oct 2008, 16:45, 12 replies)

A taste of Honey
I was on holiday in Germany with the wife and we had nipped into the local supermarket there. After we had loaded up with Sauasages etc we waited patiently in the Queue. In the next isle was this guy in his late 20's who you could see was getting quite visibly irratated, why?, well behind him was a Uber Brat, Uber Brat had decided that waiting was boring and so had took control of the shopping trolley and was proceeding to bang it into this guys ankles. After a few minutes the guy asked "Please could you get your child to stop running the trolley into me, it hurts", her reply is the kinda of stuff that breeds future serial killers, "I never tell him to stop doing anything, I allow him to express himself", the guy stood there astonished as we all were, now quite a lot of people were now looking on. The Uber brat now with the backing of the woman that spawned him, drove the trolley as hard as he could into the guys ankles, what the guy did next was superb, he picked up the jar of honey he was waiting to purchase and tipped it up over the kids head and said "Well I am expressing myself too", the look on the brat was priceless as he received his golden shower, everybody started clapping, and the future serial killer and mummy left leaving a golden snail trail!

Length, 100 or so metres of golden dribble
(Wavo Did not touch it, it was like that when I got here, Tue 14 Oct 2008, 9:47, 9 replies)

I blame the parents, but the kids need teaching a lesson too.
Whilst perusing Boots for conditioner my ears were subjected to a high pitch scream which was emanating from a small, snotty boy who was attempting to drag his mother by her coat out of the store.

"One minute dharrlling" she oozed at him and went to the adjoining isle. Bratboy was obviously not happy about this and started running around the shared display unit, down the isle his mother was in, round and up the isle I was in. Screaming. Loudly.

Lather, rinse, repeat x 3

After the third lap my (admittedly short) fuse had burnt out and - in precision timing Quartz would have been proud of - I turned quickly ensuring my shoulder bag flew out ever so slightly making a rather pleasing thud as it connected with Bratboys face.

I had honestly forgotten, Your Honour, that I had £25 in pound coins and a full bottle of coke in there.

Mother, alerted by the deafening silence that had descended over the store comes running round to see her little prince on the floor.
"Sorry," says I "he just ran right in to me."
"Apologise to the lady!" demands mother.
"S..s..s...sorry." blubbers Bratboy.
Gleeing I skipped over to the checkouts.

Until next time Bratboy....
( TGB checking Off Topic is still shit at, Tue 14 Oct 2008, 14:06, 9 replies)

Situation Vacant: "Trainee Accountant" - Must be daddy’s little princess
Accountancy is one of the few professions that doesn’t require a university degree to get into. If you walk into any accountancy practice, the chances are you will find that at the top the partners are fat middle-aged men and at the bottom the trainees are 18-year-old willowy blonds with mobile phones attached to their heads. The first rule of statistics is that a correlation does not prove cause and effect, but I think you can all deduce why time and time again I have seen attractive teenage girls with a sports science A-Level hired by the directors instead of the more suitable Maths and Physics graduates.

At a previous employment the partners called me into a meeting. They wanted my input on why we had a high turnover of trainees. What I wanted to say was “You sad old fuckers, perhaps if you employed trainees on their potential to become accountants rather than the ability of their tits to defy gravity we might not spend a fortune training incompetent airheads who fuck off to study "Tourism & Leisure" at university”. What I actually said was “Perhaps I should sit in on the interviews and ask some technical questions”. They agreed.

It wasn’t long until we had to replace a couple of blonds who had decided they were "too creative" for accountancy and wanted to study cock "Human Resources" at university. So I had a day of sitting in on interviews, listening to the partners prattle on about bollocks until the end of the interview when I got the chance to ask my technical questions. Most of the candidates could have done the job and they answered my technical questions with ease.

Then we got to Olivia. To cut a long story short she was absolutely stunning and the partners were dribbling down their ties at the sight of her. Even though the qualifications on her CV read like a list of the worlds most pointless subjects the interview lasted an hour longer than any of the other candidates. The partners lapped up her self-important monologue about how she had been head girl at school, captain of the hockey team, had a pony and had completed a WHOLE week of work experience at daddy’s company. We heard a lot about daddy and his company.

Then it was my turn to ask my technical questions. Lets see if you can answer them, but be warned, they are a bit technical.

Me: “Hello Olivia”.
Olivia: “Hello” *Eyelashes flutter*
Me: “How did you get here today?”
Olivia: “Pardon?…”
Me: “How. Did. You. Get. Here. Today?” (Already suspecting the answer)
Olivia: “Umm, daddy gave me a lift”
Me: “How will you be getting home?”
Olivia: “Daddy is waiting for me outside”
Me: “If we were to offer you the role, how would you get to work every day”
Olivia: “I….I don’t know”

The moronic fuckers still wanted to hire her, saying that she seemed keen. I managed to convince them that the 18-year-old lad with A-Levels in accountancy & law might just be a more suitable candidate. He had also passed my technical questions with flying colours, having driven to the park and ride and caught the bus into town…without the aid of his daddy.
( Colonel Dracula Two manky hookers and a racist dwarf, Fri 10 Oct 2008, 14:44, 8 replies)

I'm not answering this question
until someone buys me a pony.
(Rakky (forgot her password) The muffin maverick, Thu 9 Oct 2008, 16:35, 6 replies)

karma is a bitch
There was this one spoilt little sod that I knew of. He was in my sons class and would always have the latest toys, computers, clothes, etc. He was also a bit of a bully and my son would regularly come home in tears telling me what this little shit had done to upset him. I tried to reason with the parents but they were just as bad as the little shit and mocked me and my family for being members of the lower rung of society.

A few days after this incident I was on my way home from a long day at work in the factory (It always is when you're a manual worker like me) and was shoulderbarged to one side by a family leaving the local theatre early, by a stroke of luck it was spoilt bastard and his parents. I realised that as I was filthy and wearing my extremely battered work clothing they didn't recognise me and thought I could play a little bit of revenge on them and hopefully stop the little prick from being a bully to my kid.

I followed the family down a nearby side street and threatened the dad with a gun (I'm an American Dammit its my right to carry one), unfortunatley the Dad decides to dive at me, have a go hero style and the gun went off by accident. The dad dropped to the floor and his wife wouldn't stop screaming so in the heat of the moment I shot her too. I then left the kid there and legged it back home and told no one.

Turns out that this accident really straightened out the spoilt brat and the bullying stopped. The problem was that he took it a bit too seriously and now spends his nights running around the city dressed like a giant bat.
(mon bison powered by magnets, Thu 9 Oct 2008, 15:23, 9 replies)

I do my sons homework for him
Upon hearing that I do my sons homework I bet that you are all thinking that he is a spoilt brat, and to be honest he is, in other areas like computer games, toys etc. I am doing his homework for reasons of my own.

Mon Bison Jnr has been given a dream diary for this weeks homework and as soon as I heard of this I couldn't resist adding a couple of fake dreams into it for him. The diary started last Friday and on a night where he dosent dream of anything I will add an entry for him. As he is at a church school I decided against putting things like "I am the spawn of satan and will bring death to you all!!" as I can't stand another teacher parent meeting or angry mob getting together to burn the devil child. So far he has the following bizarre dreams:

Monday 13th Oct I dreamt I was Hugo Myatt on the 80's kid show Knightmare, the dungoneers were arguing over which item to take the gold bar, the quill or the sword. I have told them the clue is that the pen is mightier than the sword but they arent listening

Sat 11th Oct I was sat on the sofa watching Hollyoaks, the show was so tedious I bored myself awake.

Can't wait for the next parents evening.

Any other suggestions on what to put in this then let me know, my son has bugger all imagination so I know I will have a few more days to fill up for him.
(mon bison powered by magnets, Tue 14 Oct 2008, 14:18, 29 replies)

Grr
I'm getting wound up already and I haven't even written it yet...

My dad's wife.

When me and my brothers were little we had pretty much an idyllic childhood. My parents worked hard in their own business to give us the best childhood they could. We weren't rich but we did fun stuff and were, we thought, a nice little secure family unit.

My dad was cool. He always had time for us, took us to interesting places every weekend, introduced me to Pink Floyd on his reel to reel, and when I accidentally threw a bag of rotten apples that exploded in his face, which I expected to be shouted at for, he looked at me sternly... then burst out laughing. He let me make fires. He taught me about self awareness, meditation, martial arts, and Eastern philosophy, mind over matter, and neat tricks like how to overcome fear, fall flat on the floor, or pull hot clinkers from the fire with bare hands. He had a little room at the back of the garage where he kept his stuff from uni... we weren't allowed in there but obviously we investigated. We found chemicals that burnt through the floor, and a human skull in a cupboard. And he told me how to make nitro-glycerin. That's how cool he was.

This woman, L, befriended my mum. She was married with two kids. She became my mum's best friend and worked her way into our happy little family.

Then she seduced my dad. She got pregnant. OK, I know she's not solely to blame for this, my dad is equally guilty so far.

This broke up two families. Not only that, but she moved into our childhood home with her daughters, and my mum and us kids had to leave.

It became apparent over the next few years that she was (and still is) a manipulative, devious, bullying, violent, attention seeking control freak.

To get her own way she would throw hysterical melodramas, sometimes culminating in violence upon my dad. As little children we were confused and blamed ourselves... "You all hate me!" she would scream. And my dad would sit us down and explain to us that we had to be especially nice to her and show her that we loved her, because she was "insecure" and had had a bad childhood. We tried to be as nice as we could, and we were scared of getting it wrong. Of course it didn't make any difference what we did.

They had another child, moved to Wales (far away from his business, parents and friends), and as well as her daughters and their boyfriends, she moved in her mother, sister, and... her ex husband, the one she left for my dad! She made him get rid of anything from his previous life. All his books, his albums, his uni stuff. And his entire family, including his elderly parents... She manipulated him into missing his father's funeral, pleading that she was scared of his mother (and of course he couldn't go on his own). My grandma was the tiniest, sweetest, gentlest woman who ever lived.

She completely disempowered him, not letting him do anything (except work to support the lifestyle she insisted upon for her and her extended family). He couldn't even sign our birthday cards. And we felt that if we dared to want some personal attention from our dad we would be in the wrong.

By this time we had stopped going to stay. We'd realised that all our dad's promises that things would get better were groundless, and we'd lost hope. We knew we'd lost him.

When I was 18 I phoned them. Just for a chat, I hadn't spoken to them in a while. My dad answered the phone and almost straight away he said "do you want to talk to L?". Not really, but I played the game, knowing how difficult she would make things for him if I didn't.

So she came on the line and I said "hello! how are you?" all friendly like.

""What? Why don't you want to talk to me?" she whimpered. And began to wail and scream, throwing the phone down and running from the room. My dad came on the phone, and I told him I had done nothing wrong. The next hour was one of the most painful I have ever endured. He eventually admitted that he knew I was blameless and that she had put on the show to cause a rift between us. But he couldn't stand up to her. I gave him an ultimatum. He chose her.

When his mother fell and broke her hip me and my mum went to visit her in hospital. She was not in a good way. Barely conscious and very frail. We'd had more contact with her than my dad had for a long time, and she referred to us as her family. And she despaired of my dad's situation, it broke her heart. We'd travelled 150 miles to see her. My dad arrived and asked us to leave the hospital so L could visit. We were so furious we were speechless. "She's scared of you and she thinks you all hate her" he said pitifully... We left, knowing that if we didn't there would be a scene of epic proportions.

He has become a zombie. The last time I saw him, at his mother's funeral, he looked like a rabbit caught in headlights... stooped into a permanant fight or flight posture. There was nothing behind his eyes. There's nothing left of the dad I used to know. Just fear.

She's managed to achieve everything she set out for. My dad all to herself, a nice house in the country far removed from the real world, my dad's inheritence, and ultimate power over all of it. All it would take, as with any spoilt brat, is for someone to stand up to her. But they are all too scared.

You may remember if you read my post on the last QOTW that I became trapped in my own nightmare with a control freak. Without going into the psychology of all that, I do find it ironic that everything my dad taught me about overcoming fear was ultimately wasted on him... but proved invaluable to me when I found the balls to liberate myself.

Apologies for length, lack of hummus, and lack of satisfying comeuppance.
( warmfuzzies Isn't here, Sat 11 Oct 2008, 15:14, 20 replies)

What is being spoiled?
Something adults seem to forget is what a Lord of the Flies-like experiment in social Darwinism school actually is. The slightest weakness will be picked upon and utilised mercilessly by your equally insecure and cruel peers.
So it was with Cecil Smallpiece. That's not his name, But, frankly, it may as well have been. The real one wasn't much better. If you're a parent and your surname suggests that you have small genitals, I strongly advise you to ensure that your children are able to fight from an early age.

This was a mining town in the early 1980's. Don't believe the Billy Elliott-style poor miners with a tin tub in front of the fire image depicted - miners were bloody well paid for a hard job, and when that ended the shock was the harder for it.
Cecils parents weren't hit by this. His dad was a councillor and quite senior in the union, and as the rest of the town slipped into depression, their nest stayed feathered. He was the first person I ever knew to get a computer (A mighty ZX80!) and a video recorder (watching The Empire Strikes Back on someone's TV not in the cinema remains a powerful early memory of mine). Everything he asked for, he got - and his classmates promptly stole or broke. He had the biggest collection of toy soldiers of any child I ever saw. When the Dungeons & Dragons craze was at it's height he had *every* book and figure and game and add on and...you name it.
His parents told him he was talented and gave him lessons in four different muscial instruments. He had a private french tutor.
Everything he wanted or asked for, he got. He got stuff even when he didn't want or ask for it. He was spoiled rotten.

And I think he would have given every bit of it up to be liked. His name was a good starting point, but the obvious material wealth of his family bred resentment and the bullying never stopped. He kept up a facade to his family, but if school is the Serengeti, then he was the antelope who ran too slow.
He never hit back until it was too late, because well-brought up children didn't do that - and when he did his victim status was so well established that it just made things worse.
Years later we found out that his home life wasn't much better - it turned out that his dad had a nasty temper behind closed doors and would hand out beatings without provocation. A lot of the presents were guilt gifts.

Looking back now, I wonder who was spoiled. The kid who had everything? Or me, who didn't get much in the way of presents but who had parents who didn't kick me around? Him, who had private tuition in everything, or me, who had parents who encouraged me to be interested in stuff and learn what I enjoyed doing? Him, who would go home with his brand new games kit covered in mud and scabs after every games lesson and tell his mum how he scored three goals, or me, who wore my brothers old games kit but didn't have to lie about anything to make my parents proud?

Perhaps the reason adults forget how harsh school is is because we want to forget what we were like, and what we did to the "spoiled" kids.
(davywavy, Thu 16 Oct 2008, 10:51, 10 replies)

Wayne
She was called Anna. Proper posh girl, and we met at university. I was a council house swot made good, and she was a daughter of a rich landowner in Norfolk. No chance, thought I.

To my amazement, it happened. We were inseparable for 6 months at uni and I thought I'd caught a good one.

Until I was asked home to visit her parents at their mansion (i.e. a fuckoff huge house).

I visited them for dinner. Anna's mum put on a great spread, and I tried to be as cultured as possible. Until she looked at me and said " Wayne?".

I said "Sorry, my name's Dr Teeth".

She said "Sorry Dr Teeth, do you want red or white wayne?"
(Dr Teeth Who asked you, you fuckin' hobbit?, Mon 13 Oct 2008, 23:44, 4 replies)

The Spoilt Brat
Some of you may have read my post earlier in this QOTW, it was about my daughter’s birthday party, and how it was pretty much ruined by a snot-nosed little bile demon called Maia. Some of you may even have read some of my replies, in which I mentioned that I was going to be throwing her a second party, to make up for the slightly disappointing first one.

Isabelle turned seven on Thursday, and the worst part of it was that I hadn’t been able to get her a single present. Worse still, I only spent around an hour with her on her birthday. You see, I’ve just started a new job, and my first pay cheque didn’t clear in time for me to buy her anything, I was totally skint. The new job also meant that I had to work a long day, I’d given my new employers notice that it was my daughter’s birthday, but they couldn’t find (or couldn’t be arsed to find) cover for me, so I was only allowed a couple of hours off in the afternoon.
I had to make her a birthday card the night before, by cutting out pictures of Troy from High School Musical, Barbie and Tinkerbell from magazines that she’s collected, and sticking them to a sheet of coloured card.
I doubt whether she even noticed that I didn’t bring her any presents. She was too busy with her friends and the many toys that she had got from other people, but I hardly got to spend any time with her. The party was at her Mum’s house, and I had to spend the afternoon preparing the food and putting things together, like the Kiddizoom digital camera that needed batteries, and the High School Musical DVD dancemat that needed to be assembled. …and then I had to rush back to work, because the girl who was covering for me ‘had to go on her tea break at 5’, which is obviously much more important than my daughter’s birthday.
After the party, before she went to bed, my little girl told her Mum that it hadn’t felt like it was her birthday, and that she really wished I’d been there.

The next day my pay cheque finally cleared. I bought a big card, Barbie Airplane, a Piranha Panic board game, and a small acoustic guitar, then I set about organising the second party. I only invited my nine year old brother, and my niece and nephew, Isabelle always gets on really well with all of them.

That night I picked the little ‘un up from her Mum’s, and put her to bed at home, then I set phase one of my plan into action.
I wrapped her presents, which was no easy task, that aeroplane and the guitar were bloody huge, and I cut out more pictures of Tinkerbell and her little friends from the Disney ‘Fairies’ magazines Isabelle had left over. Then, and not for the first time, I wrote Isabelle a letter from the Fairies themselves.
I placed the letter and the presents at the foot of her bed, and left them there for her to find in the morning.

The next day I woke her up early, and it took her a whole minute after getting out of bed to actually notice the bloody massive pink wrapped boxes in her room, but it was like Christmas from that moment on, in fact, it was better than Christmas; Santa Claus has got nothing on those Fairies.
I packed Isabelle off to her friend’s house, where she was taken to a local Reptile room and she got to stroke a Tarantula, some Scorpions and a nine foot Python (no pun intended, you dirty-minded bastards), while I went to Sainsbury’s to fill a trolley with Party Rings, jelly and ice cream, cakes, sausage rolls, Pringles, dips, breadsticks carrots, cucumbers, cream soda and coke, not even to mention the pass the parcel prizes.

The party at my place was brilliant, everybody had a great time, the kids ran riot, and I had dozens of games out for them to play with. Everybody won something at pass the parcel, and we had a massive dance-off competition on our other dancemats, in which I soundly beat my sister-in-law (the only other adult who stayed for the day) 57,425 points to 19,026, to ‘Who Do you Think You Are?’ by the Spice Girls. I FUCKING ROCK.

So, my little girl is spoiled completely rotten, and deservedly so. She’s inherited the shyness that I found totally crippling when I was little, and has a very meek, mild-mannered nature, but luckily for her she has a Dad who understands what that’s like and has been through it, so she’s gained more confidence than I ever had at that age, and she will never, ever be a brat.
( Bert Monkeysex is waiting for the mods to delete him, Mon 13 Oct 2008, 10:41, 17 replies)

this obnoxious posh kid at the zoo
insisted on petting the lions. He was Eton.
(apeloverage committed the vile act of onanism on, Fri 10 Oct 2008, 21:37, 7 replies)

I wiped a smug grin quite fast
I was working as a teacher in a school back home, there was one real little spoilt shite. Let's call him Kevin, for that was his name. Kevin loved to think that he was above everyone, and threw all sorts of hissy fits when asked to do anything. "Kevin, write your name on the answer sheet", "not doing it", "why not?", "coz you can't make me, etc."
The little shit must have heard about his "rights" and how little power teachers these days actually have. So one day he pipes up with this..
kevin: "You know, if you even brushed off me by accident, I can report you and you'll never work again, in fact, all I have to do is say that you did even if you didn't and you'll get fired"
me: "You're right about that Kevin, I'll give you that"
A big thick shit smug grin spreads across his face. I pause for a minute or two, he thinks I'm rattled.
me: "slight correction actually, I'll never work in this country again"
Kevin: "same thing 'innit"
me: "Kevin, any idea where Japan is?"
Kevin: "'course, I'm not stupid"
me: "well, in 2 months I'll be going there, for the rest of my life. Despite my fears of you getting me fired over a phantom brushing off you, they are totaly outweighed by the pleasure I'll get from beating some manners into you."
His bluff had been called, went pale and started back pedaling.
Kevin: "I was only saying, that's all"
me: "Unless you want to practice picking up teeth with broken fingers boyo, I'd think twice about annoying me in the future"
The next 2 months were a pleasure.
(knackerz is skinning up, Fri 10 Oct 2008, 7:29, 5 replies)

Welcome to the real world. Asshole.
I work at the courts, dealing directly with defendants and their solicitors, families and friends.

Every week there's a Youth court, where, folk knowledge has it, young thugs are sentenced to a rigorous regime of wrist-slapping.

The place fills up with under-18s and their interested parties, which sadly don't always include parents.

Most juvenile offenders are neglected or led astray and will respond well to the Youth Offending Team's (YOT) attentions, and will mend their ways. Many parents, appalled at their sprogs' offences, will co-operate with the YOT, which gives the kids a better chance of changing their behaviour.

However, some kids will refuse to accept the help on offer and continue to offend. The YOT run round after them, giving lifts, getting them up for court, ringing to remind them of appointments and so on, and the little darlings chuck it all back in their faces.

Sometimes the parents collude in this, telling the kids that 'you're under 18, they can't touch you!' - which incidentally isn't true. They can be 'breached' for disobeying a court order and sent back to court and even into detention. But their over-indulgent parents tell them not to believe that.

When they reach 18, of course, this all stops. I saw it recently for myself.

A lad of just 18 had been arrested for the umpteenth time and banged up for a night or two.
He was released with a condition that he report to Probation early on a certain day.

'Fuck off!' said he to the Probation Officer. 'No way! I'm never up at that time!'
The YOT's response might have been negotiation, the offer of a lift, maybe even a different appointment...

The P.O.'s was 'That's the appointment. If you don't turn up you're in breach and we'll issue a warrant, and you'll be arrested and locked up.'

The little thug stared in shock, mouth gaping.

The words hung, unspoken, in the air -

Welcome to the real world. Asshole.
(Juan Quar is clinging to her front teeth on, Thu 9 Oct 2008, 15:59, 12 replies)

Not spoilt any more, oh no!
Our child is now the nicest person you could hope to meet, but 7 years ago it was VERY different.

Ever wondered why spoilt brats get like that? I'll tell you. Have kid late after years of trying, then Dad proceeds not to rock the boat while Mum is spoiling child because he likes living under a roof, then let it all get really out of hand by working insane hours to keep up with demands for unnecessary crap.

It all came to a head on a holiday abroad. After Mum spent 2 HOURS to get child out of bed, offering her food from a kneeling position, having it spat back at her, I'd had enough.

"I'm going for a shave. When I get back, she will be up, dressed, and eating at the table. You will not help her. You will instruct her. I married a woman, not a slave to a fucking little bitch. Yes, LittleScars, I mean you. (Howls) If it doesn't happen, I will cycle to the nearest station, get to Paris, take the Eurostar home, and the first one there changes the locks. Ten minutes, starting now."

I've been scared before and since, but never like that. Still, I got back, LittleScars was eating nicely, MrsScars was pale but calm, I nodded at both of them and we started our new life.
(all my scars face forward possesses 2.5% of a hyperalloy combat chassis, Thu 9 Oct 2008, 21:45, 7 replies)

A tale of two educations....
I've just got back from a jaunt up to Preston doing a role-play / corporate training day with a lovely group of people. Some of you may know the format - actor role-plays difficult individual who you have to deal with / win over.

Anyway, as I said, a lovely little jolly to the North where the pay is better than being a barman or the other crap jobs 'resting' actors take on.

So, coming back this afternoon, my actor colleague and I get on the London train at Preston, and we take two seats opposite a table of lads.

Now, my first instinct of course is 'oh bollocks, here's trouble all the way back to London'.

Yup, I'm ashamed to say I jumped to conclusions pretty quickly - 4 teenagers, hoodies, phone on the table with the speaker playing a rather bizarrely medley of 80s hits and power ballads (Phil Collins and Tina Turner anyone?) and a couple of them were skinning up. I think you get the idea, and many of you would have probably thought the same.

But no, they weren't too much trouble and kept themselves to themselves and didn't leave the music on for very long.

Turned out two of them were from a rough area of Bristol and two from rough parts of London - they'd been on a week's sailing organised by a charity - I don't know which one, but I guess one that dealt with underprivileged kids.

They were charm personified as a group - friendly, warm, happy to engage in conversation, polite & generally good people.

As we approached Crewe, they started to make a move to get bags out, so I immediately asked if I could grab their table as they got off. Turned out the two Bristolians were changing and the other two were staying on, so I assumed that we wouldn't get the table.

The moment we pulled in, the two London lads offered us the table - both saying they didn't need it any more and besides needed some sleep so it didn't make a difference. A nice little gesture I think you'll agree.

So, my colleague and I are enjoying our good fortuned table-topped luxury, when the train stops at a town certain for a famous public school. On get two gentleman who are around the late 50s, early 60s mark, well dressed and who ask to share our table.

Of course, we agree and make room for them. Within 20 seconds of sitting down, they've tried to take over the table. Not only physically, but vocally as well. My colleague and I can barely hear each other over their conversation. (Bit silly trying to take on two classically trained actors in a game of who can project their voice more, but anyway we resisted the temptation for the sake of the others in the carriage).

On the two occaisions that either of us wanted to go to the loo, the act of moving their sextagenerian arses was treated as though we'd asked them to eat razor-laden turds. And, of course the same when we come back from the loo as well. An utter refusal to acknowledge that we were there, and when we had to ask them to move, a tut.

Now, you might at this point be thinking that this really isn't the end of the world, Sugar-Tits. Grow a pair and deal with it, so you met a couple of slightly rude gents on the train.

Big deal.

Normally, I'd agree with you, but in this case the two gentleman had just come back from an old school reunion of some sort (they were discussing their old school and who had been doing what etc), and judging from their later conversations they also had senior jobs in the City.

It was, I thought, just interesting to see the difference between how four underprivileged kids and two wealthy, 'well brought up' men behaved towards other people.

This isn't, believe it or not, an attack on public school boys, since sugar-tits actually did go to a quite well known public school. It's a commentary on the fact that you get arseholes in every level of the social strata. Two privately educated 'gentlemen' had their lack of manners shown up by a bunch of underpriveleged hoodies from rough council estates.

Really made me feel warm inside, that I found some human decency in the place where I least expected it.
(sugar_tits, Tue 14 Oct 2008, 19:01, 3 replies)

My attempt to act spoilt:
"Mum, I want that." *points to some toy or other*

"That's how you ask for things now is it?"

"Ok, can I have that then?"

"I still didn't hear a please."

*tuts* "Please can I have that?"

"Yes, you can have it for your birthday."

"Buuuuut, that's not for aaaages, I want it now."

"Well, Christmas is before your birthday, you can wait till then."

"Only just. I don't want to wait."

"Then buy it yourself."

"Pffft, I can't afford it."

"Then you'll have to wait."

"I don't want to wait. Buy it for me. Now."

"Talk to me like that again and you'll get nothing but a slap."

*talks to her like that again*

*gets nothing but a slap*

*doesn't talk to her like that again*
( Moey, Fri 10 Oct 2008, 14:01, 9 replies)

I hate to say this, but I think I'm the stereotypical doting Dad.
All my children have ponies.

And they act like they own the world.

Mind you, I am Genghis Khan.
(apeloverage committed the vile act of onanism on, Fri 10 Oct 2008, 10:56, 3 replies)

Tantrum Trauma
I was at a bus stop, and this small child started throwing a tantrum in my ear.
He was holding a small toy remote-controlled helicopter that came from Argos. He kept shouting "This is a rubbish toy! This is a rubbish toy!". As the tantrum went on, it turned out he wanted a bigger one.

I had quite a headache, as I've been having reasonably busy days recently. On the eighty-fifth "This is a rubbish toy", and after he paused for breath, I quickly but sternly said "You be grateful for that rubbish toy. Santa doesn't exist, so he won't get you a better one".

The kid stopped crying. He stared at me with glazed eyes. He looked pretty traumatised. His top lip started to quiver. It was then I realised what his father looked like. Big guy, shaved head, scar on the face, about seven foot tall. Pretty agressive. He had quite a stern face on himself. Realising that I was probably going to get hit around the face for ruining this child's dream, the father suddenly broke into a smile, shrugged, and said "Meh. He's old enough to know."
(__, Thu 9 Oct 2008, 19:07, 9 replies)

Upon arriving two weeks late for the start of uni
Our final housemate arrived that evening with only one bag.

He said 'Hello, where is my room please?'

We told him it was upstairs, first on the left.

He went upstairs and we heard the door open and the very obvious sound of him standing still in the room for some time.

He came back downstairs. 'Where are the duvets kept?'

We asked him why he hadn't brought his own bedding.

A few moments of puzzled silence. The immortal question...

'Then at what time does the maid arrive tomorrow morning?'
(Waspard has your wank bank account details, Thu 9 Oct 2008, 17:14, 2 replies)

me
I once put 50p in one of those machines where the egg comes out.

I opened the egg and it had a plastic ring inside! My mum suggested that, as a boy, maybe my sister would have more use for it than me.

I agreed, and quickly stamped on it.
( browser still relating boring anecdotes into a void on, Fri 10 Oct 2008, 11:44, 11 replies)

Nest Egg
A pretty good mate of mine comes from a wealthy family. While she doesn't have the acidic personality you'd expect from a rich lass, her sister more than compensates for this.

Her parents are pretty sound too. Rather than spoiling the kids rotten, or at least more than the sister already was, every month they'd have money paid into a savings account which would be handed over to them on their 18th birthday.

Said mate promised her parents she'd get into uni, worked hard and on the eve of adulthood got herself a savings account with £18k sitting in it. That's 18,181 and a bit poundsaver cheeseburgers for those who have never heard of that much money. In a smart move, rather than blow it all on drugs and cars she put it in another account and uses the money to help pay her course fees.

Said sister, working out she was going to get £18k when she came of age then proceeded to generate a healthy class-A drug addiction until she was admitted into a private mental hospital. In her whitewashed cell on her 18th birthday her parents handed over the savings account. Inside was the bill from the loonybin, travel expenses and receipt for a removal company to take her stuff away. The remaining balance was £37.

Must've been an awkward point for the family, but I didn't half piss myself when I heard the story.
(FoxyBadger (try saying it backwards), Thu 9 Oct 2008, 16:31, 4 replies)

Children in Need
Now, I'm not having a go at the charity per se. Honestly. But it's about this time of year that I get really hacked off with the whole thing.

You see, I listen to Radio 2 (yes, I know, I should be listening to Radio 4 with the rest of the QOTWers). Mr Wogan keeps me amused in the mornings, I'll admit. But every fucking November he insists on doing that bastard auction for 'things that money can't buy'. For two bloody weeks.

And every year they raise even more money by offering some 'once in a lifetime opportunities', because a lunatic proportion of the great British public have got the ways and means to part with literally thousands (sometimes hundreds of thousands) of pounds in order to have tea with Sarah Kennedy, go back stage with the Spice Girls or take a friend to a health spa and have a champagne enema.

Please, we know some people are obscenely wealthy. I would love to have a day on the Doctor Who set with the family, however I don't have a spare £50k going begging to pay for the privilege. So I don't want to listen to people rubbing my face in the fact, OK? And Terry, you can shut up about it as well. Do us a favour, and do it on line will you? Then you can carry on with the Irish whimsy and listeners poems and stories with thinly veiled innuendos. It's what we pay you for. Not to hear you spout off about how wonderful Henry in Redbridge is because he's just bid £80,000 to shag Angelina Jolie up the arse, but can anyone do better 'cos £80k's a bit on the cheap side?

Although if one of the opportunities was to be able to bury Sarah Kennedy head first in the sand and then kick her repeatedly in the cunt, then I'm afraid that the house would be on the market and the family sold into slavery for the privilege. God, she bloody annoys me with her 'jolly hockey sticks' demeanour, complete lack of any knowledge about any of the tracks she plays and total inability to read out letters from her dawn patrollers without stumbling over every other fucking word.

God she's annoying.
( Davros' Granddad a voice of calm reason in a world of spastics., Fri 10 Oct 2008, 16:05, 33 replies)

"He's got twatitude".
I once knew a kid in school who was an awful little shit. A real lavatory induced horror. He was arrogant, conceited, supercilious, dishonest, untrustworthy, treacherous, uncouth, shifty, and also a dick.

He didn’t used to be like this and in fact was a little considerate angel full of humility but then puberty struck and he felt like the world was shit and owed him.

He tried (and succeeded) to steal money from other people including his parents and dripped poison about people behind their back. He was a pornographer, an abuser of substances, an alcoholic as well as being generally nefarious. I could go on.

In his heart of hearts, he knew that he had twatitude but he thought that this was because of his parents. He blamed them completely. Now I don’t want to get into any debate about nature and nurture but in reality he would have been a total wankspleen if his parents were Mother Theresa and the Pope (he might have other ‘issues’ though) and I don’t think that his parents exacerbated his spoiled condition. Although in the interests of probity, they did spare the rod on some occasions.

Luckily though, after a brief overnight stay in the local clink due for trashing a girl’s car because she wouldn’t go out with him (the gall! How could she not want to go out with him!), he had a slop bucket induced epiphany and realised that his egregious and reprehensible ways would not get him anywhere in life.

He went and apologised to the girl, and went around to say sorry to all his ‘friends’ (they weren’t really friends). He spoke to his parents and told them he was sorry and generally regressed to his less heinous pre-pubescent behaviour. He cut out all (most) of his bad habits, and started studying for his A-levels. He managed to catch up on a years worth of work over the summer, and just made it to university where he left behind his awful ways completely and started a new life. Hopefully he is still on the right track.

I know for a fact that this dude repented for his churlish ways because…

DRUMROLL

The dude was me.
(powervator and NONE SHALL PASS, Fri 10 Oct 2008, 9:58, 9 replies)

Haha - I've just remembered this one...
And I don't know why I've failed to remember it until now, my mum was talking about it this morning.

_____________________________________________

I was a very hyperactive child. ANY colourings or additives would send me super-crazy and wild. As such, my mum had a bit of a job keeping me entertained with sweeties whilst making sure they weren't going to turn me into the Tasmanian Devil.

However, one day, she made a slip.

She'd let me have a packet of Skittles (other fruit-flavoured confectionery is available) before a shopping sojourn round Sheffield.

I was 5 at the time, and my brother was three, so to keep us in check, mum held my hand and had our kid in those reins things that are surely banned in Western society by now.

During the journey plodding up the hill from the bus station to the shops, I'd apparently whipped myself into such a forment that my mum had already took me to one side for a smacked bum - something she was particularly adept at - and warned that there'd be no more sweeties for a week if I kept this game up.

Later, my mum decided to treat herself with a fancy top from TopShop (well posh in Sheffield during the 1980s) and so we were dragged down Fargate.

On our way to TopShop, we passed a toy shop, which had got some new Matchbox cars in the window. Being clever even then I knew that despite us being skint, my mum would occasionally keep me and our kid pacified with such items to quell the longing for more expensive items like a bike or ZX Spectrum.

Anyway... upon seeing a Matchbox Ferrari, I went on my quest for model car wonderment:

Me: "Mum, please can I have that Matchbox car?"
Mum: "No Scentless, mum's got to buy some clothes today..."
Me: "Please"
Mum: "No"
Me: "PLEASE"
Mum: "NO."
Me: "PLLLEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEAAAAASEEEEEEE!"
Mum: "Scentless, that's it, you get no more treats for a month..."

Cue tears and screaming from me. Which carry on all the way up to and into TopShop.

Mum's walking round a rather busy bit when I say

"MUM YOU NEVER BUY ME ANYTHING IT'S NOT FAIR WHY DO YOU ALWAYS BUY CLOTHES FOR YOURSELF AND NEVER BUY ME AND HIM NO TREATS!!!"

And try to leg it across the shop.

My mum in a mix of rage and embarrassment, promptly grabs my arm to stop said escape plan. However, I'm going in the opposite direction with such skittled-powered force, that something in my arm goes 'pop'.

In the melee, my arm had managed to dislocate itself from my shoulder.

My mum, bless her, in a panic, exclaimed to a now captivated audience: "It's OK, this always happens" and bolted out of the door, me under one arm, wailing like a banshee and our kid wrenched into the open air in his reins, straight onto the bus for the hospital, all the while crying her eyes out.

Anyway, my arm was relocated into my shoulder, we all went home happy as larry like a good one parent family should.

And then once inside the door, my mum gave me the slippering of all slipperings, I was sent straight to bed ('FOR YOUR OWN BLOODY GOOD' as my mum put it), and my whole Matchbox toy car collection was sent to Mozambique via Oxfam because 'they appreciate their treats better', to teach me a lesson once and for all.

Serves me right.
(scentless_apprentice takes two bottles into the shower!, Sun 12 Oct 2008, 21:25, 6 replies)

Spoilt brats...
further to the child in the supermarket and the shallots, I was once in a bistro in Fulham and heard a little girl, no more than seven, wailing
"Oh no Mummy! I've spilt couscous down my gilet!!"

That is so wrong on so many levels.....
( Sallyrsm, Sat 11 Oct 2008, 12:10, 2 replies)

bake a cake
We were baking cakes in a home economics class, and everyone was to bring decorations from home. Most people brought candles or icing sugar or whipped cream or some varieties of fruit, but it was the posh kid in the class who kicked it up a notch. By the time she'd finished decorating, her cake had on it: jelly beans, sequins, tassles, sparklers, elegant figurines, an ipod shuffle, a flamethrower, antique furniture, a hovercraft, hitler, a jetpack, a cure for AIDS, a proof of the Riemann hypothesis, and the chinese national army.
(mmmkay, Fri 10 Oct 2008, 17:34, 4 replies)

My sister.
About 18 years ago my mum and step-father adopted a little baby girl from Sri Lanka. She has brought joy and happiness into our lives from the day she arrived and she's been spoilt silly. However.....

You could not find a more amiable, cheerful, (apart from time-of-the-month tears), hard-working girl. She's never demanded anything and thus we've always been happy to give her what we want. My step-dad bought her a brand new shiny soft top fancy car for when she passed her test, although not fully realising the cost the insurance would be, (even though we kept telling him).He got rid of it when he got the insurance quotes in and bought a small Citroen and she didn't complain even though she had her heart set on the fancy car.

She's just started University and is loving it and as she is not naturally clever, she's had to work hard to get a place. All her University bills are paid and she gets an allowance each week.

It would have been so easy for her to turn into one of those spoilt brats who think they should get what they want and it would have been our fault for making her that way.

So a bit Huzza for my sister who had a hell of a lot more than I ever did as a child and I don't begrudge her any of it.
( girlinthehole, Fri 10 Oct 2008, 13:16, 8 replies)

Me! (me me me me me me me)
I used to be a right spoiled brat when I was a kid. I wasn't spoiled in that my parents spent loads of money on me, as times was hard in the Strangechap household.

No, my parents 'spoiled me with love'.

Now don't get me wrong, they were great parents, and still are, but I grew up to be a right whiney little shit. I had no confidence or guts to do anything myself. I didn't like playing with other kids, as they were too rough, I would never do anything on my own. My dad would always come in to the playground with me as I was too scared to go without him.

I would only drink milk when we were out, so if we went to a pub for lunch (rare occurrence, and only when on holiday) I wouldn't drink coke, I had to have milk. (try getting milk in a pub FFS!)

My mum did everything for me. Cooked, cleaned, did my washing. I never had to do any chores. And I repaid her my being a messy little shit and taking her for granted.

When my little brother arrived, I used to bully him no end as I was 5 years older. It's easy to bully a toddler when you are so much bigger. I feel really bad now that I used to treat him like that. (Especially as he's now bigger than me and quite hard due to all the abuse I gave him when he was a kid.) We get on now, most of the time.

So in all, I was an odious little wanker when I was a kid. I'm not proud of that, but that's just the way it was.

When I was about 10, J moved into my street. I come from a middle class area in the south of england, and J and his family didn't fit with the stereotypical middle class family I was used to.

J was black, streetwise, hard and a real character. He was the total opposite to me, the spoiled little white boy. His family had moved from one of the shittier parts of the local town into the suburbs and were the only black family around.

On the day he moved in, he rode down our road on his bike, introduced himself and we just clicked. From that day on we were inseparable. We were true best friends. We were good for each other. He taught me how to skateboard, fight, talk to girls, show off, have a laugh. I learned what racism was, how things weren't as easy for him sometimes as they were for me, simply because he was a different colour. I kept him on the straight and narrow, as he tended to go the "wrong way" every so often. We were a perfect foil for each other.

I stopped being a shy, spoiled little kid and grew up. All thanks to J.

We went our separate ways when we were about 19-20. He got into drugs and went a bit funny and we got in a fight. We didn't see each other for about 15 years. Then, somehow this year, we got back in contact and are now good mates again. He's sorted himself out and has a family and so have I. We don't raise hell like we used to, but I've realised out of all the people I know. He's the best friend I've ever had, or will have.

I'm not spoiled anymore. Although I do have the occasional tantrum. And I suppose it shows that a spoiled kid doesn't have to be a spoiled adult too.

Apologies for length, but I wanted it to be that long. And what I want, I get. (stamps feet).
(Strangechap I look normal on the outside..., Fri 10 Oct 2008, 9:25, 2 replies)

Alice.
Sorry, not a rendition of the Tom Waits classic, but rather The Self-Serving Thatcherite Whore who I stopped speaking to quite a while ago.

I don't feel ashamed of using her name because (a) she'll never read this, (b) it's not her real name, as she was Chinese and this was just her English alias. (Actually she was Taiwanese, but since she was such a snob and detested being called 'Chinese,' I shall continue to refer to her as 'Chinese' out of
spite.)

I apologise to any friends and loved ones who have had to hear this story umpteen times before.

At the end of my first year at uni, I was worn out following exams and still just as socially inept as I had been when I arrived. So everyone was very surprised when The Hottest Girl in My Hall of Residence took a shine to me...yes, me, the weird one who drank far too much real ale and thought crows were really funny.

Perhaps I should have been a little suspicious that Alice forced herself upon me with so little subtlety. I should have been wary because we were all well aware how bitchy she had been about the previous boyfriend (who had been dumped the week before). But this was my first experience of a serious relationship - how was I to know any better?

And things started out promisingly. For the first 6 months, all seemed great. Then she started to fall out with her flatmate.

Said flatmate, C, had been a good friend of mine in halls, and she had a sort of on-off relationship with D, with whom I became very close during that first year. I don't know how it started, but Alice gradually became convinced that C was flirting with me.

Admittedly, I'd initially had a crush on C, but that had been a long time ago, and I'd been over it since I realised she fancied D. Besides, now that I was otherwise distracted with a supply of Chinese nookie, why should the stupid cow have felt threatened? I certainly never noticed C "flirting" with me - this was conversation between two friends, it was certainly nothing sinister.

Somehow, partly because I had no spine at the time, Alice managed to convince me that C was trying to drive us apart, and if she denies it, "she's just manipulating you."

Well, can I still talk to D? He is a good friend?...No, apparently not, because he's involved with C, and they've been known to smoke weed together - heaven forfend - so they can't be trusted.

And so I was forced to give up two really good friends following a hissy fit of Paris Hilton proportions.

I should have walked out right in the middle of said hissy fit. Because it soon came full circle. One of Alice's friends - some posh ponce - claimed that he'd "fallen in love with her." And, I'm told, openly asked "won't you leave Crow and get together with me?"

Not subtle, I'm sure you'll agree. And yet, for some reason, it is decided that Alice will still be allowed to talk to this ponce, who is openly trying to steal her away from me, whilst I must sever all connection with two of my friends because she (and she alone) thinks one of them is flirting with me.

I wouldn't be surprised if she was letting the ponce fuck her up the arse on the nights I wasn't around.

I should point out that Alice came from a very well-to-do family. She'd been packed off to and English boarding school at an early age to swan around with other smug, overly wealthy bitches and hence had no idea what it was like to be a normal undergraduate - her ex had worked for some consultancy company, so he wasn't strapped for cash. _{I actually met him once - he was a really nice bloke (and apparently knew the Ginger Fuhrer). I could never understand why she was so horrible to him until she did the same to me...}

So, I am her first "impoverished" boyfriend. Obviously, she's used to the good life, but I can't afford to pay for all these things. She therefore pays for a lot of it herself and then berates me for never paying for anything.
"I can't afford to. Can we split the bill?" I plea.
"No, 'cause you've no money and then I'll feel bad." She replies.
Make your fucking mind up. Either split the bill or pay for it yourself, but don't say I didn't fucking offer.

She just had no idea - I remember earning something like £20 for a gig with my jazz band. Before I can even start thinking about what to do with it, I'm suddenly whisked off to use it all to buy her dinner and some drinks in the pub down the road.

I took jobs in pubs. I dipped into savings. I tried fucking hard so that I could take her out, treat her occasionally and even go on holiday. Anything to stop the stupid bitch telling me what a crap boyfriend I was.

And then began the mind control. Ever been told what to think? It's annoying, isn't it? Ever been told what to feel?
"If you really loved me, you should never be embarrassed by me."
What? How exactly does that work? Come on, my parents and sister have made me feel self-conscious or embarrassed in the past, and I love them unconditionally. And hey - here's a radical idea: maybe if you stop causing such a fucking scene, I won't feel embarrassed by the scores of people walking past trying not to look at you in the middle of another fucking strop.

And this went on - times when she'd upset me and then say "Oh, but surely you should be happy about it, because... [insert crap, irrational reason]"
Well, quite clearly I'm not happy about it, am I, you stupid cow? Perhaps I'd be happy about it if I was you. But I'm not. And I'm fucking glad about that.

For example, about the time she finally chose to tell me about her former tendency to bring strangers back from nightclubs.
"We've been going out for about 12 months and you never thought to tell me this before?"
"I did tell you before."
"No you didn't. You said you'd had 3 boyfriends previously." (So you, in fact, lied to me.)
"No, I said I'd had 3 boyfriends and done some things I regretted."
Oh, so I'm somehow supposed to magically guess from that, am I? Fucking hell, I've done "things I regret," but these amount to maybe drinking too much, cutting my leg on that fence, having not been more sociable at school. I'm sorry, but "things I regret" does not necessarily translate to "I used to be a promiscuous little slapper."
"Oh, you should be happy that I don't do it anymore..."
"You should have told me this 12 months ago." (At the very least, it would have been nice to know before I agreed to have unprotected sex with you. But of course saying that would have prompted another bloody tantrum...)

And so it went on - soon I was no longer allowed to talk politics, because she was an economics student who thought Margaret Fucking Thatcher was a demi-god, whilst I was just a physics student who dared to have mildly left-wing views, so obviously I couldn't possibly know anything.

Then my band practices were taking up "too much of my time." Admittedly, playing in two bands does necessitate two practices a week (no shit, Sherlock?) but I happen to want to keep both bands up. Is it really the end of the world if there are four hours of my free time that I don't spend with you?

This may seem fairly trivial, but when combined with the constant swipes at whatever I did or said, punctuated with the random hissy fits, it quickly wore me down to the point of having no self-esteem.

Then her student visa was going to run out. And of course, she couldn't possibly be expected to look for a job that would offer her a work visa, so I almost got bullied into an engagement. When my parents helped to me to think clearly and remind me that I was barely 20, still an undergraduate and various other things short of actually telling me "she's a mentalist bitch," she started to talking about getting married in secret. I don't know why the fuck I didn't run even then. It's not as if I was enjoying the "relationship." I just kept sidestepping the issue, or finding diplomatic ways to say "no," and every time I did, the tantrums got worse and worse.

And then one morning I woke up and just couldn't move. She was up and alert as usual and kept prodding me to get out of bed. And I curled up in a little ball and did nothing.

I didn't even cry. She'd made me cry before, but this morning I just felt too pathetic even to shift myself out of this weary foetal position. I must have lay there for a good ten or fifteen minutes before she realised I hadn't followed her into the kitchen.

Finally she came back and positively shepherded me into the kitchen. It took all the strength I could summon to tell her that she was a bully and was just making me miserable.
"Why didn't you tell me before?"
...
Because you'd have a fit? Because you'd tell me I shouldn't feel like that? For fuck's sake woman, is that all the sympathy I get?

We spent that day wandering round some festival or other in Trafalgar Square. I don't actually remember what went on, I just followed her around like a zombie, feeling increasingly pathetic.

That evening, I went back to my own flat. I even took a detour, just to prolong the walk. I love my flatmates, but I just knew if I went straight in, I'd have to talk to them, and I couldn't face talking to anybody.

But eventually it got cold, and I ran out of side streets to wander around forlornly. So I went back to my front door...

Right into the middle of a party. It was a friend's birthday, and a bunch of them had come round to ours. I don't think I've ever tried so hard to put a brave face on things and be sociable. It obviously didn't work, because I grabbed my vodka out of the freezer and started swigging from that. (People have since commented - "yeah, you weren't happy that night, were you?")

The following day, Alice dumped me over the phone. I felt like crap, but at least I didn't feel any more crap than I had for the previous few months.

Christ, this one goes on forever, doesn't it?

EDIT: I have posted The Epilogue -
www.b3ta.com/questions/spoiltbrats/post270902 - if you've got another hour to kill, of course...

I feel I should thank my friends (particularly Nettlesteed*) and family for putting up with me for the duration of this ordeal, for Ms Crow for being wonderful and demonstrating that women are not, in fact, innately evil, and any b3tans who have been patient enough to read this far. And finally Kaol, for encouraging me to post this one.

Apologies for length. I'm sure it's become longer since I learned to stand up for myself.

*_{Not a b3tan, not really much of an interweb type, but he'll know who he is if he ever stumbles across this}
(LongJohnBaldry, Mon 13 Oct 2008, 13:38, 18 replies)

Newsflash
The world's not fair. Some people have a lot more money than others. Some people get everything in life handed to them on a plate. Some of them aren't appreciative. Some people are spoilt. It happens irrespective of social class. Karmic retribution is not guaranteed. They will never learn what it's like "in the real world" because they'll never have to - with their mindset, they'll always find a way out and somehow people will magically enable this behaviour for no good reason.

As for the idea that people should feel guilty for having things that you don't have - why? I don't get it. Why be so damn resentful of the folks who drive the 4x4s or spend a grand on a handbag or go to the posh schools? Is it sour grapes? What mystical sense of indignant righteousness has decreed that because you don't have something, no one else can have it?

And why try to level out society so we all suffer the same amount of misery? Why the hell should we all minimise our spending and consumption so it fits with your ethical approval? Communist.

Why do some people buy into this Steinbeckian notion that through poverty comes nobility? Being poor sucks. Show me someone poor who actually wants to stay poor.

If spoilt = richer and has more things, then I snort indignantly.
If spoilt = unappreciative and lacking in manners, then yeah, absolutely, cunt them in the fuck.

Life's hard. Quit whining and buy a helmet.
( crackhouseceilidhband Fuck off back to Mumsnet, Mon 13 Oct 2008, 12:47, 30 replies)

Mobile sodding phones
Why do some cretins think that you want to hear what shit music they listen to on their phone? It escapes me, in all honesty. If it plays music, use the headphones - I neither want nor care to hear whatever you think passes for aural fun, ta.

Such it was that I found myself on a Glasgow tube, opposite one such runt. Particularly shitty day, exhausted and in no mood for anyone's pish. This pocket-based Jean Michel Jarre then proceeds to play some mind-numbingly crass tune on his phone, just for the entire carriages listening pleasure. Roughly 30 seconds pass before I lose the plot, and lean forwards, and in a voice like something from Amityville Horror, growl "Are you going to turn that off, or am I going to take it off you and stick it up your arse?"

The look on his face was priceless and worth every second. Stupid little twat. Fall under a train you execrable turd.

(I am very easy going. Stupidity or a lack of manners however just lights my fuse).
(mymilkshakebringsallthemongstotheyard poison hearts, poison minds - joining hate, Sun 12 Oct 2008, 22:11, 15 replies)

I'm prepared to take the flak...
I went to Public School - my parents worked hard and, because they felt it might be a good idea if their kid could read by the age of 18, sent me to a decent school (I went ot a state primary and they were told outright by the headmistress that as I was rather bright, the state system wouldn't care for me at all - the focus was on the cunts and retards, as that made jobs for social workers and teachers and the results required were easier to acheive).

I had a lot of stuff as a kid, but I was ill and couldn't go out much before I was about 7 - hence the need to have stuff to occupy me with in the house. I appreciated it all and still have all the Star Wars stuff in the loft, having sold the rest when I was a teenager to help pay to redecorate my room and the hobby room my dad had, as I used a corner of it to work on my radio-controlled car (I used to race when I was a nipper).

Spending money for holidays was only ever what I'd saved of my pocket money and, although I used to get a decent birthday and Christmas, anything I wanted, I had to save up for and buy, unless it was a requirement for school (hockey stick, rugby boots, etc).

My dad bought my first car, as he spotted it and knew it was ideal - I gave him what savings I had towards it, but I was, at the time trying to finance a fiancee who was sucking every penny out of me (a mistake I rectified some time later).

I've worked hard to provide for myself, my (now) wife and I've done my best to reapy the kindness my family has shown me.

Yet, because I was born in Surrey, went to Public School and have made a good career, it seems that the bitter, twisted inverse-snobs posting a lot of jealousy on here would label me as spoilt. Yet, when i lived in Leeds for five years, I saw kids whose parents laughed at the brats throwing rocks at the schools they were bunking off from as "they could always go on the social", so why bother trying to get an education or a job? I'm happy to take the abuse, but I think that these twats are the spoilt ones - they think they have a god-given right to expect handouts, for the state to raise their spawn, that no-one can criticise them ("I know my rights!") and, heaven forfend you point out their thieving pikey brats are doing something morally reprehensible.

No, they are, it seems, the salt of the earth, whilst I am destined to be a spoilt ponce purely because I and my fmaily aspired to be something other than council-housing fodder and I happen to be able to use the letters "T" and "H" correctly in my speech. Obviously.

This QoTW is showing up a lot of prejudice and bitterness, I think....
(Chad, Wed 15 Oct 2008, 16:59, 42 replies)

What about a device like a remand prisoner's tag

You put a collar round the infants neck and one around the parent. When the noise level from the child reaches a certain level, the parent gets a small electric shock in their neck. Also, if the parent raises their voice to an unreasonable level, the child gets a shock - this will make them scream and the parent will then get a shock too: learning responses through feedback.

What's the adress for Dragons' Den?
(Che Grimsdale Best before:, Tue 14 Oct 2008, 12:06, 6 replies)

Glynda the transsexual magician
I alluded to her in a previous QOTW but I can fit her in here too I think. Glynda, to the unknowing, is a former man, who has boobs and is saving up to get the little fella lopped off. She looks like Tina Turner and sounds like Mike Reid.

Anyway, she was appearing at this pokey little charity gig that me and my band were at, which I found a little odd because she has actually appeared on TV and has travelled round the world doing her little magic show (which by the by is utter shite - if a man man or woman woman did the same act they'd be murdered on stage for its shitness).

So anyway, the rest of us dutifully attend rehearsals and meetings at the allotted time. Glynda would waltz in late with a huge fur coat on, claiming she'd heard it all before. Everywhere she went, her fat little doggy went too. Every time she got off her arse to do anything, she had to be assisted by a team of 20,000 volunteers/victims. To this day I still remember her saying, every 10 fucking minutes, "oh yes darling, I'm on, I do my thing, and I'm off again in 30 minutes, I don't need to set up. I've been doing this 25 years darling, played Monaco you know".

Now at this point you may be wondering/hoping that her act bombed, or that she got upstaged by a rapping granny but no. As is the case in the real world - arseholes never lose. In fact, it was little old me who got the worst of her.

She tended to flounce around and stomp like a child when annoyed. She was on the stage at rehearsals, telling her victims where to place her own personalised backdrop for her performance. I'd been roped into standing on the floor, about 2 feet below the stage, to tell her when the backdrop was dead centre. This particular evening she was wearing a ra-ra skirt.

"Is that dead centre?"

"Yep, looks like it."

"Bollocks is it", she snorted.

She flounces to the front of the stage towards me and spins round to face the backdrop. In doing so, her skirt bellows and I am greeted to ultimate proof that south of the border, she is VERY much stil a dude. It was like looking at 2 walnuts and a courgette stuffed into a net curtain.

I'm undergoing hypnotherapy to forget about it.
(GONEism, Mon 13 Oct 2008, 18:12, 3 replies)

Lots of stuff doesn't always equal spoiled ...
okay, hands up, my kids have got loads (and loads) of stuff. All the usual gadgets. Piles of toys. Plenty of clothes. Their Dad and I work bloody hard to pay for the lifestyle. We do not have any credit cards.

But, and it's a big but, they're not spoiled. They get pocket money, sure, but only if their assigned chores have been completed and a proper job done. If they want something outside of birthdays and Christmas, they save up their pocket money. Most of the "stuff" it has be said, was their Dad's idea. Growing up, he had the square root of fuck all, and consequently, is determined that the kids will have a better time of it. The gadgets were all Christmas presents with the exception of the Wii, which was a "Mum got a muckle great bonus and treated the whole family to a Wii" type thing.

One of my eldest daughter's friends is constantly moaning that she doesn't have as much "stuff" as mine. But that's cos her Dad's in the nick as opposed to knocking his pan in for 50 hours a week to bring home a decent wage. She alleges that my girl is 'spoiled' whilst draining her mother's limited income with a £35 a month contract phone. We go halfers on a £10 top-up with our lass every month. If it runs out, tough! This is just one example, and this lassie proves that you don't have to buy kids a load of stuff to be spoiling them. Her mum apparently speaks two languages, but is incapable of saying no in either of them. She is allowing a 14 year old to set her own curfew, to dictate when and what they eat, she demands that every spare penny comes in her direction (to the detriment of her younger brother) and is a foul-mouthed little harpy to boot.

Last week was a prime example. I wasn't well, so my eldest immediately offered to make the dinner. She then helped her little sister to wash the dishes and even helped with her homework. All without being asked. Probably because she's been brought up to appreciate what she's got. The week before, her friend's mum had been ill. Madam demanded (and got) her mum's credit card to order a pizza then refused to share with her brother. Her mum had to drag herself into the kitchen to make the wee soul something to eat.

I agree that there is nothing more annoying than people who are completely and utterly spoiled, but it's not just the rich who spoil their kids, and kids who have a lot are not automatically spoiled.

/rant

*dons fireproof clothing*

*sits back in anticipation of a right good flaming*
(TheWeeWitch hasn't been here much recently .., Mon 13 Oct 2008, 14:53, 17 replies)

Children in restaurants
I went for a bite to eat one sunday in the Marriott near where the clan live with some of the aforementioned clan. Top scran for a Sunday lunch. Wine list was taking the piss though.

Upon arriving we were greeted by a packed restaurant. It was, expectedly, a little noisy, but one sound stood out above all - an infant banging the top of a knife repeatedly on the table – as in, half-machine gun speed BANGBANGBANGBANGBANGBANGBANG!!!

We endeavoured to persevere.

Eventually its parent took the knife away but only after some lunatic the other side of the restaurant started banging his knife on the table too in what could have been an exchange of Morse code.

Most effective, I must say.

Other children were running about and screaming at each other so the same mad genius of the aforementioned Morse code incident spoke quite loudly that it was the duty of all adults when confronted with unruly, unsupervised children in public places to ensure that said orphaned scallywags should not escape the day without having been introduced to the word. ‘Fuck’.

Again, so efficacious was our hero’s means that not another sugar-propelled snot machine passed the table for the duration of the
sojourn.

I am a spoilt brat.

rafter
baz
(bazmorningstar efil4nat3b, Fri 10 Oct 2008, 15:18, 3 replies)

As a proud parent..
My eldest daughter used to give me all kinds of trouble, so one day I decided enough was enough, and grounded her.

I told her the more she complained, the longer she'd stay grounded.

Now some goverment tossers are trying to tell me how to raise my own children!

Cheeky fuckers!

Yours,
J Fritzl
( Agnostic Antichrist Baltimora, Thu 9 Oct 2008, 16:59, 2 replies)

Frankly, you lot are spoiled.
And it's my fault.

I spend so much of my time and energy providing you with pictures of kittens.



I even bought a C drive.
(apeloverage committed the vile act of onanism on, Thu 9 Oct 2008, 15:16, 10 replies)

Blokes are spoilt nowadays
Years ago you'd have to open up a girl's grundies to see her buttocks.
These days you need to open up her buttocks to see her grundies.
(oneinthepink is at your cervix m'lady, Thu 16 Oct 2008, 13:34, Reply)

My lovely idiot housemate
A parcel arrived every Monday morning, delivered by Parcelforce in a coolpack type thing.

In it, 14 tupperware containers containing identical chicken curry dishes that his mum had cooked him.

And on EVERY SINGLE LID, the instructions.

1. Remove lid.
2. Open door of microwave and put tub in the middle.
3. Close the door then press '3 minutes'.
4. Press 'Start'.

Then my favourite bit...

'Wait for it to cool, don't burn yourself, I love you. Mummy.'

He was 22.
(Waspard has your wank bank account details, Tue 14 Oct 2008, 18:55, 4 replies)

I notice,
after reading some of these stories about small children that are spoilt, as opposed to your grade A university fuckwits, that the parents often seem to be entirely at blame.

How many times have you seen a screaming or misbehaving child just being ignored by it's parents? It happens all the time. Only today I was on the train and some little shit was climbing all over the seats and irritating the fuck out of people, all the while it's parents sat and ignored it, reading the paper.

Ignoring a child is no way to discipline it. The kid wants attention, that's why it's making noise in the first place. It wants to be looked at. Sitting there buried in your copy of the guardian isn't helping matters any. I'm not even a parent and I can tell you that. All you're doing is pissing off the people around you, and making the kid be more and more fucking irritating.

Heres my solution:

Cattle Prods.

When boarding a means of public transport, such as a train, make sure you pack a small portable cattle prod, like the one that that wrestler "The Mountie" used to have. He was ace.

When said child starts to be irritating as fuck, apply the cattle prod liberally to the back of it's head. This should suffice to snap the parents out of their bouts of deep concentration, as they puzzle over todays crossword, and/or have a telephone conversation at a sufficient volume for everyone on the train to enjoy it.

Should the child become more irate at this point, I recommend more liberal helpings of cattle prod, to be applied firmly and without mercy.

By now both parents should be alarmed enough to intervene, removing the offending child and no doubt taking it to a different, safer carriage.

Now would be a good time to shoot both parents in the back with a tazer.

Now relax, and spend the rest of your journey in a child free, hassle-less environment, safe in the knowledge that should anyone disturb your peace further, you can fuck them right up with thousands of volts of electricity.
( PMGT -Bacon., Tue 14 Oct 2008, 3:48, 9 replies)

Not really spoilt as such....
but she was definitely too posh for her own good. The first conversation i had with a female at university went like this.

Me: "I grew up on an estate"
Her: "Oh really? Whose?"
(inactionman, Mon 13 Oct 2008, 18:04, 2 replies)

Gogo
A few years back I paid $2.50 to get an online TESOL certificate and made an expedition to China - the land of mass-produced crappy merchandise and pirated DVDs - in order to teach English to students. The first year I worked in a little known country town which may as well be known as Bum Fuk, which had only three other FTs (Foreign Teachers) in the town at the time. Suffice to say that the kids were mainly from middle class families, adorable, and eager to learn. I felt like Brittany shagging Spears that year, people would stop me to take photos with their kids and random people would take me out for dinner, pay for my groceries, look through my rubbish and comment on the contents etc. It was a wonderful time, and the only reason I left was because the lonliness was getting to me. But I digress.....

Fast forward a year and I am offered a job (with a big payrise) working at a Private School not too far away from Hong Kong. Private schools are quite expensive here (as everywhere), and while most of the kids are nice, I also see some of the best "spoiled little emperors" that China has to offer.

On Friday afternoons myself and some of the other teachers are paid quite good overtime to run private lessons - affectionatly called VIP classes. My group of seven Grade 3 students are a delight, and for two hours each week we learn our new words, make something arty-farty to show Mama and Baba and then I take the kids out to the corner store for an ice-cream. Fun for all, and a fairly pleasant way to end the week.

Until Gogo came along.

Gogo is a new student, and as Daddy is a big party official, he had been making his presence known all over school. Principal ushers him into my class and tells him if he is a good boy, he will get an ice cream at the end of the lesson. No worries there, or so I thought.

For about 15 minutes all is grand until Gogo stand up and says "Ice cream".
So I retort with "Sit down, please, we'll go for ice cream later".
"Ice cream NOW" the little mung bean replies.
"No, LATER" I shoot back.
Cue the screams and wails while my other kids exchange looks, and calmly explain to him that we will get an ice cream at the end of the lesson.
So Gogo sits and sniffles until we finish making our crepe paper creations.
Finally we get to the corner store and everyone gets to choose an ice cream.
Gogo plonks an ice cream, a can of cool drink and a snak pak of chicken feet on the counter.
So I takes the drink and chicken feet and put them back on the shelf.
Gogo retrieves the controband snacks and places them on the counter, with a what-are-you-going-to-do-about-it? look on his smug little mush.

"BAD boy! No ice cream for BAD BOYS!"

Cue wails and crying again so I picked him up and carried him back to school under one arm.

I found out later that he dobbed me in to his Dad, but Dad called the school and said that next time he shames his family I can feel free to "punish him" even more "severely". Don't really want to go there, though.

Better luck next week, kid!
(doggone, Sat 11 Oct 2008, 20:17, 7 replies)

Pizza Hut
A fair few years ago whilst taking full advantage of the "eat as much as you can" in Pizza Hut with my then new girlfriend (Pizza Hut, I was trying to impress her!) a small child was drawing far too much attention to himself.. yelling, screaming, throwing food - his mother, let him get down from their table, and he then started doing a circuit round and round the restaurant screaming at the top of his voice.

On his fourth or fifth lap, whilst taking a bite of a slice of Ham & Pineapple, I thought I'd give the little bastard something to really scream about, so I stuck out my leg and decked the annoying little shit - he went flying.. he was quiet at first, either in shock or due to a large intake of air - I didn't look, I just kept eating - but he let everyone know, and stomped off back to his Mother, and eventually shut up.

My actions surprised the new girlfriend - she couldn't believe I'd do such a thing, but couldn't stop laughing. We're married now.
(Pesky Young Scamp, Fri 10 Oct 2008, 13:56, 4 replies)

Exclusive Facilities...
Hullo. Long-time lurker. First post. etc.

When I was at Uni, the first-year accomodation I lived in was a converted row of houses, with shared showers and toilets in the basement of each. I lived in a small house (only 5 rooms), which shared 3 toilets and 3 showers with another small-ish house next door.

Half way through Freshers' Week, I'm taking a rather nasty hangover dump and suddenly I hear someone come into the loos, then squeal, turn around, and leave. Fair enough, I think, it was rather nasty in there.

A few minutes later, the door opens again and there's banging on the cubicle door. Luckily I'd finished, so I did up my trousers and opened the door to be confronted by a girl from the housenext door.

'What the FUCK do you think you're doing in my toilet?'

I apologised for the surprise (why? just being polite I suppose) and patiently explained to her that I lived in the house next door and we shared toilets. Problem solved, I thought. Simple misunderstanding on her part.

However, in the conversation that followed it became apparent it was a much bigger misunderstanding. Not only had she not realised that her house shared toilets with ours, she didn't realise they were shared with anyone else at all. In fact, she had assumed she was the only person who lived in her house, and had been sending emails to the accomodation manager for two days complaining that she couldn't open the 'lounge and studies' upstairs (i.e. the other bedrooms).

How spoiled do you have to be to think the Uni would give you three toilets and showers and a three storey house per person?

Perhaps unsurprisingly, she later got kicked out for, in the words of her tutor, 'being thick'.
(SnowyTheWereRabbit the Leporid from Hell, Thu 9 Oct 2008, 18:44, 4 replies)

This is a good QOTW for me
As I've just come back to work from my little girl's 7th Birthday party.

One little girl there, Maia, is a bossy, spoilt little shitebag. Not only was the vertically challenged gobby little fucker telling my sweet, angelic child what to do, but she also demanded that she 'help' Isabelle unwrap her presents. Then the little fuckbag from hell started demanding food and drink from me as I was preparing it for everyone, and then the cunting little gonk, who's practically just a mouth with legs, demanded that I set up all of Isabelle's new toys for her to play on, all while screeching in the most irritatingly high-pitched, monotone voice that you could imagine, it was worse than nails on a chalkboard.

So, Maia, you cunting fuckbagging little shite from hell, one of these days I'm going to grab you by the hair and launch you, Trunchbull style, out of the nearest window in the hope that you will land somewhere near the prison where they're keeping your Daddy, where I will have already paid off some of the nonces to violently insert you into his twitching rectum. You fucking twat.

Happy Birthday Izzy! Daddy loves you.

xxx
( Bert Monkeysex is waiting for the mods to delete him, Thu 9 Oct 2008, 17:12, 26 replies)

Give Us A Push
.
I was so spoilt as a kid that it carried over into my life as an adult. But I did try to change.

So one night me and Missus Legless were about to go to bed when the doorbell rang. WTF? it was 11.30 and pissing down with rain. So I opened the door.

"Sorry to bother you but could you possibly give me a push?" asked the fresh-faced young man in front of me.

"Fuck off!" I retorted and slammed the door in his face.

Missus Legless said:"That was a bit harsh. Can you remember when we first met and we broke down in the middle of Buttfuck-NoWhere? In a storm? And that nice farmer got our car going again? Go help that poor guy out"

So, knowing that karma catches up with you, I pulled on a heavy coat and went out to give the guy a hand.

"Hello? Where are you?" I called out.

"Over here - on the swing...."





Cheers
Thank you very much. I'll be under the pier all week...
( Legless Mister Stabby - shanks for the memory, Thu 16 Oct 2008, 13:11, 8 replies)

‘Here’s the science’…

I read ‘Sugar Tits’ post earlier on the fact that sometimes people can ‘surprise you’…and I don’t mean in the "It’s not rape if you say ‘surprise’ first" kind of way...I mean that sometimes your social status, wealth and education can have vastly varying effects on your personality.

In other words: some people are just arseholes no matter how much cash they have.

I was reminded of a fascinating article called ‘Cognitive organisms and response to addiction from the genome’ by a German cytogeneticist called Dr Ulrich Wolf (1933- ). It details sporadic deformities in the genetic make-up of humans and some experimentation work done on what makes them decent folk or….well…total spacktacklers. It appears that this issue has once again raised the ‘Nature Vs Nurture’ argument in a big way.

For example, "heritability," a statistical construct that estimates the amount of variation in a population that is attributable to genetic factors, or any type of brain injury can turn a polite, mild-mannered person into a foul-mouthed, aggressive boor, and we routinely modify the behavioral manifestations of mental illnesses with drugs that alter brain chemistry. More recently, geneticists have created or extinguished specific behaviours in rats — ranging from nurturing of pups to continuous circling in a strain called "twirler"— by inserting or disabling specific genes.

It won’t surprise any of you lovely ladyfolk to know that the main discovered molecular flaw that creates ‘spoilt’ behaviour is based in the Male of the species.

Yep…like you knew all along…it’s all the man’s fault

What makes it even more interesting is that after further investigation I discovered that Dr Wolf is quite an eccentric fellow himself. Every day he turns up for work in full ‘cowboy’ gear – from the whopping great Stetson on his head to the spinny-round-sharp-dangly-things attached to his authentic boots. What the cumsponges is that about?

But now the good news. Dr Wolf believes that he has recently discovered a chemical that has been found to have the regressive effect on this foulest of personality traits…and like most of the greatest scientific discoveries, it happened by accident. In his laboratory there was a spillage involving a male lab-rat with defective (re: dysfunctional) DNA, and a mixture of oil and metal polish that The Doctor used to keep the spiked rowels on his boots spinning and to clean his ‘sheriff’s badge’!

He’s about to publish a paper on the subject called: ‘Definitive Organic Cognition Manipulation based on Heredity Versus Environment’...but apparently its current working title is…‘Spur-oiled Boy Rats’

(For all decent folk…when the word ‘sorry’ is just not enough…the ‘Ignore’ button is the one between the time and ‘Reply’)

But here’s fun – a load of the ‘clever’ bits of this post are accurate and genuinely fascinating (in other words, cock-all to do with me). Get some research and knowledge in you, kids…you know you want to…

Everyone…TO THE LIBRARY!
( Pooflake braces for an onslaught..., Wed 15 Oct 2008, 9:37, 14 replies)

I feel dirty just writing this…

Spoilt? I wish!. I shouldn’t even be here. I am only forced to prostrate myself before you putrid peasants as part of the community service I picked up.

It wasn’t even my fault – How was I to know a riot would ensue at my local Glutton Club? Surely the philistine was aware of the possible consequences when he mentioned that 'Chateau La Mondotte Saint-Emilion 1996' was inferior to a 'Dom. Romane Conti 1997' (in a fruitiness vs texture perspective)?

I say! – He should consider himself lucky that the only action I took was to ram the shattered shards of a champagne flute into his left cornea.

(The prosecution stated that I might possibly have also ordered everybody to do everything I say, and curtsey when I enter the room, simply because my Uncle Gerald was a hereditary peer…unfortuantely my memory of that incident is rather hazy due to a Louis Vuitton chaise longue being thrust at my temporal lobe during the fracas).

The judge in the case, (who conveniently forgot that my Daddy helped his grandson get Jeffrey Archer’s autograph), decided that I must spend the year ‘discovering my common touch’ by communicating online to the likes of you malnourished Neanderthalic oiks. You should be overwhelmed with gratitude that I even grace these filth-ridden pages with my quite blatant superior breeding.

In accordance with the Judge’s despicable intrusion of my privacy, my father has also decreed a cut of my daily allowance to a mere £7500 and has ordered the temporary lay-off of service from not only ‘Patsy the pasty Pastry chef’, but ‘Bertrum the bowler-hat wearing, back-scuttling Butler’. So don’t talk to me about sacrifice.

You think you’ve got problems? What am I supposed to do? The Veyron doesn’t just drive itself you know. And it doesn’t make my life any easier listening to you lot quibble about your petty ‘Credit Crunch’ (which until recently I thought was a breakfast cereal…until my manicurist put me straight).

I am an important part of this country’s heritage! My great Grandfather fought in the war you know – (I say ‘fought’, he was actually an Aristocratic draft-dodger who only crawled out of his Hertfordshire bunker to sell secrets to the enemy, but he still played his part).

And as for Daddy...he could have you all killed…(Well, he could have ‘Lewellyn, the lethargic, leggy, lovepipe-licking legal Expert’ send you a very official looking letter of complaint) so mind your ‘P’s and ‘Q’s thank you very much…

I mean really…pull yourselves together people…and let’s remember what’s genuinely important in life…i.e – ME.

Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m off with ‘Granville, the gregarious Goat gobbling Gamekeeper’ and ‘Florence, the felching, fandancing philanthropist’ to make paper aeroplanes out of £50 notes, set fire to them, then throw them at the beggars by Kings Cross Station. Good Sport – What-Ho!

Fondest regards,

Monseigneur Pooflake ‘St-John’ (pronounced ‘’SINJUN’ you ill-educated oafs) Smith-Smythe-Smith the 14th.


.
( Pooflake braces for an onslaught..., Tue 14 Oct 2008, 15:24, 9 replies)

Damien is nothing compared to Matthew...
The fact is that as a fairly middle-class kinda kid with no siblings, i have often been labelled as spoilt, but the truth is that my home life was rather unpleasant at times (my earliest memories of my father are of visiting him in hospital after an industrial accident in which he ruptured his spleen, shattered his pelvis, his elbow and wrist, broke both legs and crushed two vertebrae). The subsequent prescribing of Valium to numb him to the pain and two-year period of addiction and cold turkey meant that my formative years were full of smashed furniture and swearing, but he got his shit together and our family get along pretty well now. There are times when my parents and I have a row, but that's just normal because we're all pretty headstrong and we are at least grown up about it.

No, the spoilt kid I refer to is my friends' son, who I shall call Matthew because that's the little bastard's name.

Now, his dad is my best and oldest friend, who is as close to me as a brother and who my parents put up rent-free for six months, as well as sorting out his £20k+ debts. Needless to say, we've been through a lot together. He is, however, and I say this with all kindness, a bit of a tit. He's one of these people who reads crap on the interweb and takes it all as gospel truth.

His missus, however, is a bit of a damp squib. I've known her ten years or more and still would struggle to make conversation. She's passive-aggressive personified and is now making it her business to alienate all of my mate's friends so that she can control their social life and fill it full of her yummy mummy friends. When they bought their new house, it was riddled with damp, had no damp course and the interior walls were in danger of collapse. I and some other friends basically rebuilt it for them free of charge and then one of our mates who is a builder-type put their floor and kitchen down. The wife then fucked it up by dumping loads of furniture on the floor before it settled, meaning the kitchen had to be ripped out, the floor re-laid and the kitchen re-fitted, before she then refused to pay for ANYTHING.

I tell you this, because their kid is the spawn of Satan. She's insisted on teaching him baby-sign, so he waves his hands around when he wants stuff (like in Meet The Parents), which was cool when he was 6 months old, but he's now approaching 2 years and still won't speak because he's learned that his mother (who is never more than two feet away from him) a) understands his stupid gestures and, b) laughs when he screams at the top of his lungs and kicks the crap out of things until he gets what he wants.

Now, my wife and I just moved into a 16th Century former coach-house/inn and thought we'd throw a housewarming bash. We invited friends, including this couple, for a barbecue, some drinks and to stay over. I spent in excess of £300 on food alone, as we were expecting 15 or so people.

When they arrived, the little shit a) threw things across the lounge until he was sat in front of the TV with his Night Garden DVD, b) swung on the 100 year old french-windows like a see-saw whilst his mother laughed at him, c) screamed when he shut his fingers in said french windows (at which point I laughed my ass off), ruined the day by pissing off all the other kids who were playing football in the garden, as he insisted on sitting in the middle of the lawn with his Iggle-fucking-Piggle toy and his mother stopped all fun in case her litle darling got caught by a football. Cue six sulking kids and a lot of muttering parents. He then poked the cat in the eye (oh, how I laughed when it went for him), caught my pregnant wife in the stomach with a wooden block when he had his pre-bed tantrum and screamed the place down constantly.

I don't know who to beat first - my mate for letting his missus act like she owned the sodding place, her for letting the little fucktard run riot, or the little dipshit. I was tempted to drop kick his ass into the brambles just for the hell of it - the mother has now decreed we aren't suitable friends, based primarily on the fact she's jealous of our house and new car (a fact imparted to me by a mutual friend when I asked why we hadn't heard from my mate in a couple of months).

My kid will have all the advantages I can give it, but it will behave properly or I'll be the first to kick its ass....I hate those Yummy Mummy types with a passion. Grrr!
(Chad, Thu 9 Oct 2008, 15:15, 3 replies)

The right way to do it
In Tescos a child decided to throw a purple screaming fit in the aisle I was in.

It was the full blown, arms and legs waving, on the floor with a bright red head, screaming as loud as he could, job.

Mother gave it the "for fucks sake" look.

Bent down grabbed an ankle and dragged the kid down the aisle whilst pushing her trolley.

Surpisingly the fit stopped after about ten yards. She must have done it before.
(Yellow Car is now red, Tue 14 Oct 2008, 12:07, 6 replies)

My fault
Once again this is a tale caused by the fact that I seem to be possessed by the spirit of Adam Sandler.

I had this friend who lived in Turkey and she told me one day that she was moving to Canterbury to start uni. However, she had no idea how to get there from London, didn't know anyone there and had absolutely no contacts in England. Canterbury is only 15 minutes up the road from me and so I said I'd meet her at the airport, take her back to Canterbury and look after her for a few weeks until she was all settled in etc.

So one morning I head up to London with rather a nasty bout of flu. By the time I get there I am sweatier than any human has ever been, ever. In a slight state of delerium and dehydration, I escort her to the coach station (carrying her bags), get her down to Canterbury where she had booked a B&B for the first night, since her accommodation didn't start until the day after. Thankfully she let me stop there a couple of hours so I could rest up.

Anyhoo, for the next 3 weeks I went to see her nearly every day. I cooked for her (since for some reason she was living off pre packed sandwiches), got her joined up to the library, showed her where the supermarkets were, showed her round campus, even took her back up to London so she could sort some stuff out with the Turkish embassy. Basically anything she asked for, I provided, safe in the knowledge that I was doing something good in life which would maybe atone for the countless horrible things I'd done.

Then she cut contact for 2 weeks. I was a bit worried since she was having some issues with another girl on her course, she was still not really settled. One day my phone beeps and it's her, telling me she's ok. I ask where she'd been as I'd been worried about her. The following text said: "I have boyfriend now, so I have no use for you any more".

Still, I got the last laugh. Her name was Gizem.
(GONEism, Mon 13 Oct 2008, 20:14, 10 replies)

On the train
Conductor: Tickets please!
Rah girl: A ticket!? Why do I need a ticket?
Conductor: Everyone needs a ticket. If you don't have one, you have to buy one.
Rah girl: I don't! It's okay, my Mummy will be on the platform when we get there!
Conductor: I don't care: you need to buy a ticket.
Rah girl: No! Mummy will be there! Speak to her on the phone!
Conductor: No. You need to buy a ticket.
Rah girl: *dials mum*: Here! Speak to her! She'll tell you!
Conductor: I'm not talking to your mum. Buy a ticket.
Girl: Oh FINE. FINE. I'll buy a ticket then. But I don't understand why I need one.

What a cow.
(Merrep, Fri 10 Oct 2008, 19:03, Reply)

I once overcooked a German sausage.
It was the Wurst.
(Sloppy Giuseppe, Wed 15 Oct 2008, 1:01, 7 replies)

Supermarket fun
On my way home from visiting the girlfriend this afternoon, I stopped in at the nearest Morrisons and parked my bike outside, smiling at the nearest trolley boy who decided it was more than his job was worth to tell the biker that he wasn't allowed to park there. In I stroll, mainly to get some sweets.

As I wander down the central aisle, carrying my crash helmet at thigh height, I'm aware of a high-pitched whine. "Hmm," thinks I pretentiously, "the air conditioning must be buggered." This increases in pitch the nearer I get to the sweeties.

I round the aisle to see a little brat of around 5-6 years old in the midst of a full blown tantrum. Mummy is desperately trying to placate him by loading bag after bag of sweets into the trolley (yes, that'll make him calm down) but he's giving it the full welly, grizzling, stomping up and down, kicking the trolley, irritating the tits off everyone.

Then he decides to run away. Up he runs to the deli at the other end of the aisle. Then for whatever reason, runs the other way, towards me.

*THOK*

Luckily I looked down in time to see the startled expression on his face after bouncing off my crash helmet and going down like a lead balloon. Dazed and confused, he sprawled on the floor, wondering what the hell just happened.

"Sod the sweets love", said I to his mother, "just get one of these!" as I waved my helmet at her.

I then apologised for my length.
(jamesthegill opens new tabs with his scroll wheel, Tue 14 Oct 2008, 16:21, 3 replies)

Sound proof helmets
I invented this thing I wanted to take on Dragons Den - it is like a lightweight motorbike helmet, but in transparent plastic. It is also completely soundproof - so if your child starts screaming you just pop it on their head until they shut up.

It serves a dual purposes of preventing unpleasant noise pollution, and acting as a deterrent to further misbehaviour.

Every time I have tried to get buy-in from parents they have said it is outrageous and immoral. Can any parents tell me why? You can see their face, you'd know if they were actually dying, I can't see the problem.

Click "I like this" if you are a fat lonely loser with bits in your teeth.
( browser still relating boring anecdotes into a void on, Tue 14 Oct 2008, 11:53, 8 replies)

Backfired spoiltness :D
This happened this morning and suited this QOTW quite well (much to my satisfaction).

A spoilt brat gets his dad to call up our IT department due to not having any emails.

"Hi you're through to Jeccy, how can I help?" asks I.
"You better had. My 9 year old son apparently can't get his emails, keeps asking for his username and password."
"Sorry to hear that sir, can I take your details please?"
So we go through the standard rigmaroll of confirming security etc, then it becomes apparent that it's all in the wife's name. The wife comes on the line, passes Data Protection and passes it back to the husband all while this whiney twat of a kid is screaming "HAVEN'T THEY FIXED IT YET??!??" in the background.
I bite my tongue and bring up the email account, just as the dad asks "I don't normally deal with this myself, can I take his email address and password to sort it out myself?"
"Errr, ok...you got a pen?"
"Yeah, I'm ready."
"Ok, the main address is "dan".."
"Ok, Dan.."
"Then a dot..."
"...ok..."
"...umm.....terminator...."
(a small sound of stifled laughter from the dad) "Ok errr, terminator..."
"...lord...."
(a large bout of stifled laughter from the dad this time)"um....lord...go on"
".....3000...."
"HAHAHAHAHA YOU LITTLE TWAT HAHAHAHA" shouts the dad while laughing like a viking at the now quiet child in the background.
(me trying not to laugh now)"....@*******.com"
"HAHAHAHA, he's only 9, who do you think you are, Schwartzenegger???? HAHAHAHA!!!!" which was accompanied with the sound of the 9 year old running out of the room.

Yup, looks like we fixed it alright :D
( Jeccius Steam Borderlands 2 junkie, Mon 13 Oct 2008, 13:19, 3 replies)

You. Yes, You.
And me too. All of us. Everyone. We are all spoiled. Anyone who drives 5 miles to work instead of cycling. Anyone who fancies a BMW X5. Anyone who thinks that shopping is somehow recreational. Anyone who throws things away, even though they work fine, just because its getting a bit tatty and anyone who likes to "have nice things".
The economy is in crisis and the price of fuel has gone into orbit but only today did I see a rich idiot in her 250bhp Range Rover driving to Morrisons with her skriking ginger retarded spawn tied into the back seat. I say, If you can't carry it home, you don't need it. If you walk the streets of a town you get to know its occupants. Say good morning to people. Smile. Talk. Social Cohesion, anybody? No, I have to be supercilious with my huge ridiculous car, sorry. Wnakers.
My Grandmother lived through the war. They didn't even have bananas. Butter was rationed. Butter! But they all kept a stiff upper lip and kept their spirits high because to do otherwise was un-British.
People these days are spoiled and they don't know the half of it.
(Snake (on a) Crane FKA thwack, Sun 12 Oct 2008, 15:05, 53 replies)

Kids should damn well eat what they're given
I'm pissing sick of next door's kids. Not only do they behave like uppity little buggers, but aged 5 and 7, they've also perfected the latest eating fad in full flow.

I hear their desperately incompetent but well-meaning parents trying to shove good nutritional food - bananas, chicken, potatoes - down their whiny little throats, but these kids simply refuse. We've seen and heard tantrums, vomiting fits and some inevitable swearing from the parents, but all to no avail.

In fairness to these kids, at least the food they prefer is reasonably healthy. All they'll eat is fish. Small, simply cooked fish. And they'll scream and yell their heads off if you try to feed them anything but the fish of their choice.

It's really starting to piss me off, living next door to these nightmares. I can't bloody stand them.

Boiled sprats.
( ousgg is not seeking approval, Sat 11 Oct 2008, 12:34, 4 replies)

Went out with a lass
The 'rentals had a lovely house in the sticks, with a wing for each child (x2) and an Aga in the kitchen.

The pool wasn't heated, but I think they've sold up now.

When she got a Rover for her 18th birthday she went ballistic because she wanted a Golf GTI.

It's all right 'cos I shagged her up her shit-hole.
(Chickenwire social lubricator extraordinaire, Fri 10 Oct 2008, 22:36, 2 replies)

Bloody Hell
I have to say that compared to both mine and my wifes childhood my kids are a bunch of spoilt buggers that don't even know that they were born. I have worked my ass off to get to where I am today (A head of department in the governmet) and the kids can have anything they want. The wife was part of a big family that never had any decent money and I lived in near poverty as a kid that lived on nothing but hand me downs until I was about the age of 11.

Nowadays, every time I come home from work I'm never two feet from the front door before I'm hit with a a barrage of whining about the latest toys the kids want or how some other little sod down the road has something better than what they have. I can't wait to send them to boarding school (Coincidentally the same one I went to so I know they are going to have a hard time).

My missuis says that I will probably miss them when they're gone but to be honest I'm probably going to be glad to have a moments peace without the mention of how much the latest quidditch kit is going to set me back or how little james needs a better wand (A bad workman blames their tools you lazy little shit). When I was young I was just happy with a bit of space to fly my owl- then again living under the stairs for over 10 years does that to you.

Sorry for the rant

Love

Harry
(mon bison powered by magnets, Fri 10 Oct 2008, 11:02, 8 replies)

Child psychology
About ten years ago I worked on English language summer camps in Spain; basically so the parents who had the money could offload their offspring onto someone else for a couple of weeks during the summer holidays. We took kids as young as 8 or 9, up to about 17. Anyway...

There was a 9 year old called Bruno who was he most obnoxious, foul-mouthed little brats any of us had ever come across. He spent his first morning insulting all the other kids, so by the end of day one, even the most mild mannered, understanding ones would have nothing to do with him.

He also enjoyed putting his hand up the girls' skirts and grabbing their tits if they were old enough to have any, then running to the nearest monitor in tears expecting sympathy when he got hit.

When we finally got to meet his parents and tell them the trouble he'd had (and we didn't tell them the half of it) they just said "Well we think it's important for him to express himself."

They were both child psychologists.
(lolwhites, Thu 9 Oct 2008, 16:22, 9 replies)

My neghbours had a young daughter...
aside from being the snobbiest little shit you've ever met, she was also a completely spoiled bitch.

One time we were over there for a party (I was about 17, she was about 7), she broke one of her own toys and blamed her little friend, who started crying. Her parents told the other child off while the little bitch laughed. On this same day she started hitting me with a piece of metal piping on the leg while I talked to some of her friend's parents, and when I grabbed it off her, she said "It's rude to snatch! I'm telling!"

They bought her a kitten when she was 8, on which she put her mother's expensive lipstick and to whom she was generally a bit of a cunt. She'd pull its tail and pick it up by the legs, etc. She'd scream loudly at it, just to scare it. Then her parents complained when the cat wanted to seek refuge in our house.

She grew up (slightly) and as an early teenager wanted to learn guitar. Her parents bought her an expensive Fender, which she'd play EXTREMELY loudly and exceedingly badly in a shed they had down the bottom of the garden at 12-4am. Her parents didn't seem to have a problem with this. She kept this up for about 2 months and then, obviously, got bored of it because she was still shit and never picked it up again. Now my parents inform me that she's taken up the drums.

She had a load of 'friends' over for her 13th birthday, two of whom scaled our fence while drunk (aged 13 for heaven's sake) at 5am and had sex in the bushes at the back of our garden. Luckily they set off a floodlight at the end of our garden and my Dad (who was starting work early) caught them and gave them a severe bollocking before waking her parents and demanding an apology from their daughter, who'd apparently told them to do it in our garden instead of her own. Her parents made her give a rude, half-arsed "sorry" whilst she was smirking, and then wondered why my Dad thought this wasn't good enough.

But generally this girl is going to get pregnant early, end up with a cunt of a boyfriend who won't look after her cuntish sprog, and spend the rest of her days either on, or watching, Jeremy Kyle. I hate her so much.
(The Oscillating Gibbon is eating curried squid, Thu 9 Oct 2008, 15:20, 3 replies)

My cousin
I am quite a placid and mild mannered chap and have always been so.

My younger cousin was a bit of a spoilt brat and delighted in stealing my toys and/or breaking them when we were younger.

I'm reliably informed that one such time I wouldn't take any more and my parents, grandparents and aunt and uncle found me sat astride said cousin bashing his head into the floorboards.

Aghast, my grandmother said to mine Uncle "Aren't you going to stop him?"

Uncle: "naa, he deserves it"

Guess he wasn't that spoilt after all.
( Vipros. clever got me this far, then tricky got me in, Thu 9 Oct 2008, 14:42, Reply)

History Class for Chickenlady aged 15
I went to a Private Catholic Girls' Convent School.

I managed to get a scholarship to go there as my dad was a policeman and my mum a classroom assistant. My background was squarely blue collar - despite the fact that I very quickly picked up a RP accent.

This of course wasn't the case for many of the girls in my year. We had plenty of overseas students who were the daughters of captains of industry, members of foreign governments and even one or two royal princesses. Even some of the British pupils were from rather rarefied backgrounds too.

Our GCSE history teacher was an Oxbridge graduate and married to the headmaster of another very distinguished public school.

Their daughter was in my class.

Part of our history syllabus was on the establishment of the Welfare State and as our teacher wanted to make this fully accessible to a class of privileged teenage girls she asked if any of us knew of anyone who lived in a Council house.

Some odd looks were exchanged. The girl sitting next to me whispered that her grandmother lived in one, I whispered back that mine did (and still does) too.

A few tentative hands went up.

Then the teacher barked at her daughter,

"Jenny! Put your hand up!"

Jenny shook her head - she couldn't possibly know anyone who lived in a Council house.

"Jenny! Our cleaning lady lives in a Council house!"
( chickenlady b3ta's very own Elizabeth Taylor, Thu 16 Oct 2008, 10:44, 2 replies)

One of my favourites...
Comes from my Dad.

I understand it's meant to be somewhat of an urban myth, that's probably what made him think of it.

He was teaching in Manchester Grammar school, teaching RE to some unruly shits.

Eventually, he reaches the end of his tether, and tells the ringleader of the issues to have some respect, and be quiet.

Little shit looked down his nose (at someone who is about a foot taller, no small feat) and says "Do you know who my father is?"

Quick as lightning my dad comes back with "Why, don't you?"

Little shit goes an interesting shade of purple, as the rest of the class laughs their head off.

My Dad became a lot more popular after that :D
( Agnostic Antichrist Baltimora, Tue 14 Oct 2008, 15:08, 3 replies)

Just crying out for attention… (And sex…lots of sex)…

I find it eerily thought provoking that many of these ‘Spoilt Brats’ we are reading about on this QotW appear to be nothing more than incredibly insecure and misunderstood creatures; and their annoying boasts regarding their (parents) apparent wealth and monumental strop-throwing tirades are really just pitiful cries for validation, and reassurance from non-attentive parents and peers who try to justify their lack of time and affection for their children by randomly ‘throwing money at the problem’…

But as the Beatles once proudly proclaimed…’Money can’t buy Me Love’

It reminds me of the tragic tale of a girl I used to know called Anna.

Her parents were so rich that they could have bought Manchester City twice over…and I don’t just mean the football club…I mean the whole.fucking.city.

So yes, Anna was richer than God, but unfortunately she was also uglier than Shane McGowan’s hairiest testicle. More unfortunately, she was only blessed with the intellectual capacity of something you would normally find eating its own dung.

To make matters worse, her precious ‘daddykins’ never had any real time for her, yet once every blue moon would give in to her incessant whinging and keep her sweet by spluffing up trinkets worth more than the current global banking debt.

Unfortunately, as the lonely years trundled on…this wasn’t enough for Anna, and she sought evermore affection….physical affection…anywhere…and often. Whilst we were at school she did the ‘Love-Lozenge Lambada’ with so many people that her nickname got an honourable mention in the urban dictionary:

It was ‘Shag Pig Of (the) Year’

(You can see it here: www.urbandictionary.com/define.php?term=S.P.O.Y.)

Dripping with riches yet lacking in self worth, poor old Anna decided to try and win some friends (and some more ‘hot cock-action’ no doubt) by throwing a fancy dress party at her parent’s mansion. I was invited along with what seemed like millions of others – but as there was not one smidgeon of imagination between us, all the girls were dressed as Lara Croft and all the Boys were dressed in different guises of Sacha Baron Cohen.

But Anna had tried to make a good impression by going as Cinderella…and was resplendent in about a quarter of a million pounds worth of finest Jewels.

Nobody cared. Least of all daddy.

As the party got into swing, most of the guests simply blanked Anna and took advantage of the numerous freebies on offer, and (talking of freebies) half a dozen of the more desperate men decided to give Anna a knee-trembling portion of man meat behind the stables.

Well, it all got too much for Anna, and this all-encompassing display of a lack of respect at her own party was the last straw…but it turns out she knew what was going to happen…and that night…she had a plan…

She clambered to the top of the West Tower, where a strategically placed spotlight was ready to shine on her…lighting her up for everybody to see…

As the crowd stared towards her, she cried out: “I’m sorry I didn’t make you proud, Daddy”, before leaping off the parapet.

As she plummeted to the ground before splatting through the windscreen of the family Jaguar like a jewel-clad bucket of bread pudding, my identically costumed partygoers and I realised far too late; that all we had ever needed to do was show her a little empathy, and maybe this tragedy would have been averted.

In helpless desperation we all shouted her name loudly, and our haunting howl resonated around the grounds:

…

‘SPOY!’, yelled Borats
( Pooflake braces for an onslaught..., Mon 13 Oct 2008, 14:37, 16 replies)

My dad told me a tale....
of his past.

My Dad was about 8 or 9 at the time, and rationing was still in full swing - this must be about 1947-1948. His friend's parents owned some kind of local shop (as many did) that had access to cakes and confectionery.

This one lad was sat on the local wall, showing off with his newly acquired Chocolate Eclair cream cake. He was teasing my dad and the other kids with its creamy chocolatey goodliness.

He was slowly and gently licking the cream from the choux pastry, with an extended tongue. He then turned it 90 degrees and started the lick the gooey chocolate on top... and the other kids looked on, all with watering mouths, wanting that eclair, but this kid was not for sharing.

My dad, who had never had even a taste of a chocolate eclair, said he could stand it no more. He grabbed the kids wrist, forcing the lad's hand upwards.. He then made him press that eclair in his own face, and rubbed it around until it was destroyed beyond repair. Letting go of the kid's hand, my dad clocked him with a single punch that bust his nose, his face a mix of pastry, cream, chocolate and claret.

The kid ran home. The other kids cheered. When my granddad found out, my dad got the beating of his life.

I eat chocolate eclairs in a single bite when my dad's around.
( Piper Alpha is being a grumpy northerm bastard on:, Mon 13 Oct 2008, 11:17, Reply)

I'm still around
I guess Madeline Mcann must be a spoiled brat by now?

Nyuk nyuk nyuk....
(GONEism, Sat 11 Oct 2008, 23:33, 8 replies)

Another daddy's girl tale
A few weeks ago, while hanging around with my superfun new mates in their kitchen, a girl walked in. She had a bottle of Absolut (a warning in itself) in one hand, and was holding a phone in the other.

Her: "Guys, what's this place's postcode?"

I looked at the others quizzically, and they explained that she was ordering an Indian. The bill, it became apparent moments later, was £20 just for her and her mate.

Me: "Crivens! Twenty of your finest English pounds! We're students! I have £340 to last me until Christmas! There's a takeaway not 100 yards from the bottom of the tower; why are you doing this?!" I ask. She shrugs.

Her: "It's going on my daddy's credit card."

Me: "Aww, that's nice; your old man's forking out for you to get a nice meal on a Friday night."

Her: "Errr... no. He's given me access to his account."

Me: "OMGWTF ...And how much have you taken from this account?"

She looks puzzled at this point.

Her: "Dunno. Not really been keeping track. I've spent at least £400 this week, though."

There's a stunned silence, followed by another silence, this one composed mostly of building anger as everyone in the room looks at one another agape.

To break the tension, she offers:

Her: "In fairness, though, £300 of that was for me to go on holiday."

More silence.

Her: "Oh come on! You've GOT to have holidays!"

At this point I cursed and left, pausing only to punch a wall on the way out.

Cunt.
(bad1dea, Sat 11 Oct 2008, 18:46, 2 replies)

school trip
when i was 14 i went on a school trip to stratford. about 15 of us were put into a group and were told to walk to this park and meet our teacher. on the way there we passed two boys the same age as us, sat on a wall. as we walked passed one of the boys said, in a rather posh accent "i hate public school children, they're just so horrible"

you can imagine how much his view of children from public school changed when soon after he found he'd been pushed off the wall.

.
(i eat crayons, Fri 10 Oct 2008, 17:56, 3 replies)

A turn up
I went on a foreign holiday to Africa and while there, I met another young English lad called James. We got along like a forest fire, he was just like me (love of beer, tall tales and more beer).

They say when women meet, perhaps at a bus stop, that within three minutes they know everything about each other: their sister's names, where their shoes are from, where they work...but men....well I spent a week with James and despite sharing the holiday of a lifetime, never really found out much about him, other than we were both 19.

When we met up weeks after we returned from Africa, he gave me his address. It was a mooring on the Thames. Where he lived on his own, on a half a million quid's worth of house boat in Chelsea.

When I popped round, I couldn't believe it. He had a Mercedes sports convertible parked up by the boat. His old man was in that Sunday Times rich list.

And you know what, he is the nicest bloody young man I have ever encountered in my life. I started to think back to the sharing of bills in Africa, him giving hairbands and pencils out to kids (its wrong to give money, it fucks up the economy- imagine little Kwanga, 5, returning home with her parents yearly income in her hand). I thought about his normal Adidas shoes.

You may have met him yourself. And you'd never have guessed what his old man, or him, have in the bank.

Which makes me smile.

(Because I'd be an utter twat if I won the lottery. Think Lotto Lout with imagination.)
(whitehorse, Fri 10 Oct 2008, 10:58, 2 replies)

So what would you like to do when you're older....?
....was one of the questions we were asked in one of those god-awful PSE lessons.

One girl replied "I'm going to be a businesswoman."

Oh really? What kind of business?

"Whatever my daddy buys me."

What happens if it goes bankrupt because you have no experience?

"Daddy will buy me another one."


Shame daddy didn't buy her some contraceptives...I think she's on child number three by father number three. She works in Tesco as a shelf stacker. I don't think she owns the place.
(Bondvillain2k, Thu 9 Oct 2008, 18:49, Reply)

Has anyone seen "My Super Sweet Sixteen"
Holy fucking snot cunts that program is full of the absolute scum of America.

They represent everything that is wrong with the westen world. I would happy starve them all to death.

/rant
( Naked Ape call me Caitlyn, Wed 15 Oct 2008, 13:24, 17 replies)

When do we get the new qotw?
i waaaant iiiiiiiiit I WANT IT NOOOOOOOOOOW
(rosie-pie, Wed 15 Oct 2008, 12:56, 10 replies)

My step-sister-in-law
My father-in-law got married recently (my actual mother-in-law died about 10 years ago, having one now is a novel expereince for me). The woman he married is absolutely lovely. Her kids, however, are the classic product of a divorce.

Especially the eldest.

She's 19. When she was 16, she got knocked up by a Kurdish asylum seeker.Mother took her for a termination (despite it being against her beliefs) 6 months later, she was knocked up again, but decided to keep it this time. Father gets throw out of the country.

Didn't let a silly little thing like being pregnant get in the way of smoking and drinking WKD in the park.

Kid is born (as is suspiciously blonde-haired and blue-eyed, considering who she claims the father is). Stupid little girl decides it shouldn't get in the way of her smnoking and blue WKD drinking. The grandmother (my new mother in law) looks after the kid.

Stupid girl has a night out in Rhyl and decides she likes it. So she wants to move there. "mum, I need money for a flat". So mum pays deposit on a flat and rent long enough for the peperwork to go through and the DSS to take over paying. Idiot girl won't get a job, since the taxpayer can keep her in fags and blue WKD.

Every friday, the mother picks up her daughter's mates from various locations around Liverpool, drives them down to Rhyl and picks up the baby. Then reverses the process on the Sunday. This is the only time the baby gets new clothes, toys etc, since it's mother spends all of her money on fags and blue WKD.

Spoilt twat snags a boyfried (I assume she bullied him into going out with her, he was that wet). Boyfriend's grandmother dies and leaves him £10K. Girl takes said £10K off him. Now, given the slum she lived in and the way her mum had to run around after her, you would have thought she would have spent the money on somewhere nicer to live, clothes for the kid or diving lessons so she wasn't so dependant on her mum (she refused to get public transport anywhere), right?

Nope, she spend £10K on a boob job. Not only that, she expects her mum to drive her down to London to get the boob job done, then stay in a hotel nearby while she is in hospital, so she can drive her back again afterwards.

Classic moment as all this was going on was one Sunday, over lunch, she said "I can't wait to get my boobs done so I can get a better boyfriend". He was sat next to her. My wife said that I couldn't point out that she should do something about her ugly face or size 22 waistline before dropping all that cash on boobs.

Not long after, she meets a new bloke and moves to Birmingham. "Mum, I need £1000 for a deposit on a flat". And so it starts again.

Oh yeah, and she had a go at my new mum-in-law, on my mum-in-law's wedding day, because the happy couple where coming up to Manchester for a couple of nights but she wanted to go out on the piss and "who will look after the baby when I've got a hangover?"
(ScousersPet, Mon 13 Oct 2008, 10:33, 6 replies)

Brat on the bus
A girl in her late teens got onto the bus with a 4 or 5 year old girl. As they walk past I was confused, it looked like a teenage mum, but the girl was very well dressed. When they spoke it was clear this was East European aupair looking after an upper middle class English brat.

The brat spent five minutes trying to annoy the young aupair before demanding that she recall a dream she had mentioned. So the aupair, sounding quite happy, began to recall the previous nights dream in a sweet slavic accent;

"In my dream I am travelling back to my country to see all of my family. I am very happy because I've not seen them for so long. Our village looks beautiful and I can see my parents house. My brother is there and my mother, and..."

"NO!" the brat screams, "not that one. Tell the dream where _I'm_ a princess and I live in a castle"

The poor aupair, sounding slightly choked, then begins the Princess story, probably for the fourth time that day.
(mrdirtylegs, Fri 10 Oct 2008, 18:54, 5 replies)

This guy I knew...
His dad made furniture, you'd think he'd show some humility, but oh no, he was just a bloody show off.

He had people following him everwhere.

I remember that he threw a picnic. People said there wasn't going to be enough food for everyone.

We should have known better.

Smug bastard made sure no one went hungry that day with his clever portion control.

The thing was, everyone else loved him, they all though he was so good. I tagged along with him, not wanting to be left out, but really, he got my goat.

The worst day was when he threw this big party, he sat us all at a big long table, him taking centre stage of course, got this big picture of it made up he did.

I hate that picture. Him standing there, arms spread wide, giving it the 'big I am' while the twelve of us look like fawning idiots around him.

Couldn't stand the fucker.

Still, I did feel a bit sorry for him when I saw him nailed to that cross.
( scarpe We Stole Bikes, Fri 10 Oct 2008, 10:53, 5 replies)

Yes, I am the Golden Child
My mum, it has to be said, dotes on me. She'd do pretty much anything to help me out, which is why I in turn try to be as little of a burden on her as possible. I left home at 18 to go to university and although she would help me out occasionally, I still took three part-time jobs during the holidays (Pharmacy retail 8am-12pm, Plumbers' warehouse carrying radiators 1pm-6pm, Barman 7pm-11pm, lather, rinse, repeat) *and* sold weed during term time to cover my rent. After university I moved back home and got my first job, so I paid half of my wages back to my mom for board. After a year, I moved to London and I've pretty much stood on my own two feet for the past ten years, and though my mom still offers to give me money if I'm in a bit of a hole, I've no need of it. I'd rather she enjoy her impending retirement and not have to worry about me.

My younger sibling, by contrast, dropped out of university after a year and a bit (but apparently my mom had to pay her rent and fees for the rest of the year) and moved back into the family house rent-free. She then started a four-year course at a local university, during which she, yep, lived at home. When my mom would make noises about selling the house (as house prices were up, and she would have got a tidy sum) she would throw a tantrum - "You want to take away my childhood home!"

Eventually my mom got engaged and moved in with her new fella. Sibling remains in the three-bedroom house, still paying no rent. Sibling invites friends to move into the house - the sort of friends who eat all her food (that mom used to bring round), borrow her car (that mom gave her, of course) without asking and never pay any rent. After a couple of years of this, sibling kicks out these friends (amongst much recrimination) and brings in a fiance of her own who, in the two years I've known him, has not held down a job for more than three weeks, and hasn't been paid once. (He also told her that his dad had died and he'd inherited a £500,000 house...18 months later, his dad is apparently alive, but I suspect that's a story for another time.) Anyway, apart from the aborted attempt at university, sibling has never lived outside the old family home, never paid rent in her life (she's now in her late 20s) and mom is still paying for the mortgage and the majority of the bills.

Yet every time I visit, all I hear is "EMVEE'S THE GOLDEN CHILD! HE GETS ANYTHING HE WANTS! YOU SPOIL HIM!" after my mom, say, cooks me a meal when she hasn't seen me for a month. (The sort of meal, I am reliably informed, that sibling gets cooked for her twice a week.) Yep, according to sibling, I had everything handed to me on a plate (er, when?) and she got nothing. She can say this while actually standing in the house and keep a straight face.

I'm spoilt all right. Spoilt rotten.
( emvee cruor deo cruoris, Fri 10 Oct 2008, 10:48, 4 replies)

Hah!

Call this a recession? Call this an unfriendly government? You lot don't know you're born! Back in the 80s we KNEW how to do a recession properly, dole queues that stretched round the block, homeless people in proper cardboard cities, real heavy industry being brought down by a proper un-caring Tory administration - not like these namby-pamby call centres being "off-shored"...and where are the strikes? Where's the un-rest?

Kids today...
(Che Grimsdale Best before:, Fri 10 Oct 2008, 9:04, 23 replies)

in Vietnam
it seems like every second kid is terribly spoilt.

Bloody Agent Orange.
(apeloverage committed the vile act of onanism on, Thu 9 Oct 2008, 19:04, 2 replies)

I don't really like talking about this but...
When I was younger, I had to get up in the morning at ten o'clock at night, half an hour before I went to bed, eat a lump of cold poison, work twenty-nine hours a day down mill, and pay mill owner for permission to come to work, and when we got home, our Dad would kill us, and dance about on our graves singing "Hallelujah"

Tell you what, kids these days don't have a bloody clue :D
( Agnostic Antichrist Baltimora, Thu 9 Oct 2008, 14:52, 8 replies)

Simon
When I was a nipper my mother was standing outside our house talking to one of the neighbours. Another neighbour approached and said to her friend "Ooh, Mrs Jones, your Simon really is spoilt."
"No he isn't, he's a nice boy."
"Well just come and see what that lorry's done to him."

First with that one? Gets coat and ticket to Hull.
(porkylips looks better as the sun goes down., Thu 9 Oct 2008, 14:46, 1 reply)

I guess it's too late to get any attention, but here goes
I had a couple with a little daughter as neighbours. The girl was about 4 years old and very sweet - blond hair, blue eyes, in short, a little angel.

But she was also a hideous little beast. She drove them nuts with constant whining, for be it toys, sweets or some other whims. She had frequent fights with the other children from the neighborhood and behaved generally like a snotty little princess. She was also quite noisy and threw sometimes gravel at my dog. She was their only child, and well, you get the idea - they had really spoiled her.

No wonder that they once came back from a holiday without her.
( Zhmei HEY B3TA I WAS ON YOUR DINGY ISLAND AT LAST!1!, Thu 16 Oct 2008, 13:56, 8 replies)

A couple of ski resort based antics for posh kids
with too much money (or in this case, not enough).

Back in 2004/05 I worked in a fairly upmarket ski resort - it was no Klosters, but it wasn't cheap. We used to get shedloads of students coming on their uni trips, nearly 1200 a week for about 5 weeks in a row.

I worked in a bar that was included on all their official bar crawls, so I got to see pretty much every one coming through the door.

One evening, when Oxford Uni was in town, a group of 5 walked in. They were instantly recognisable; Crew shirts, tight jeans, oversize belts and bug eyed sunglasses for the girls and the boys idiotically braving the cold in their Uni tour t-shirts.

The lead muppet saunters up to the bar and starts gathering orders from his friends. He orders all his friend's drinks and then pauses. He's noticed the Whisky shelf - the owner of the bar was a Single Malt fanatic and had over 80 on a high shelf above the bar. The prices for the top end ones were 100-150 euros for a glass.

He arrogantly smarms at me "I'll have the most expensive one please."

I'm not surprised, but I ask him if he's sure, and tell him there are nicer ones for less. He's adamant he wants the most expensive one, and I finally pour it for him, then tot up the bill.

His total comes to just under 200 euros. When I tell him this, he goes pale. His jaw sags comically. For about 30 seconds, I enjoy the look on his face, before re-iterating the total.

He looks inside his wallet, and there's a paltry 50 euros inside. He stammers "I didn't know it'd be so much."

Then he pipes up, "Oh, I'll just put it on Dad's credit card, I thought I left it in the hotel."

Cunt.
(Himjim died a little more inside on, Tue 14 Oct 2008, 15:33, 8 replies)

Spoiled? You don't know the half of it.
He moaned and complained all the way home in the car, so much so that he made himself sick.

When we got him in the house, we realised that he smelled like he hadn't had a bath in months. We tried to tactfully explain this to him but he wasn't having any of it.

As a result we were forced to pick him up bodily and manhandle him into the bath. The ungrateful swine snarled and fought us all the way, even attacking chickenlady in the process.

Credit to chickenlady though, she didn't slap him back. She kept her temper in check and made sure he was smelling sweet enough to join us for dinner. However, any hopes that he would be civilized were dashed when he wolfed his food down with no manners whatsoever and haughtily demanded more.

I know that he's very young and cute and all, but his behaviour cannot be excused. Imagine my fury later that night when I heard the door creak open and felt something creep up towards the bed, expecting to squeeze in between us.

Honestly, at his age he should know better than that. I despair, I really do...

Click "Reply" to see a pic of him.


(Bicycle Repairman "you're also a bit of a wanker", Tue 14 Oct 2008, 14:46, 13 replies)

I'm sure everyone knows someone like this...
But that doesn't make them any less irritating.

A friend I went to university with went out with a guy who shall remain nameless for the duration of this story. He was a cock of the highest order. Allow me to proffer you my reasons why:

Firstly, he was born in Britain, but his (extremely wealthy) parents moved to Switzerland (couldn't possibly be for the tax reasons could it? Nahhhh.) He lived next door to Michael Schumacher. That should give you an idea of how wealthy we're talking. Unless Michael Schumacher lives on a swiss council estate and I've just got the wrong end of the stick...

Secondly, despite being born in Britain, living here for several years before moving, and English being his first language, he claims he's Swiss, and that French is his first language. It's not. And for some reason he speaks with an American accent.

Thirdly, he is one of the most self righteous tossers I have ever met, and almost entirely without a sense of humour. I once mentioned something in a conversation about the french proununciation of the word "vert" and how I thought it was pronounced "ver", and he butted in to correct me and to say that I was wrong and that it was pronounced with a hard T and that he should know because he's Swiss (not fucking French, but swiss). At which point my friend Kate butted in to point out that she was in fact French, and it is in fact pronounced "ver" in most regions of France, and that he was wrong, and a tosser for being so indignant about something he obviously knew fuck all about.

Fourthly, like most spoilt rich kids, he wants so desperately to be a rebel, and to this end has a mohican and wears the cheapest clothes he can find, often shopping in charity shops, in a sad attempt to travel the wrong way down that one way street that is being fucking loaded, as so many people with money try to do. "only the rich can afford to look poor" as the saying goes... He also listens to punk music to this end, and regularly champions the rights of the working man. Despite never actually having had a job himself. Or knowing what it's like to come from a family with no fucking money at all.

Fifthly, and lastly, everything about him was a glaring contradiction that only I seemed to notice. He was a little rich kid who had never worked but championed workers rights. On the sleeves of his oh-so-punk leather jacket, complete with self adorned slogans, were the words "Fuck Authority" and on the other sleeve an anarchy symbol. Surely, as an anarchist, which yes he claimed to be, he would not believe in authority? how would you go about fucking something you don't actually believe in? he might as well have "fuck the tooth fairy" written on his jacket. He wanted an end to all capitalism, yet went to a government funded university. He claimed that our government censors people's right to free speech. He claimed this freely. And often. Whilst at a government funded university. He believed communism was the only way forward, whilst his parents resided in a multi-million pound house in one of the richest areas of Switzerland. Surely in his utopian world view his own mum and dad would be first against the wall? Oh and to top it off, he claimed to be a pacifist, but said he would "genuinely kill George Bush if he had the opportunity". Which, you know... kind of... doesn't make you a pacifist.

I'll tell you what it makes you. It makes you a cock. A complete and utter cock.
( PMGT -Bacon., Tue 14 Oct 2008, 2:34, 14 replies)

repost from Kids QTOW :
I gave up on swimming lessons as a child after the pool had to be evacuated for the third consecutive day because of floating turds.

I cant spark a fag in the pub, but I get to be surrounded by sprogs every sunday in 'spoons.

I have to carry around pointless forms of ID. It is my right as a UK citizen to never have to have a means of Identity on my person. Yet I am forced to as the teenager on the checkout cant be trusted to use common sense to differentiate between a purchase of WKD with pocket money change and a purchase of a single malt with a visa card. This all because the mollycoddles of today cant handle their drink.

They have hours of inane shit devoted to them on tv while all the good stuff gets pushed up to late for me to watch (I have an early start most days) as it might corrupt them.

I have to verify my age evry fucking time I want to veiw a youtube link from /links

They are getting so fat, so all the good bus seats are taken and the goverment is trying to tax chips now.

they hang around the library and pester you for fags.

they turn your mates into simpering idiots.

They have parents who think that the 'miracle of birth' gives them the right to barge in front of ANY queue and tut-tut anytime you say fuck/shit/bugger even if you are amongst a group of adults.

Child tax credits. mr darling can keep the income tax high for low income people as long as the breeders get a discount. Meanwhile the well off are paying less tax.

Well off peoples kids. There is nothing like the toffee nosed bastard spawn of the rich to aid the spread of communism. the next time I see a 'yummy mummy' pull her planet fucking SUV , paid for by a weekly newspaper article about organic hummus, tear into the mother and child section of a car park I will personally melt it down and turn it into tractors and lada's.

Roads. The school run brings traffic to a standstill In Hull. This is made worse by the council turning about 60% of the city into a 20mph zone with fucking speed bumps every 2m
_______________________________________________

The whole world is being changed for 'the kids' no wonder the little shits think the sun shines out of their arse.
( willenium Fist bump for verification, Sun 12 Oct 2008, 22:06, 14 replies)

You gotta love 'em!
Three things spring to mind when I think of spoiled brats:

1. On a train coming back from a works do in Cardiff to London after a heavy night of drinking, I had to contend with 3 noisy little feckers constantly demanding things and throwing tantrums right next to me. Parents (tofts is about the only word I can think of) did sweet fa apart from what their spawn demanded. After about an hour, I manage to get eye contact with one of their parents:

Parent - "I'm terribly sorry about them"
Me - "Never mind, at least I don't have to take them home with me"
Parent - stoney silence followed by embarrased expression

2. Went down to the south west to get a car and just before I was due to get off I stood up to walk to the door. A bunch of kids, obviously sporty types or something, had put their kit bags in the passageway and there was no way past.

I asked the nearest one if he minded moving the bags so I could get past. He gave me a filthy look and then continued talking to his impressed mates. So I did what any responsible adult would do - I walked over their bags, making sure I stomped my size 12 boots down onto each one. Then I stood at the door glaring at them and none of them would make eye contact with me or even speak. I even gave them a wink as I walked past their window on the train platform - childish I know, maybe even not a spoilt kid story but it comes to mind when I think of ignorant little specs.

3. Most recently, a couple of city kids found themselves at my local train station. They were obviously well off (clothes, watches etc) and in their late teens. What they couldn't fathom was why this pesky commoner was denying them egress from the station:

Kid "I don't understand what your problem is"
Guard "Well this is a tube ticket"
Kid "So?"
Guard "So this is Chelmsford"
Kid "And?"
Guard "Well, you're about 30 miles outside of London"
Kid "Well no-one told me that!"

Made me chuckle as the kid was trying to throw a strop to get out of paying and the guard was having none of it.
(Mmmmminty all the beatles are aliens except for George, Sun 12 Oct 2008, 18:25, 6 replies)

oxford students...
I know. It's like being nasty about racists or doing jokes about opening milk cartons, but...

Girl in bar, talking to friend. In uniform of shirt, big hair, denim skirt tights etc...

"They just so fucking unreasonable..."
"I know..."
"I mean, how can he say that he's not paying my card offf this month, it's only 3 grand"
"Yeah, and you've got that ski-ing trip next month..."
"I know. He expects me to live on £500 pounds a week...I mean, how the fuck am I going to do that?"
"I know, and God, didn't he tell you to get a job?"
"Yeah. Like thats going to happen..."

And on like this for some time...
(jameslib, Sun 12 Oct 2008, 11:40, 6 replies)

what a spoiled little shit!
so again, a tale form the bike shop days.

little asian kid comes in, starts asking endless questions about the nice top-end DH bikes. i'm humouring him while trying to work.. but the little shit's starting tograte on my already frayed and hungover nerves. he's basically DEMANDING i get bike after bike donw for him to look at. now this kid's maybe ten? small for his age too. he's asking me to haul down bikes for people my height, then when i tell him ti's far too big, he's telling me how he rides bigger and he's got his own mercedes etc.. at this point i've pretty much glazed over. so he throws a strop and storms out.. nothing unusual here.

EXCEPT he comes back in from the car park with a cery well attired saudi who he's ordering about like a bitch, and another well-attired and VERY LARGE saudi in dark glasses with an earpiece who doesn't say much and looks very... aware of the surroundings? so this kid basically comes in and starts saying he wants this bike and that bike.. the first saudi guy is clearly TOTALLY his bitch. he's waving a wad of fifties thicker than my cock about, i'm TRYING to explain to him if i sell the kid a 45lb DH bike, he'll probably get stuck under it before he even gets it out of the garage- the guy's like 'look, i know this. but.. his father has asked that we deny him nothing, so give him what he wants, we will pay.

i made a bunch in sales that day. i also developed a DEEP hatred for this ungrateful shit.. last i saw of him he was screaming obscenities at his minder because the guy couldn't fit both bikes into.. yes you guessed it. the kid's own personal mercedes.. big bastard thing like a boat, tinted windows, looked like an ambassador's car.

really, i hope that kid gets fuckin mugged. if i wasn't gripped by honesty and conscience i'd have mugged him myself... except the big guy frnakly made me nervous. i swear there was a suspicious bulge in his jacket just where you'd expect a gun holster to be..
(UppityDamnPrimate LET'S OPEN THIS F*CKING PIT UP, Sun 12 Oct 2008, 4:31, 3 replies)

The supermarket brats're the funniest.
Years ago, a brother-in-law told me how he'd heard a little boy in the Co-Op trying to blackmail his mother.

He wanted sweets NOW or he'd tell everyone about how he saw Mummy kissing Daddy's willy last night.

I suspect it was the Daddy who was being spoiled there.
(Juan Quar is clinging to her front teeth on, Sat 11 Oct 2008, 13:05, 3 replies)

an antidote
Every now and then most of us have to look after a spoilt brat or two . It may be for a couple of hours or for a week. I use just one rule . Its not mine but i like it so much .

Here is rule #5 from Alcatraz Penitentiary circa 1955.

You are entitled to food , clothing , shelter and medical attention . Anything else you get is a privilege.

Simple and too the point i feel . Please feel free to use it next time some whining little shit is dumped on you.
(welgar, Sat 11 Oct 2008, 5:55, 1 reply)

my friend's homebrew
was called "Some of the Them Don't Even Speak English". It was white wine.
(apeloverage committed the vile act of onanism on, Sat 11 Oct 2008, 2:05, 2 replies)

Janet - Old-Age Brat Extraordinare!
My step-father currently employs his ex-wife to 'work' part-time at his shop.

He does this purely because he believes his also very bratty son will sulk if he sacks her (he's another story).

She turns up when she pleases, insisting on being chauffered to & from the office by members of staff.

Once at work her daily routine involves playing solitaire for the majority of the day, taking a well-deserved break in order to smoke, be rude to the customers & slag off all other members of staff, including my step-father.

She is unashamedly rude to people's faces, then whinges she is being bullied if anyone says anything back.

She had a pop at one of the staff last week, because he's in a spot of bother & may lose his license: 'that means you won't be able to work here no more then, if you can't even get yourself to work!' Then threw a hissy fit when she was told in return that she could start getting the fucking bus.

There's currently a big sign by the back (shared) computer that says 'JANETS DESK NO UNAUTHORISED USE!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!' (lack of apostrophe her choice, not mine). This was placed there after someone else had the nerve to be using it, when she had a hard day's soltaire playing to do.

Getting off her fat arse to sign for parcels the postman brings is also a major hardship, as is making a cup of tea. Apparently, she is 'not the fucking secretary'. Which is news to us, seeing as that's her job title.

Although she was busted the other day sending a shitty letter to a client, listing herself as 'Managing Director'. Most days, I'm surprised she can manage to direct herself to the shitter & back without damaging her braincell.

Her over-protectiveness of the biscuit tin is fast becoming legendary. Dare to eat a biscuit & she will start to bitch about how everyone is always nicking 'her' biscuits. Despite the fact they are paid for out of the petty cash tin for the business.

She purposefully tries to cause arguments for her own entertainment by spreading vast quanities of bullshit. This has made her universally hated by the enitre staff, who have made frequent complaints, but cannot get rid of her due to her 'unsackable' status. Even though she's way past retirement age. And claiming full unemployment benefits, naturally...
( Sylia Stingray is pilfering the biscuits on, Fri 10 Oct 2008, 14:17, 13 replies)

My Super-Sweet Sixteen
Has nobody seen it? Seriously?

It basically nullifies this whole QoTW. I tried to post a youtube link but they're all parodies.

This one lass got bought a convertible for her sixteenth, then proceeded to piss herself - as it was driven up in front of her gasping friends, tied up in a gigantic comedy-style bow - because it was the wrong colour.

ARGH. JUST THINKING ABOUT IT MAKES ME WANT TO SHOE FACES.
(MNNNNGGH, Thu 9 Oct 2008, 19:30, 13 replies)

Student Scum
As a university timewaster now enjoying a placement with a fat paycheque (going straight into a savings account for a mortgage. Thank you AS Economics), I'm often disgruntled at the piss-poor excuses for human beings that I refer to as my fellow students.

Despite getting around £3,500 in loans per year, followed by a £1,500 grant, a few hundred quid in bursaries and only being required to attend 10 hours of lectures a week there exists a clique of whiny, insecure brats who never quite had the umbilical chord cut.

Some of the examples I've had to put up with in the past 3 years:

- One housemate threatening to take my landlord to court because a combination of airing wet clothes, constant electric heaters and a closed window led to the development of damp in her room. She wanted the entirity of her rent returned, the room refurnished and assistance moving her bedroom elsewhere in the meantime. Her rent was £40 per week, paid by direct debit by her millionaire parents. The landlord consequently sent two very large blokes over to move her stuff into the front garden and bugger off.

- One (former) student protesting that if she didn't hand in her essay in she should not fail automatically, but the exam board should wait patiently for her to get the time outside of her busy schedule to complete it without deduction. Her logic was that her rich Chinese family gave the university £15,000 a year to be there, so they should be honoured by her presence.

- A current flatmate having no cooking skills whatsoever. A common situation you may claim. Oh no, this guy has his parents drive from Birmingham to Reading every other week with home-cooked food for "his" freezer. His family hasn't realised yet that he's eaten at a takeaway every day since he moved in as food continues to flow into "his" house

- A sexually repressed flatmate forcing the entire commune to watch Hollyoaks/Eastenders/Home and Away etc, including the "first look" episodes, meaning we saw each gruelling episode twice, as the television in the living room was his and if we argued his parents would come over and take it back. After a few weeks I'd had enough, and removed "my" plug which I had purchased and fitted from the end of the television cable and reclaiming "my" tv aerial. That soon sorted that out.

No apologies for length.
(FoxyBadger (try saying it backwards), Thu 9 Oct 2008, 15:49, 4 replies)

The Royal Family.
Isn't it about time we rid ourselves of these useless spoilt twats and their extended inbred families? I feel guilty if I take the car to Tesco's yet that ginger twunt uses a Chinook to pick up his horsey bint. How's that for leaving a footprint?

Shoot the fucking lot of them!

And before any Mail reading wanker says 'ooh they do so much for charity and tourism' DO THEY FUCK! Have them stuffed and on display in Madame Tussauds and the income of this green and pleasant land will increase.

Thank you and goodnight.
(Tugnut Ex of this parish, Wed 15 Oct 2008, 13:39, 36 replies)

This happened just last night.
I don't know how things go over across the pond, but over here the days are still warm and the nights are cool. The leaves have started changing colors and acorns litter my back yard, there's often a tinge of woodsmoke on the air, and I find that right about now I like a good dark beer.

Autumn is really here at last.

When this time of year arrives I get the urge for foods like beef stew, gumbo, chili, grilled sausage, roast pork and other fall meals. There are few things better than such a meal followed by a fire in the firepit in my back yard. And as one can't really do these things alone, I tend to invite someone else to join me in this.

Last night I had my friend Leslie and her daughter over for dinner. I had bratwurst to grill, sauerkraut, fried apples and a loaf of bread. When they arrived at 7:00 I had the fire started outside and the apples frying and the kraut heating in a saucepan. The entire house smelled like the very definition of Fall.

The daughter came in and rather suspiciously sniffed the air. "What's that smell?"

"Sauerkraut," Leslie informed her. "And apples."

The daughter sniffed at the kraut (into which I had also put some dark German beer) and wrinkled her nose. "I don't think I'm going to like it," she complained.

I bit back my instinctive reply and instead said, "Well, if you don't like it I have some stuff in the freezer that I can heat up for you."

She sulked and went outside to throw acorns into the fire.

I went out to start the grill and she gave me a sullen look. "Can you put the other stuff in the oven now?"

"Sure," I replied, internally boiling at her rudeness. "Come on in and pick out what you'd like."

She followed me back in and started poking through the freezer, and I opened the package of sausages.

The kitchen suddenly smelled as though Amy Winehouse had passed out under the kitchen table. The stench of corruption blew out of the package and went through us all like a brick through plate glass. I gagged and threw them into the trash can, then closed up the bag and took it out to the bin, then opened all the windows and turned on fans. It took me half an hour to get the smell out of there, and our appetites were pretty much finished at that point. We ended up sitting by the fire and having a nice enough evening, but dinner was definitely out of the question.

Worst spoiled brats I've ever encountered.

(May not be 100% FACT. Actually, it contains very little fact at all... aw hell, so I made the whole thing up. There, ya happy?)
( The Resident Loon Not a demographic. Do not measure., Tue 14 Oct 2008, 13:22, 13 replies)

At school
We were studying socialism. Being 16 everyone in the class thought they were communists and rebels. I'm sharing my textbook with rather a posh girl in the class. We open to the relevant page and she pipes up with:

"Oh look! That man looks like my ski instructor!"
(GONEism, Mon 13 Oct 2008, 18:57, Reply)

Lets go antiquing...
The kid next door to me when I was growing up used to get everything he ever asked for.

A new mountain bike on weekend, a radio controlled car the next.

He had all the newest star wars toys.

He had a gorgeus puppy dog one day.

His skateboard was the best I'd ever seen.

He'd get to go to Disneyland. His parents showered him with love.

He had a video and tv of his own in his room.

One day he came over to play and bought a top of the range walkman with him. One of those flashy ones where you didn't have to take the tape out to turn it over.

His tree house was nearly as big as my bedroom.

You wouldn't believe the amount of stuff he had.

I wish I had luekimia too...
( scarpe We Stole Bikes, Mon 13 Oct 2008, 11:53, 2 replies)

I was spoilt
I had this shitty little job at some pisspot banana republic embassy. For some reason I managed to catch someones eye and I was invited to this little soiree.

I had to spend a fortune hiring this fancy pants cocktail dress and diamonds (fake) just to keep up and not look like a total dweeb.

Anyways I get to the do, and it is incredible. The opulence and stinking wealth was sicking, there were several celebrities and members of various royal families. Seriously these dos were some what noted in society.

I am just wondering around looking jobsmacked, it was like one of those moments when you see peoples mouths moves but the words are just out of synch.

I am wondering around when I happen to bump into the ambassador who is running this shindig. I am at a loss for words when suddenly this waiter waltzes by with a veritable pyramid of nutty chocolates.

The ambassador looked at me and the place seemed to go silent and I was almost lost for words.

I grabbed a nutty chocolate and said

Why ambassador, you is really spoiling us


Sorry - First time, excitement and all that, give me an hour or so and I am sure I can try again.
(TheEarl used his power to freeze time at, Sat 11 Oct 2008, 21:16, 2 replies)

no body does spoiled like the arabs
so some of you may know - I'm in dubai now

i live across from one of the worlds largest shopping malls

i see a constant stream of young arab lads in very expensive cars - ferrari's lamborghini's maseratis - a Lamborghini Murcielago costs about 180,000 GBP some of these guys are around 18 or 19 years old

the kids all mill around dripping with the latest mobiles and mp3 players - except here they are often also studded with swarovski crystals or or even diamonds

its a waste of time trying to go to the cinema - particularly gold class. they spend the whole time ordering ridiculous amounts of food and jabbering on their mobiles - they have hands free kit strapped to them 24/7 - they look like The Borg in bedsheets.

Anyway yesterday we decided to go karting. We had a few good natured races then as the place was closing a little indian gofor type bloke turns up with a set of Sparco Ferrari branded flame retardent overalls still in their dry cleaner polythene. (indians over here get treated like utter shit - on bulding sites they are regarded as expendable) A few minutes later a stretched ford mustang limo turns up followed by a procession of blinged up hummers and range rovers.

about a dozen or so blokes all get into the supplied overalls and helmets.

then the main even arrives. tiny little arab fella. hes got the full Schuhmacher Ferrari overalls on by now, the little red puma race boots and a VERY expensive looking helmet. everyone else is in their random take what you get karts waiting to go while our fussy little sheik wanders up and down kicking the tyres of all the karts. he them saunters back into the man building and a few minutes later screeches round in a what looked like a brand new kart with split new tyres.

so he then procedes to beat all his mates in with his unfair advantage then stands afterwards loudly proclaiming he got rid of his Porsche gt3 cup because it 'was sheet'.

I bet he's lovely to his mum.
( spimf ™ is whoever you want him to be, Sat 11 Oct 2008, 20:26, 4 replies)

Don't judge me
Ok so I spoiled my only son a bit, but I was trying to overcompensate.
I'm a single mum, I couldn't even tell him who his dad is and he always seemed such a special boy.
He was ok growing up despite my smothering him with love and attention and what little material goods we had.
But lately as he has grown into a young man he has been attracting trouble of a very bad sort.
You see he has become involved in a political movement, street protests, violent disorder that kind of thing.
He has been arrested for daubing anti-government graffitti on the walls of the city.
His fellow agitators look upon him as some kind of leader, just today there was a crowd of them outside the house calling his name and encouraging him to lead a violent uprising against our colonial masters.
Well I told them in no uncertain terms I said


"He's not the messiah, he's a very naughty boy.

checks flights to HUY
( notsosecretagentman, Sat 11 Oct 2008, 12:34, 2 replies)

My Nephew
For a few years now I've been looking after my nephew.

He's a good kid but he's such a brat. Due to the fact that I have a large farm I sometimes need help, and with the credit crunch and the bigger suppliers undercutting me I can't always afford the help so have asked him to help out, and every time we asked he's always whined and moaned. I'm not overly impressed as I've raised the little shit for 16 years!

Anyways, the other day I'd managed to hire a couple of foreigners to help out around the farm with this and that but over the course of the night one of them had gone out for a few beers, I asked my nephew to look for him and take his mate along so he could recognise him, at this my nephew was surprisingly helpful, I reckon he'd had a hand in letting the guy out but I can't be sure...

Next thing I know the local fuzz turn up and start shooting up my farm!

Bastards!

And the little turd wasnt; even my real nephew!

Yrs,

Owen Lars
(Fuckarma was masturbating into your handbag, Fri 10 Oct 2008, 16:50, Reply)

Several QOTWs in one easy post
The nicest thing anyone did for me was daddy giving me a job in his restaurant. Could I cook? Could I buggery. Any of the other chefs complained, and I made sure they got the sack.

Anyway, getting bored late one evening, I decided to have a laugh. I got one of those piping bag things that they use to put icing on cakes and thought it would be a scream to use it as a wanking aid. Fuck it, the customers won't notice.
Stupidly, I posted about it on Facebook. The head chef saw it and told me the next day that if any women have eaten cakes with that icing, there's a high probability that they might be pregnant. (Yes, I know now that's utter bollocks, but at the time...).

Little did I know, that one of the customers had also seen the Facebook post and came in to speak to my dad and demanded I be sacked. I told my dad that I'd throw a tantrum like he'd never seen.

Actually, I was just faking it.
( sandettie light vessel automatic New Twitter - @bollocksreally, Fri 10 Oct 2008, 15:33, 3 replies)

Some people don't grow out of it.
My ex boss, upon hearing that her friends son had terminal cancer:

'Why do these things always happen to me?'
( scarpe We Stole Bikes, Fri 10 Oct 2008, 11:08, Reply)

I will end up strangling her.
I am the eldest of 3 girls. I'm currently working in the USA after finishing my PhD, middle sister lives at home whilst working as a nurse, and youngest sister is at art school.

So, which of us is the spoilt one? Which of us was told (by mum, in the presence of all three of us) that mum and dad will pay for their wedding only, as they can really only afford 1 wedding? Which of us has had 6 of the last 8 months off sick with one of the following medical complaints: a cold, a bad cold, oh it's the flu this time, a cold, a burn on her arm from the cooker, a broken back (unconfirmed by repeated x-rays), an ear infection, a sore foot, a blister, and (my favourite) galloping diahorrea caused by the fact that she hadn't realised that defrosting a chicken breast is not the same as cooking it? (She told me that she was being bullied at work - apparently they had asked her to work harder, and to only take 1 hour lunchbreaks, rather than the 2 hour ones she had been taking. Bullying?!) Which of us has been bailed out by the parents no less than 4 times because she lent money to friends and never got it back? (and then it turned out that she had actually spent it all in pizza hut and ann summers). which of us has repeatedly left my mother in tears by being so outrageously rude it would be a mercy to shoot her, but is then slipped a hundred quid to keep her happy when she's had a bad day? which of us gets a ride to work every day from my father, even though she starts work at 7 am, and he starts at 9, so he has to get up at 6, wake her up, get her breakfast (WTF?!), drive her the 40 minutes to work in silence whilst she sullenly listens to her ipod, then go home, pick mum up, and set off for their jobs?

And she then had the temerity to tell me that she thinks I'm spoilt because our parents plan to spend their money on flying to the USA to visit me next year, when they could be putting a deposit on a flat for her.

Ok, I've lost my temper writing this, I'd better go and calm down.
( ascorbate, Thu 9 Oct 2008, 18:54, 10 replies)

Shops
Following on from Haberman's post about the parent in the supermarket....

The other week I was in town with the nuggets and one of them began to get stroppy about having more money - he wanted some but without working for it as they both usually earn any money over and above the 50p they get each week for sweets. Of course I told him to dream on about me handing over cash for no good reason, so he sulked...

We happened to be in HMV at the time.


I walked past a stand full of DVDs.

I said in my loudest voice,

"Oh look darling! They've got your favourite here! It's High School Musical!"


His brother nearly ruptured his bladder.

He grabbed my hand and dragged me out of the shop.




Two days later he earned himself £5 for moving and stacking a load of logs for the winter. He's also offered to wash and vacuum out my car for £3.


I know those High School Musical DVDs are expensive.




And I know I'll probably have to pay for his therapy pretty soon.
( chickenlady b3ta's very own Elizabeth Taylor, Thu 16 Oct 2008, 12:11, 14 replies)

This absoultely takes the fucking cake.
uk.youtube.com/watch?v=kQRBaBYoXnM

Her and her parents...foul...

I hope they die.
(trippeh, Wed 15 Oct 2008, 17:09, 21 replies)

Banks
have been spoilt bastards havent they? And look what happened.

And what do we do? Ahh there there banky wanky, did you piss away all your money? Did you let all your customers spend 20 years buying frivolous shit and remortgage their houses over and over again without any thought or consideration that one day the house might not actually be an ATM spunking cash? Never mind, let Daddy Government help you out. Heres some more pocket money, run along and divvy it up amongst your friends. Dont do it again you silly monkeys!
( I have run out of coke is a little sweaty, Wed 15 Oct 2008, 16:44, Reply)

When I was a lad…

My friend and I were invited to a birthday party at the house of an annoyingly rich kid named Tarquin.

We were the only poor people there as all the other kids invited were also stinking rich…and as for Tarquin himself? Well, he and his family were so butt-munchingly wealthy that he even had his own swimming pool!

Generously, the parents let us all dive in and we had a great time.

As we were changing afterwards, my mate said to me: "Did you notice how small the rich kids' cocks were?"

"Yeah," I replied despondantly, "It's probably because the lucky fuckers have got toys to play with."


( Pooflake braces for an onslaught..., Wed 15 Oct 2008, 15:31, 5 replies)

I wonder if this has been done..
..Seems rather obvious to me but is a bit different to the other stories I've seen here.

Music lovers are spoilt in this age.. that's my stance. I've got no love for most of the record industry and believe CDs should be going for more like 2 quid than 12, but it's suddenly become nigh-impossible to make any sort of living out of making records, for obvious reasons to do with the internet.

It's not just a financial problem.. Seems that the whole experience of "owning" music has been degraded horribly. In an era when you can attend a fun "file-sharing party" (sounds like a lot of fun) and download 80gb in a few hours, notions of taste and discrimination go out of the window and appreciation of the music plummets. The few remaining vinyl-lovers are mocked and it becomes acceptable to blast whatever Shaz gave you at the weekend through your tinny phone at the bus stop like an aural STD.

I like to get home, make a cup of tea, roll a cigarette, dim the lights.. whatever - make preparations - then select a record from a crate, obsessing over the perfect choice, then sit back and appreciate it fully. After about 20 minutes side one will be over and then you have to flick it back over or choose another record. No-one understands the appeal of that anymore.

So, music-lovers are spoilt. On the flip-side winamp and last fm have served me well for parties and just monging in front of the computer, and I will admit to downloading stuff for free and not feeling guilty about it but.. it leaves a bad taste in my mouth ultimately and I will always go back to my record collection.
(lost, Tue 14 Oct 2008, 16:49, 13 replies)

Me!
I went to public school then one of the posher Universities and I was SPOILT. I'd grown up in a vast house in Kensington and used to feel sorry for people who lived in terraced houses. The idea that neighbours could be separated from you by only a wall completely freaked me out. At Uni I had a wacking great monthly allowance and a car... you get the picture.
I never looked down on anyone (far too insecure to do that) but I never got round to imagining what life must be like for anyone who wasn't in my shoes. I fear then that I must often have given the impression of brattishness. It simply never occurred to me that I was 'flashing' cash - I was just buying things.
Unfortunately what I mostly bought was heroin, which made me feel better about coming from an emotionally illiterate family that sent me away to boarding school aged seven where I was systematically abused.
I was in rehab by 21; I'd pissed away my trust fund by 35 and I now live in a house where the neighbours are often audible through a thin wall.
I know the knee-jerk reaction when you see a braying idiot in a rugby shirt is to feel a curious blend of repulsion and envy, but there are some wounded souls amongst them. Do as you would have done to you.
(RayPugh So, what are you wearing?, Tue 14 Oct 2008, 16:15, 4 replies)

In general...
Have you ever noticed that, when some little scrote gets murdered / run over / killed while doing something they really shouldn't, their parents always end up on the local news saying about how their dearly departed was "a loveable rougue" or "misunderstood", despite the fact that the little fucker had a criminal record stretching back to when they were 11?

They are the spoiled ones. If I got arrested when I was 11, my parents wouldn't call me a "loveable rougue", they would have called me "who? No, we have only ever had one son, we don't know who you are talking about. By the way, do you like the new, 11-year-old boy shaped window which overlooks the new patio?"
(ScousersPet, Tue 14 Oct 2008, 12:32, 9 replies)

My cousin's son
Is a little shite.

At a family do he felt he wasn't getting enough attention, so he climed a tree and threw an apple which hit my then girlfriend's head.

It was months before we realised he had made the right decision.
(teebie jeebie, Tue 14 Oct 2008, 9:34, 2 replies)

Hemingway is shit
"Kate, you can't blame us for having mice. We don't abandon our half-consumed food on the floor for days, and wander off only to be surprised by the presence of vermin."

"Kate, when we said 'These Navy ads are incredibly camp', this was not a personal attack on you, your family or your brother, about whom we didn't know he was a medic onboard HMS Salty."

"Kate, I said you would find a manual car was a more engaging driving experience because I've driven manuals and automatics and find this to be the case. This was not an attack on you for having imperceptible cerebral palsy and therefore needing to have an automatic, because I didn't know, because you haven't told me, because it's not noticeable. Please stop telling everyone on my Health Care course I am bullying you because of your CP, as it's defamation and I might have to take legal action."

"Kate, I'm allowed to find you going on about how fit Colin Firth is in this a bit tasteless, because regardless of how well cut his (SS) uniform is, it's a drama entitled The Final Solution."

"Kate, why don't you fuck off and die?"
(wormburn, Mon 13 Oct 2008, 22:01, Reply)

The Tale of Kaol and the Spoilt Rich Kids
Just a short one this week.

I was at university in a small, expensive town in Surrey.
I met some good people while I was there, but there were a lot of cunts there too.
Most of them, for some reason, seemed to do Management.

I was sitting on the uni-bus from town back to campus, behind a couple of annoying rich-kid management students.

Now, I'm not really one to judge people on how they look (pot/kettle syndrome), but is wearing your old school blazer really scoring you cool-points?

Anyway, one of them started to talk in a fist-clenchingly posh and nasal voice, moaning about how "Father has cut my allowance down. Instead of the £1000 a week for clothes and going out, I'm only getting £750. I don't know what I'm going to do."

I looked at my £10 weekly food shop on the seat next to me, and briefly, sadly considered bashing his skull in with a tin of Value Chopped Tomatoes.
I decided against it, swallowed hard against the bile and turned my music up to drown him out.

I did get a tiny glimmer of happiness a few weeks later, when I was DJing a Classic Rock night and he came up to request The Libertines.
He got all shouty when I told him to piss off, and was dragged away by one of my mates.
( Cawl, Mon 13 Oct 2008, 12:19, 10 replies)

If I was rich
I would buy an expensive slipper to beat my children with, after reading this QOTW
(Tyraen, Sun 12 Oct 2008, 0:34, 1 reply)

Overgrown spoilt brats
I work with a bunch of overgrown spoilt brats.

Prisoners.

A lazier, whinging, moaning, tale telling, bullying, manipulative bunch of wankers you would be hard pressed to find. Although to be honest some are good lads who are there to do their time and never come back.

If they don't like something they complain to the governor. If they don't like something we've said they complain to the governor. Or call you a racist, homophobe, disabilist etc.

They get free food and lots of it (food here is shit guv) and still waste more in a day than a hospital patient gets in a week.

They don't pay for accomodation, clothes or gym access and treat all facilities like shit (literally - an example is one dirty bastard shitting in a shower). Even if they are working outside and earning more than I do (yes, some prisons let them out to work as part of resettlement).

They seem shocked when we dare to question their honesty having discovered contraband on them.

They are abusive to staff but whine like hell when given it back (and complain to the governor, of course).

I did manage to annoy one this week enough for him to threaten to complain to the S.O. that I was picking on him. He'd buggered off from cleaning duties after 15 minutes and I'd caught him and sent him back. I had to go sort out something else and he'd buggered off again.

So in the afternoon I told him to scrub the walls of a wing. He wanted to know why him, and why I was picking on him, and why couldn't one of the others do it (they were working hard all morning and afternoon while he skived). I calmy told him I needed them doing and the others were busy. His reply was along the lines of "I'm not doing it cos you're treating me unfairly and I'm going to make a complaint against you." I told him "Fine, you go see the S.O." which stopped him in his tracks. After hearing that I would gladly let him see the S.O. the confusion was evident in his eyes (I'm a probationer so as far as he cares I know nothing and can be scared by any complaints made against me). He eventually came to realise I really, really didn't care about his threats and told me "OK I'll do your fucking walls" before storming off to do them.

Thing is I really was picking on the lazy moaning bastard and by being calm, not raising my voice and making no threats to put him on report I confused the hell out of him.

I'm getting to really like my job :o)
(Tyrion, Sat 11 Oct 2008, 22:14, Reply)

An old friends sister with hair like Crystal Tips.
Now before I start this message, I would like to say that its the fucking soft touch parents that are to blame..wrap em in cotton wool all their lives..doing more harm than good. imo.

And twas the case with the Grants and their offspring. Mr.Grant was a spineless poorest excuse of a man I have ever met in my life..and Mrs.Grant definitely wore the trousers, for she was bielzibub incarnate..an overprotective, overpowering horror of a parent, that would'nt let her children go to school if they so much as caught a cold !

And as one of her sons school friends, I wasn't even allowed around to the house if I so much as coughed or sneezed. (I was even turfed out in the pouring rain to face a very wet 10 minute walk home just because I coughed whilst playing on the computer - the she-devil bitch).

Anyway, I digress. This story is not about their son, but their daughter Trudy. Bless her, she had a face like a bag of spanners (took after her mother) and hair that would give Steel Wool a run for its money. Big, Frizzy, and with a forehead the size of a dinner plate, she was a real looker.

Anything she wanted, she got. If she didn't get it immediately she would scream like a Banshee.....and scream.....and scream. The kind of scream that rips through your ears, and scratches its nails down your brain as if it were a chalkboard. Pleasant child.

Mr and Mrs Grant would often enter competitions on the local radio station, and amazingly one day their efforts paid off with a call from the radio station. Live.

Cue Mrs. Grant rushing to put in a tape to record themselves on the radio, and so there they sat, Mrs Grant, their son and daughter, in one room listening..whilst Mr. Grant answered a difficult question like "Who came second place in World War 2" or something to that affect.

Upon hearing the correct answer, the DJ gave a list of prizes:

A Hostess Trolley
A Ghetto Blaster
A weekend Break for 2 at a Spa
or a Teddy.

Upon hearing this option, Trudy bursts into a Banshee fit repeating over and over again

"I WANT THE TEDDY"

The DJ asked what Mr.Grant wanted, and obviously couldn't call him a spineless twat live on Radio.."ooh I'd better have the Teddy" Mr.Grant replied.

Laugh..I nearly shit myself. That just summed it up really, walked all over by his wife, and the daughter is learning the same tricks too.
They got what they deserved. Humiliated live on Radio.
(TheRiddler Hmmmmm... I concur., Fri 10 Oct 2008, 16:35, 1 reply)

another cousin
she's a year older than me(35), but you'd swear to listen to her talk that she was 6.

when we were kids, she'd get £40 a week "clothing allowance", despite the fact that all her clothes were bought for her. she'd take me shopping with her, just to rub in my face the fact that she had money and i didn't. her father worked every hour god sent to provide for his family, but it was never enough for her.

in her teenage years, something strange happened: she became temporarily nice. she would treat me to days out, meals, nights on the town, the lot. of course, they all had to be where and when she wanted to go, i had no say in the matter.

scroll forward about ten years and she's become a raving loon. she works for a temp agency, mainly because she can't hold down a full-time job. she's left every job due to "bullying". basically, she goes in there on the first day and expects everyone to instantly idolise her. she will pick on the quietest, most hard-working person there and decide that they've got something against her(i.e they didn't fall at her feet in wonderment the second they met her). she will then sneakily talk to everyone else in the office, slagging this poor person off and spreading malicious lies.
inevitably, word gets back to her victim, who then has a genuine reason not to like her. however, if they confront her about her behaviour, she will go to her supervisor(who she has done her best to befriend) and make a formal complaint. when the supervisor tells her she doesn't have a genuine grievance, she goes straight to the boss and whinges about how her supervisor and the other poor sod she's got it in for have been ganging up on her. she invents insults and fictitious nasty e-mails, then demands that disciplinary action be taken. of course, after talking to the rest of the staff, the boss realises what a grade-A loony she is and she's asked to leave. she then spends 2 weeks sobbing because "it's all their fault, i did nothing wrong!" yeah, except using their phones to talk to your mates all day, take at least one fag break every half hour, talk to clients like shit and alienate the entire office.
stupid bitch.

this same prime example of fuckwittery has just had a huge flaming row with her mum.
why?
because, after being in hospital with a severe chest infection for a week, her mum feels that she's not quite got the strength yet to care for my cousin's 2-year-old son every day. for free. with not a word of thanks. while her fella sits at home and pretends he's too busy to look after his own son.

i didn't realise just how much i hate her.
( Smash Monkey lowering the tone of the whole internet, Fri 10 Oct 2008, 3:02, 9 replies)

Please bear with me here, the back-story is quite long.
I left home nearly 10 years ago, and have been back maybe twice since then - this is because my family are frankly intolerable. When I was born, my mother was married to a mechanic (my father) - when I was about 6, a fat greasy twat of a merchant banker waltzed into our lives and split them up, subsequently marrying my mum. Now while my early childhood was not quite dirt-poor, it became positively luxurious, due to his wealth. To cement their relationship, they tried for another child, and got twins - my half-brother and sister.

Given how much adulation and fawning they received, you'd think they were royalty. "Ooh look, little Dominic's drawn a cat, and he's only two months old!" "Ooh look, Stacey's correctly wired a plug, and she's only six weeks old!" "Ooh look, Dominic devised a grand unifying theory of quantum mechanics and relativity while he was still in the fucking womb!" I'm far from stupid, but I had no chance of recognition when I was up against these little cherubs, especially as I was a relic of my mother's previous marriage to a pleb. In this newly-altered family dynamic, I became the black sheep by default - the restless delinquent, the no-hoper - and started to live up to my new role, getting into scrapes at school and with the police. Meanwhile, they both excelled and were revered as saints in human form by teachers. These little shits had not just been fed by the silver spoon, they'd had nearly the whole damn cutlery set practically from birth, and they never quite appreciated how lucky they were. Not only were they were appalling little whinge-bags, they were greedy, opportunistic and highly malicious whenever they thought they could get away with it. Any retaliation on my part was futile, as I was much bigger and older than both of them (I'm very tall and wiry, like my father; like their father, they were podgy, piggy-eyed and myopic, and probably still are.) So they'd often run off crying to my mother and I'd get a prize bollocking. I'd become an outcast in my own family.

(You may wonder where my father was during all this - he'd been ordered not to have any contact with us on pain of prosecution, as the grease-ball had alleged he was a violent drunkard, and the social services had unquestioningly taken his word for it!)

At 16, I got a full-time job and moved out the moment I'd done my GCSEs. A few years later, I'd mentally wandered the desert in self-imposed exile and saved up enough to do catering at Doncaster College, then pursued the quietly successful career I've had to date. True, I'm still an outsider in most social situations and I daren't get too close to people (physically or mentally), but that's a small price to pay for leaving behind a life that would likely have driven me insane.

And with a bit of luck, I may never see any of them again.

[Edit] Fucking hell, this post should be re-categorised as an essay!
(WANKERTRON you say "prick", I say "wanker", Thu 9 Oct 2008, 19:51, 12 replies)

i'm a princess
i had the misfortune to meet this delightful person named sarah (real name used, she was a brat) when i was at high school.

she was terribley spoilt for a 15 year old. convinced she was royalty (she wasn't) and would say things like "i'm not supposed to tell you this but i'm actually a princess, my real name is sarah collette andrea porsha alexandra elizabeth maria..."etc she would go on like that for ages and speak very loudly so everyone could hear.

we'd be sat in food tech and she'd walk in and say in a very loud voice "OH! PEOPLE KEEP ASKING ME WHAT ITS LIKE TO HAVE A PONY"
and then she would wait for someone to say oh have you got a pony?

one day, one of the lads in the class was saying he wanted to be a mechanic and was talking about cars. "princess" walks over
"well when i'm 17 i want *nameofcar*"
the lad said to her that they were nice cars but expensive. she said
"oh i'll just tell my daddy to get me one he hates me being mad at him, so i always get what i want"

another time in english, she decided she didn't want to do the work. our teacher asked her why she didn't want to do it.
"because i don't want to!"
he explains that she's going to have to do it. she says
"well i don't do anything that i don't want to, if you make me i'll get mad!"
teacher really pissed off asks who she thinks she is and why is she so different from the rest of the class.
she tells him to shut up, gets up and storms out.

we were all glad she'd gone.

.
(i eat crayons, Thu 9 Oct 2008, 17:34, 2 replies)

i dont expect clicks i just want to get it of my chest
I started a new job 3 months ago out in the crass vulgar dustbowl that is Dubai. I work in the creative industry - which HAS NO PLACE HERE. The way it works is for anyone to have a business you have to have a sponsor. What that means in effect is you have to give some incredibly spoiled petulant imbecile have a good chunk your profits for nothing.

So far I have found it is acceptable for Arabs to:

Promise to send you file CRUCIAL to the progress of project, not bother but still expect you to deliver

Make and take numerous shouty phone calls during meetings

Demand (at least) 9 design routes in 12 variations of colour, font whatever then change their mind but still expect you to hit deadlines and not pay for the 9 other routes they asked for

Approve creative work; ask you to extend it across a campaign – then show the creative to some random clueless fucker who doesn’t like it because say - ‘its blue’ – so they then decide all of the work is in fact dreadful and an insult to their ‘wisdom and vision’.

Expect weeks of work for free because you should be honored to be part of ‘their vision and wisdom’

Suddenly decide to rant at you in meetings because you are not a fucking mind reader and haven’t been able to develop a full understanding of their business after one 10-minute chat.

Expect you to be able to express exactly the nature of their ‘wisdom and vision’ when they have no fucking clue what it is.

Sorry – I miss my wife and little boy. I can put up will all of these arseholes if I could just have my little troupe of Muppets here.

(apologies to my good friend kitty for recycling a gaz)
( spimf ™ is whoever you want him to be, Thu 9 Oct 2008, 17:23, 7 replies)

Nouveau Riche
The worst spoilt bastards are those from the nouveau riche families.

My wife's brother law, who shall be 'B' set up a successful business during the 80's. Although he was a bit of a flash git - big cigars, gold jewellery and a limited edition Mazda MX-3, he seemed reasonably down to Earth.

Unlike my wife's sister, 'C' (Mrs B) who was arguably the most condescending, snootiest old battleaxe this side of Wilmslow.

Fortunately, I am blissfully tactless, combined with a borderline-tasteless wit. Even now, my wife has to warn people before she introduces me.

'C' bought the Old Roses Royal Doulton tea-service and had it displayed on a dresser in the dining room. I suspect she bought it for the simple fact it was expensive. When I first saw it, my first comment was "ooh, pricey", which the faux-snobbish old sow took as a compliment.

However, one day we were invited to her granddaughter's christening. Her granddaughter was about the same age as my eldest son at the time (and I assume still is).

We all met at the church and then went back to her house where she'd put on a spread in their too-big-for-their-house conservatory. However, she'd not closed the blinds properly and the buffet had been dessicating nicely under the glass.

I said "Nice spread C, these sandwiches are a bit curly, were you going for the railway-buffet car experience?"

My wife nearly choked on a vol-au-vent. She then asked me to fetch a couple of sandwiches for my lad. I replied that he won't eat them as they were dry and curly.

Suffice to say, we were never invited there again; a blessing methinks.
( sandettie light vessel automatic New Twitter - @bollocksreally, Thu 9 Oct 2008, 16:32, 1 reply)

My brother
Well, my youngest brother is spoilt rotten.

He had an Xbox 360 and a HDTV, games, wireless adapter for the 360 and a hard-drive for it bought for him. Because he wanted it.

He thinks nothing of asking my parents to buy him this or that game for him, and my dad usually does so.

He throws temper tantrums whenever I ask if I can play it for a few hours with my mates.

Did I mention he's 16, never had a job in his life, and regularly throws temper tantrums?

Spoilt little bastard.

Still, there is a happy point to this tale.

One night, when me and my dad were talking about the fact that my parents marriage was breaking up because of my mum going mental (No, not in the senile way but in the way of arguing every day with my dad about anything and saying stuff like 'Oh, I'm still young and attractive, I can get another man') and how my dad can't take it any more (Can't say I blame him, really), my brother walks in and complains that we're talking too loud and he can't hear what his friends are saying on the 360 because of us.

I looked at my dad, and then promptly laid into my brother, pinning him up against the wall, and yelling in his face solidly about him being a spoilt selfish brat who never thinks of anyone apart from himself, who doesn't have the common decency to attempt to be nice, etc etc.

The look on his face is priceless.

Eventually I let him go and after he apologised profusely for his behaviour that night, he ran for it.

So yeah, whilst I didn't strangle the spoilt shit, I did get to yell at him and abuse him.

Happy days.

Length? A good fifteen minutes ;)
(Ghost Atreides enjoying incontestable health benefits on, Thu 9 Oct 2008, 15:17, 6 replies)

What I did in my summer holidays (when I was 19) by no offenc (aged 23)
There was a brief period of my life (well, a summer holiday when I was at uni, if I'm to be honest) when I was dossing down in London with a couple of mates I'd made in my teens. One of these mates was Billy, a lovely lad, if a bit dimmer than most. He'd wound up vanishing off to live the dream after school - by that, I mean he wanted to be a rock star, and went to seek his fame - and so it came as a bit of a shock when I got a phone call off him saying he was back in the UK (I never knew he'd left!), and would I like to come down and stay with him and Paul, who he'd apparently bumped into down there whilst working. Of course, being 19, freshly single and skint, I jumped at it, and a few days later I was down in the Big Smoke, rucksack over my shoulder, wondering exactly what the fuck I was playing at. I'd sulked when my mam said I couldn't have money for a ticket, and she only relented when I started giving her the silent treatment. I was a kid and wanted to see two of my better mates from school, couldn't she understand that? Obviously looking back now, I was acting like a spoilt knobhead, but at the time I felt justified as fuck.

Anyway, I'd gotten there on a Saturday morning, so the next two days were spent getting reacquainted with the two of them in the most traditional of ways - buying copious amounts of cheap knockoff booze from the offy and proceeding to knacker our livers and brains. It was sometime on Sunday morning when Billy pointed out to me that he should probably lay off it once it gets to tea time because he was in work tomorrow. "Work?" I asked, as if the concept was alien to me. Actually, who am I kidding; I was a media student, of course it was fucking alien.

"Yeah mate, I've been given a fuckin' fantastic job, I get to work with royalty and everything!" He said, looking smugger than R Kelly probably did when he got off that kiddy diddling charge. "Really," says I, "What doing?"

Of course his face turned red at this; perhaps he'd thought bragging he worked with people from Buck House was enough to sate my curiosity. He was wrong. "Well... actually, to be honest, it's not that great," he said, now shame-faced and beginning to regret he'd a) drank so much and b) told me about it at all. "I work..."

"Go on," I said.

"...ah Jesus. I work in the fuckin' laundry, okay?"

"The Royal laundry??"

"Well it's not like I wash the Queen's frillies, it's mostly just the guard stuff like." He then proceeded to tell me, in detail, just how manky and disgusting the guard's uniforms get from standing outdoors in those stuffy little guard boxes, and how they had to stick them in giant vats of stupidly-hot water to literally cook the smell out of them. Especially so in the summer, as it was then.

After this, we carried on drinking. Billy more than myself or Paul, probably so he could get a nice hangover on for the next day's work. At some point during the evening, I made a proposal - if I could finish the rest of the cans and save Billy from puking into a big tub full of coats or bearskin hats, I got to go into work with him tomorrow morning to see the inner workings of the Palace, and maybe help him out for a bit of sly cash on the side. I'd even made him sign a badly-scrawled affadavit saying yes, I (Billy) agree to let you, no offenc, do all of that if you finish the last of the booze.

So I did. I awoke the next morning with sick in my mouth, which isn't pleasant when you realise you've forgotten your toothbrush and your host doesn't seem to have one of their own that you can borrow. I leapt out of the couch and into the kitchen, where I deftly gobbed the vomit into the sink and washed it away. A quick half-pint of Thames Water's finest, and I felt at least marginally human. And then I spotted the piece of paper from last night. And it all came flooding back.

The ride to work was unpleasant to say the least. As much as I'm a fan of public transport (it's cheap, it's generally reliable, and in plentiful supply) when you're riding a bus with what seems like an entire officeful of people and a raging hangover, it's not in the slightest bit fun. Even less so when you've got to stop your also-hungover mate from sicking everywhere. Thankfully we got there without as much as a dry heave, and so Billy snuck me past the guards (well, no, actually, there were no guards, it was just a door with a clock-in thingy, but anything to make a dull story more interesting) and we got changed. Apparently one must wear special overalls when working in the royal laundry. Whatever.

We wandered down the corridor from the changing room to the main laundry room, and upon opening the door the most foul, sweaty, ripe stench struck me in the nose. I very nearly spewed my hoop there and then. Thankfully I must have been made of stronger stuff than I thought.

"Christ, what's the smell?" I said, gagging from the hangover and wondering if they kept pegs down here. "The smell?" quipped Billy, looking a bit green but grinning at me as there was a joke I wasn't in on, "'s boiled bear-'ats, innit?"

Length? I barely even KNEW 'er.
(No offenc - not to be confused with no_offenc, Wed 15 Oct 2008, 11:30, 8 replies)

Foreign Exchange
I've just been reminded of a nice social faux pas from an old school exchange student I was forced to endure the company of.

Jan was from a wealthy farmer family in Germany. His parents owned a stretch of land half the size of their town and naturally lived in the most lavish piece of German architecture available at the time. Visiting his family was quite awesome. Food was always available and I got to drive his Dad's tractor into a ditch and kill some small animals. For a poor lad from an estate it was ace.

And then Jan came to visit. As soon a he stepped off the coach and noticed the broken windows at my school you could sense his urge to run back into the coach and hide in the luggage compartment until the chauffeur arrived. Alas, all that waited for him was my family and our run down Ford.

Fortunately due to the German private school's insane budget for trips I didn't see much of Jan outside of the evenings. When he came back for dinner he was shocked to find that Tesco Value was a staple part of our diet and we didn't have the luxuries of supper and after-dinner coffee.

The problem with Jan's English is that he often chose the wrong word for situations without realising it (or at least we hoped). Upon arriving at the aforementioned chav-infested food warehouse Jan immediately enquired into where the peasant was kept. Honest enough mistake, but this was Tesco. You're lucky to find a chicken that isn't 17% water yet alone posh birds.

After we passed the sweet isles Jan immediately switched to tantrum mode, despite being 13 years old at the time. "Shockade!", he'd scream. Turns out Daddy always buys him all the 'shockade' he wants when they go shopping. We decipher that this means chocolate and allow him one of his choosing. He only takes a tin- a whole bloody tin- of Cadburys fucking Roses and lumbers me with a 10p Freddo.

Disgruntled, we arrived at the tills and had our items scanned through the beeping machine. And then comes the revelation which got my family escorted off the premises by a security:

"Foxy, where do they keep the nigger that packs the bags for us?"

So that's no weekly shop, no chocolate and a very awkward remaining few days. I still hope to this very day that he got his words mixed up. Posh twunt.
(FoxyBadger (try saying it backwards), Tue 14 Oct 2008, 16:19, 7 replies)

Indigo Child
Someone else (Browser) mentioned Indigo Children so I went and looked into it.

www.indigochild.com/

Here's how you know if you have one or not:

# They come into the world with a feeling of royalty (and often act like it)

# They have a feeling of "deserving to be here," and are surprised when others don't share that.

# Self-worth is not a big issue. They often tell the parents "who they are."

# They have difficulty with absolute authority (authority without explanation or choice).

# They simply will not do certain things; for example, waiting in line is difficult for them.

# They get frustrated with systems that are ritually oriented and don't require creative thought.

# They often see better ways of doing things, both at home and in school, which makes them seem like "system busters" (nonconforming to any system).

# They seem antisocial unless they are with their own kind. If there are no others of like consciousness around them, they often turn inward, feeling like no other human understands them. School is often extremely difficult for them socially.

# They will not respond to "guilt" discipline ("Wait till your father gets home and finds out what you did").

# They are not shy in letting you know what they need.


So there's no such thing as a "spoilt child". They've just been misdiagnosed and are actually Indigo Children.

New Age people should be forbidden to breed.


Cheers

Edit: On re-reading that they sound more like Children Of The Damned.....
( Legless Mister Stabby - shanks for the memory, Tue 14 Oct 2008, 14:47, 18 replies)

Confession time.
When I was younger, I announced to my mother that I'd got her something for mother's day.

Her face dropped when it turned out that that something was a pile of laundry.
( Enzyme is powered by sunlight, Tue 14 Oct 2008, 12:07, 2 replies)

I was a bit spoiled...
Back in the day I had grown up abroad and it was pretty normal for us to have several servants (I believe they are referred to as 'helpers' etc. now).
When we returned back to the UK we reverted to 'normal', however no one told a young (4yr old) brycemonkey this.
We happened to go out for a curry (very exotic back then) in the busiest curry house in Glasgow. The place was packed. The was a que down the street of people trying to get in. Every table was packed.
After a bit I felt some pressure on my bladder and being a 'big boy' I was sent off by myself to take care of business. I must have met a member of staff while I was in the toilet. I chose to relate this encounter to my parents sitting at their table at the bottom of the stairs, by shouting at them from the top of the stairs. "MUM, DAD! THEY LET THE SERVANTS USE THE TOILETS IN HERE!!!"

All noise in the busy restaurant stopped. My parents hoped that the earth would open up and swallow them. It didn't.

I'm much better now though.
(brycemonkey No fatal accidents since:, Tue 14 Oct 2008, 10:25, 2 replies)

Noses Run In My Family.
.
I was in the beer garden of my local pub necking a few beers with my mates. A table or so away from us was a little girl, about 9, who was happily colouring in some book. She was quiet, well behaved and didn't look the least bit spoilt.Then she looked up and yelled:

"Mum! Nose is running...."

and her dear mum legged it across the garden to wipe her dear daughters nose.

I started to giggle as, inside my head, I could see them at home. Voice comes from the bog...


"Mum! Arse needs wiping......."


Cheers
( Legless Mister Stabby - shanks for the memory, Tue 14 Oct 2008, 1:15, 1 reply)

A supermarket story.
The other week. I walked into my local morrisons and straight away I could hear this kid screaming. He was literally inhaling as much air as possible and then exhaling as loud and as high pitched as possible. This was continous for 10 minutes. We're talking a temper tantrum like no other. It filled the entire store. People were walking around glancing at each other as if to say "Oh my god!"

Eventually I spied the little runt. He must have been 6 and was being pushed around in a pushchair by a fat woman. She seemed to be ignoring him and the only one acting oblivious to this childs ear piercing screams.

Ooh good I thought, ignore him, he'll realise this behaviour gets him nowhere.

That was until she wheeled him up to the cake aisle and calmly said "Now which one would you like?" The kid grabs a 4 pack of giant chocolate chip muffin cakes. Opens them and starts munching away.

FAIL!
(Miggyman, Mon 13 Oct 2008, 19:30, 9 replies)

A girl I went to school with.
Hannah. Nice enough. Claimed not to be at all posh. Despite living in a little village outside of the town where everyone else lived, in a house bigger than the town in which everyone else lived.

MF: You're a nice enough girl, but you're a bit spoilt.

H: I am not!

MF: Yeah you are. If you asked your dad, you'd get a pony.

H: I would not! I'll prove it! Daddy, can I have a pony?

Daddy: Hmm, ok. Can we get it tomorrow, I'm a little busy right now pumpkin.

H: Argh daddy no! I don't want a pony!
(Miraclefish How appropriate, you fight like a cow, Mon 13 Oct 2008, 18:50, Reply)

Spoiled children? No, not quite.
I just have to share this story, because it’s too wild and grotesque to keep to myself- but on here I'm reasonably anonymous, and after this I intend to make sure it stays that way. I suppose I could make it somewhat on-topic as it involves a rather spoiled woman, but it would be a reach.

I know that I don’t post very often here, so you’re likely not very familiar with me. To refresh your memories: I’m male, I’m over 30, have had a rather tumultuous and checkered past, and am single. I’m also fairly tall and (apparently) attractive, and generally don’t lack for company if I wish it. That is not a boast or egoism, I should add, but rather a bare statement of fact.

At this stage of my life I’ve concluded that I’m just plain not destined for a normal relationship. My last partner moved out not that long ago, and the only involvement I have at this point is with another b3tan who lives at the other end of the island from me and can’t see me often. I’m not exactly attached at this point, and have been spending a lot of time alone these days.

So last week I did something a bit out of character for me- I started chatting online with a few women in my area, looking for someone to have supper with now and then and perhaps do things with, like going to museums or on hikes. I made it clear that I was not looking for a new woman in my life, but for someone to keep me company now and then. I thought this to be not unreasonable.

I met one woman, and she seems quite nice, but not a very active sort. She’s good for going to comedy clubs and the like, so that’s sorted- if I wish to go to a show I have someone to go with me. I still want someone to do other things with, though, so I kept chatting with various women.

Late last week another one agreed to meet me at a restaurant we both knew. We agreed on a time on Friday evening, and texted each other to make sure we were still on. At 7:30 I had a table ready, and she texted me to say that she was on her way. I ordered a pint and sat back to wait.

Ten minutes later she arrived, and I stood to shake her hand- which she went right past and wrapped me in a large hug. I was a little startled, but reacted appropriately and returned the hug. We sat down and the waitress came to take our order. I ordered another pint and some food, and she ordered something she called a Brain Eraser.

The next few minutes were interesting. She was looking at me with the expression of a starved wolf examining a lamb. She told me how incredibly hot I was, how she couldn’t believe that I was single, and how much she loved my grey eyes. While I enjoy flattery as much as anyone, this was a bit strong for having just met.

My food arrived, and so did her drink. She downed the thing in one long swallow and asked for another.

Good God, I thought.

I started eating and trying to chat with her, but the conversation was getting more than a little disjointed. Abruptly she got up and came to my side of the booth and slid in next to me. I slid over to make room, and she snuggled in close and slipped her hand inside my shirt. She then started undoing the buttons until it was open to my waist.

Good GOD.

Her second drink arrived and she downed it in the same manner. She then asked for something called a Red Devil. Meanwhile I got my shirt back together and was busy with my food, and managed to establish a little distance between us.

Her new drink arrived, and she started chatting with the waitress. The waitress had sussed the situation and was apparently quite amused by this and was playing along. The conversation started to get rather flirtatious, and became more blatant by the moment as she started hitting on the waitress. The waitress was even more amused by this, but when I said that I thought I should take the bill now she promptly went to get it.

By now it was obvious to me that she had been quite drunk when she arrived, and she revealed to me that she had also smoked some weed on the way. I kept my composure, but was now rather worried about what to do with her. I paid our bill and guided her outside, past the rather shocked patrons who had been watching the performance, and got to the car park. We reached my car and I asked where hers was. She pointed it out to me, but then started tearing at my shirt again. As it was fairly dark out there I allowed this somewhat, but when she started reaching for my belt I stopped her. “I really don’t want to get arrested.”

“And what would it take for us to get arrested?” she slurred, and yanked my jeans down as she got to her knees. Before I could react she was in action.

GOOD GOD!

I managed to disengage from her and pulled my clothing back on, and got her to her feet. “Look, I really can’t chance getting arrested! We’re in view of those windows of the restaurant!”

She looked crushed. “But I just need it. My husband is smaller than you and he doesn’t get it up very much-“

“WHAT?!?”

“It’s just not big enough. I need yours. I need to be called a slut and spanked.” Her eyes were glowing now. “He won’t do it because he’s a man of God.”

Oh FUCK.

“You’re married to-“

“He’s a minister at (name deleted).”

Have you ever had the feeling that lightning was about to strike you?

The next few minutes were spent in something close to panic. I managed to get her bundled up and into her car and made sure that she got out of the car park, then went home and spent the rest of the weekend not knowing whether I should laugh or scream. No, not just someone's wife, but a minister's wife! I still can't believe this.

I have been holding onto this story for three days now. I really wish that I could say that it was fiction, but honestly, I could not have dreamed up something like that. My imagination is not that good. And now I'm living in mortal fear that her husband will find me.

If hell really does exist, I am SO screwed…
(Shimrod, Mon 13 Oct 2008, 16:39, 23 replies)

my mum is hard, but fair
back in the day, she tried her fair hand at many an occupation to give three little gobshites a happy upbringing.

One of these was childminding. One child she minded was a particularly "sensitive" piece of work.

He used to hold his breath when he didn't get what he wanted and, god bless, his parents must've indulged him in this, relenting when he turned purple, cos he was a trier and kept at it.

My mother, however, is made of sterner stuff, and reasoned that when he holds his breath, there will come a point where he will pass out and his natural reflexes will kick in, he will continue breathing and continue to be an unnecessary drain on Earth's dwindling resources.

I love my Mum.
though if she ever heard me say that, she'd probably throttle me till I turned purple, then get a proper grip and finish the job. :)
( nightbuffalo needs more duct tape, Sun 12 Oct 2008, 2:27, Reply)

Fun at the museum
While I visited the Museum of Scotland I encountered a group of young Spanish teenagers. They appeared to have a whale of a time talking loudly in Spanish while leaning on a mediaeval baptismal fonts and treating the whole thing like a pathetic attempt for their personal amusement. I was trying to read a something, English isn't my mother's tongue so eded some concentration for that, but I couldn't and got more and more angry about them.
Finally I turned around and said iwith my best deep English voice: "I'm sorry but could you be a bit more silent? I'm trying to read something here!"
They shrugged softend a bitand went the other way.
Later at a differend ward I heared them approaching again and assumed I hadn't made alasting impression. But when the first girl went round the corner and saw me she sucked air through her teeth and said something in Spanish to her mates. Addressing me again she said "Sorry" and forced her mates to go the other direction.
I think, I grew a cm that day.
( Wurst Puns Inc. Back in the future., Sat 11 Oct 2008, 19:39, 3 replies)

was it our fault?

We gave him everything.

He used to look so sweet in his stroller, with his little arms folded across his chest.



He's broken his mother's heart.

And not in the cool way either.
(apeloverage committed the vile act of onanism on, Sat 11 Oct 2008, 13:43, 2 replies)

I finally achieved my dream of working for a toy company.
My first major project was introducing a new character to a flagging line. He was called Alfred. The story was that he was a witty and successful man, and yet a bitter, friendless alcoholic. He was significantly inspired by Tony Hancock.

If you pressed a button on his back he ranted angrily about his icy relationship with his parents and his recurring sexual impotence.

As well as Alfred himself, you could get a playset. It was a bleak and windswept plain, which was at once a distorted memory of his childhood in rural Scotland, and a representation of his inner sense of emptiness, of inability to connect meaningfully with other human beings. It was also to some extent a pastiche of the set of 'Waiting for Godot' - echoing Alfred's frustration at his perceived lack of true creativity.

While critically acclaimed, the toys were commercial failures. In the end not just Alfred, but the entire line was abandoned. And to this day, there are some who say that I'm the one who spoiled Bratz.
(apeloverage committed the vile act of onanism on, Sat 11 Oct 2008, 2:17, 2 replies)

legends tell
of a white man who lives in the jungles of Africa, foiling poachers and other criminals by following them around whining until they give him what he wants. Some call him...the Tantrum.
(apeloverage committed the vile act of onanism on, Sat 11 Oct 2008, 2:00, Reply)

It's not only rich kids who are spoilt though.
I've run arts workshops, at a bloody good rate, (Arts' Council suggest £190 a day), for the "disadvantaged".
One which springs to mind is for disadvantaged young ladies of a certain Manchester borough; we were teaching them to draw comics to show their problems in life. Basically, they got knocked up at 14, and were sponging off the state for the rest of their lifes. They had the latest mobile phones, their brood of snotty brats sported the latest trainers and they expected it to be thrown them on a silver platter.
All for not keeping their knickers on, not even using protection. FFS kids get prescribed the pill here, how stupid do you have to be to get banged up at that age?
I class spoilt as expecting things to be done for you, and not taking any responsibility for yourself. Whether old money, new money or screwing off the taxpayer, tis all the same.
Right, I'll just go and buy my Daily Mail now.

Edit: just noticed my posting time, 9:11. Don't get me started on spoilt Americans.
(Bear Pookie The Frankly Challenged. Halloween is coming to town., Fri 10 Oct 2008, 9:11, 2 replies)

My cousin
is our family's spoiled brat.

He's not an only child either, he's the youngest of three. On a good day, he could whinge for Scotland.

He's only two years older than me, and I lost count of the times I smacked him in the face as a child after he'd pushed me a bit too far. His speciality was breaking new toys. We didn't get new toys other than birthdays and Christmas, so it was a mighty big deal when those joyous occasions rolled around. We weren't deprived by any means, we did well enough, but not all-year-round. One Christmas, I got a toy phone. I think I was about 4, and this was my favouritest toy along with my Tiny Tears doll. The fecker broke my new phone. Christmas Day, and he broke it. I smacked him over the head with the remains and cosmic balance was restored .... not really, I got the riot act read to me by his dad and he got a big hug from his mummy! My parents scooped us up and took us home, pronto.

As we got older, I liked him less and less until it got to the point where I had to be bribed, threatened and cajoled into inviting him to my 18th. My mum was so good at guilt-tripping that she wormed that invitation out of me, and I didn't even write it in blood!

He turned up, wearing the most awful example of an 80s Pringle sweater I've ever seen. I mean, they were all pretty naff, but this was the naffest by a very long way. He was telling everyone, and I mean everyone, how much it had cost his mum. He was 20 for god's sake, and working, but his mum still bought him clothes so he could 'keep up with fashion'. I'd like to say that what happened was a carefully plotted and choreographed revenge for many broken toys, but it just happened all on its own.

One of my friends, pissed as a fart, managed to spill a whole tray of drinks over his new sweater. One of the drinks was a Blue Bols (remember them, and all the corny jokes?) and he was livid. My mum took the sweater behind the bar to rinse it out, and the bar manageress offered to do it for her. Well, that helpful lady didn't just rinse the thing. She bunged it in the club's washing machine along with a load of glass cloths. On a very hot wash. Oopsy.

About an hour later, my cousin went looking for his sweater, and it was removed from the washing machine. The hot water had certainly got the drink stains out. It had also shrunk the thing quite considerably. I think he would have thrown a full blown tantrum had he not realised that the party was ending and about 40-50 people were all standing laughing at him. Including, of course, me.

The last time I saw him was at his wedding, which I only went to because I knew his wife at school, and liked her. She got fed up with him after a couple of years, and kicked him back to mummy. He's still there, many years later, and his own brothers only visit when they know he's at work.
(TheWeeWitch hasn't been here much recently .., Thu 9 Oct 2008, 19:07, 4 replies)

not really spoilt at all - anti spoilt in fact
When i were a nipper, my rents didnt have a great deal of money and in order to fund a house that could accomodate the family, my gran came in with some dosh so they could afford a home of sufficient size.

i dont have any brothers or sisters so it was good having my rents rents there to bring me up - something i think has been lost in current society.

eventually, due to the market turmoil in the early mid eighties, my other grandparents moved in and all was cosy in our little gaff. i didnt have much, but it really made me appreciate my family and the little we could afford. we always assumed things would get better and despite the scrimping, i was pretty happy without the latest transformers and rubix magic.

i really didnt expect much on my birthdays as a result - christmas and birthday gifts usually resulted in choc or fruit. not being sullied by the rash hand of consumerism, this didnt bother me in the slightest.

all this changed when i saw the hint of gold underneath that candy wrapper. i now weight 20 stone and despite willie's elaborate test, im just as fucked as the rest of you.

sir C bucket, wonka group industries, a subsidury of qinetic
(magictorch, Thu 9 Oct 2008, 18:55, 1 reply)

useless bitch
she has been moved from more roles in the company than I care to mention purely on the grounds no one want’s to work with her

she has a phoney American accent (she is not from the states and has spent very little time there)

she has adopted some other charming American affectations –EVERYBODY has to listen to her voice, particularly her client calls (unless of course she has fucked up again, then it happens behind closed doors)

she thinks our office manager (a charming delightful girl) is in fact her PA/dogsbody/runner/waitress

if out of her depth (and shes sooo out of her depth she’s actually in someone elses depth) she rolls her eyes does this world weary routine like she’s seen it all before and spouts some very loud patronizing bullshit

we have a lot of non European staff – she speaks loudly and slowly to them like retarded children

she constantly moans about her workload yet is singled out by clients as having contributed very little

we have a long list of clients who refuse to work with her

we have a long list of staff who refuse to work with her

she need’s lots of time to be ‘centred’ and ‘balanced’ (bunking off basically)

she thinks she is funny, sophisticated and witty. She has a painful lack of humour in reality, is very uncultured and to be honest dull.

Funny thing is though the owner of the company thinks she’s fucking great.

Oddly they never sit together at functions, though and always leave half an hour apart.
(omnishambles ™ has been fucking things up big style since, Thu 9 Oct 2008, 18:07, 2 replies)

ladies and gentlemen


meet Tom Switzer.

Tom, who might as well have "braying upper-class arsehole" tattooed on his forehead, is an Old Boy of St. Aloysius' College, a private school located in Milson's Point on Sydney Harbour.

St Aloysius currently charges fees of $11,000 per year for years 7-12, plus a $110 application fee, a $1400 Administrative Acceptace Fee, extra fees for "interstate and overseas tours" and "private music and instrument lessons", and various voluntary contributions.

Uniforms are extra, and include a $210 blazer for Years 11-12.

Tom currently lives in northern Sydney. He is a columnist with the Australian newspaper, and proof that you can and should judge people on their appearance.

He's also an expert on political issues, if political expertise is measured in the ability to seem like the punchline to a joke written by Charlie Brooker and Spitting Image in consultation with Class War. Tom is known for his defence of the Australian government's 'tough' policy on refugees. He stated that it was supported by "the broad cross-section of the Australian people."

He also stated that it may have been opposed by "the metropolitan sophisticates who live in inner-Sydney city."

Tom Switzer, man of the people, I salute you.
(apeloverage committed the vile act of onanism on, Thu 9 Oct 2008, 18:05, 7 replies)

Anybody know any truly wealthy people?
Not just new money, flash jewellery look down their noses types. People that are 2nd or more generation wealthy. What are their kids like?

I remember seeing a thing on telly about the Cheshire Set, a group of snooty spoilt harridans trying to out-botox each other, buying £900 dresses to go to coffee shops in and brag about their new Mercedes SLK.

Then they went to the other end of Cheshire and filmed some people who were 10 times as rich, but went everywhere in tatty jumpers and jeans and drove ancient land-rovers.
( sandettie light vessel automatic New Twitter - @bollocksreally, Thu 9 Oct 2008, 17:48, 24 replies)

I hate starting with "a friend of a friend" but...
... a friend of a friend had his mum and dad buy him a brand new, very expensive laptop when he was about 16.

Not so bad, I hear you say.

Well, they bought it purely because his old top-of-the-range PC had broken (likely his own fault).

Still, you're saying - could be worse.

What was wrong with the PC? What irreparable damage saw them splash out hundreds on a new computer?

The 'H' key had fallen off.
(MJPerry was crude but clickable at, Thu 9 Oct 2008, 16:25, 5 replies)

Mum culls friend list.
When I was about 11 yrs old my mom organised a trip to the ice rink for my brother & sister and a friend of ours. It was a good 45 min drive from the house and when we arrived we had to wait in a queue to get in. Then we waited to get skates and finally some time after setting off from the house we were ready to get onto the ice. Except for my cockface friend who was whinging and refused to put on his skates. He demanded to be taken home for no other reason that he had now decided he didn't feel like ice skating. His ranting became a bit much for my mom who had been up until that point explaining nicely to him that she couldn't leave the ice rink because all the kids were there. In any case the session only lasted another hour so he wouldn't have long to wait. He was by this stage literally demanding that we all go home because he didn't feel like ice skating.

Finally my mom had enough of cajoling him into staying. She went all medieval on his ass and gave him the hairdryer treatment that only my mom knows how to do. She gave him some money for the pay phone and told him to piss off and call his mum to fetch him.I was blissfully unaware of the whole situation and by the time I asked after him he was already waiting at the other side of the carpark for his mum to arrive.
On the way home mom gave me a lecture on how not to be wet blanket and a drip otherwise I'd end up as whinging sap like cockface. OUr friendship went downhill after that and even though he lived 100 metres from my house I never saw him. He used to drive past my house and his mum used to blank me. The funniest thing was that the poodle would get the front seat and he always had to sit in the back. After that we just referred to him as dogboy.
(The Archduke of South London I'm in your Girlfriend eating her organs, Thu 9 Oct 2008, 15:31, Reply)

some are, some aren't
my niece, charlie.
lovely girl when she wants to be, but horrendously spoiled. she has the biggest bedroom in the house, because her toys wouldn't fit in a smaller room. never goes shopping with her mum without coming home with toys and sweets. just got back from her second trip to disneyland(florida, not paris). firmly believes the world revolves around her and treats her cousin like dirt because his parents have very little money.

my cousin, jenny.*
a nasty piece of work from day one. everyone in the world is beneath her. she refuses to eat anything her mother brings home unless it's from sainsbury's or marks and spencer's. monumentally self-absorbed. thinks she's a fashion model. she is the posh spice of the family.

2 cousins, sarah and adam
despite having a mother that would literally go without food to give them everything they want, despite the fact that they were held up from birth as examples of perfection that we should worship, despite being thoroughly ruined, they have grown into 2 of the nicest, politest and most thoughtful people i have ever known. soft-spoken, considerate, well-mannered and generous, they're a credit to their(frankly insane) mother, who brought them up single-handedly.
just goes to show, not all children from broken/single parent homes grow up to be drug-addled, granny-stabbing asbo cases.

*jenny got punched in the face 4 times last week for badmouthing another cousin. thoroughly deserved it.
( Smash Monkey lowering the tone of the whole internet, Thu 9 Oct 2008, 15:30, 12 replies)

Students.
Students can often be whingy. Mature students - and mature students who're already professionals - can be worse.

A fair few of our students are doctors doing an MA. As programme director, I'm often first point of call for their queries.

I'd like to make it clear that a stern email telling me that you spent a long time on the assignment is not sufficient for me to decide that it was a work of genius after all. Nor do I care that you have so many letters after your name that the Latin alphabet has been exhausted and we're now using Coptic.

Your essay still fails.

You know who you are.

Thank you.
( Enzyme is powered by sunlight, Thu 9 Oct 2008, 15:25, 5 replies)

My Wifes cousin
got a playboy bedroom aged 7 and a padded bra aged 8. She is now 11 and walks around sticking her "tits" out everywhere she goes insisting that every single person in the room/bus/street/fucking planet listen to her whenever she talks about anything at all no matter how irrelevant and inane. Its all her mothers fault who is a whore. She is spoiled beyond the realms of common decency. I can accept kids that get bought everything they want, when they want it. I can accept the idiot parents that end up going bankrupt just to buy Christmas presents instead of paying the mortgage and bills (my mother in law did it) but I cannot abide the parents that dress up their pre-teen daughters as whores and show them off around town as if they are trying to drum up business and make a few quid off the paedophiles on the side.
( Peej, Thu 9 Oct 2008, 14:56, 3 replies)

Can I get this in first?
I had a dreadful childhood, we were poor, never had anything, I was grateful for every single thing we possessed. Sure we were poor, but we had love. I had some bad times. But we had love and friendship. We all died of starvation, but at least we had love and friendship and family. My parents sold their kidneys to buy me the bus fare for my Uni interview. Fortunately we had love and friendship and families and hope.

It's made me a better person. Kids today, eh, don't know they're born. All they need is love and friendship and families and hope and self-belief. Etc, etc.
( crackhouseceilidhband Fuck off back to Mumsnet, Thu 9 Oct 2008, 14:47, 24 replies)

Woo! First On-Topic Post!
A mate of mine has a little brother. Sadly his father passed away, and he (the little brother) got something along the lines of £2,500. £1,000 was for him to spend. He now has roughly about £200 left of it, and nothing but broken toys and shitty PS2 games he doesn't like to show for it. When I was his age (I think he's around the 4yr old mark) I was lucky to have £1 to spend on anything, let alone a grand.

If that's not spoilt, I don't know what is.

As for come-uppance, as he's spoilt to buggery he won't be able to function on his own when he's older and he currently acts like he's 2 years younger than he is. Good luck with getting on in school, chum!

EDIT: Damn, not the first on-topic post after all...

EDIT 2: When going shop with same friend and brother, I went in for some ciggie papers. Being the generous bloke I bought my mate a can and the little bugger a small chocolate bar (Freddo, anyone?). I went to give it him saying "This is yours but I'm giving it to your brother, you can have it after your tea". His brother says "That's nice, what do you say?". Both of us expecting please to be the answer, he proudly and loudly says "Nothing!". "Fine, you're not having it says I". Majority of the walk back he's demanding HIS chocolate bar, even though we all stated it wasn't his as "kids with no manners don't deserve chocolate" so to silence him I gave it to my other friend who was instructed to eat it on the spot.


The little sprog was almost in tears and sat down in in the street refusing to move.

Kids; I won't put up with thier shit.
(Stephen5555 is posting on, Thu 9 Oct 2008, 14:44, 9 replies)

How It's Done
My oldest friend, Liz, is the eldest of three kids. Her parents are both doctors - in fact, her dad is a consultant anaesthetist. Their combined income must be something truly foolish, but until we were thirteen they lived in a very modest house (actually fairly crappy) just round the corner from the Mnemonics.
Throughout the kids' childhood they:

- were made to do their homework properly every night
- had a full schedule of household chores to be done, else no playtime
- had to get jobs as soon as they were old enough so they'd have pocket money (paper rounds and car-washing then graduating to the dizzy heights of kitchen portering once they were 14)
- had no expensive clothes or shoes or any of that crap and,
- were generally brought up to be hard-working, respectful, self-reliant people.

And what's the result of this? Ten years on, the eldest two kids are both doctors, having partially worked their way through med school (as much as that's possible when you have practically no holidays) and the youngest kid is having a gap year, which he's spending working as a chef in the local pub. They are some of the nicest, most capable and grounded people that I know, because despite having a lot of money, the parents themselves didn't grow up that way (the dad grew up the eldest of 11 kids in Govan...) and they knew the virtues of hard work and how totally corrosive it can be to have everything at the snap of your fingers.

Anyway, there's no moral here, apart from maybe that spoilt is an attitude, not a bank balance, and if any of you lot are lucky enough to have money and are planning on breeding, these kids are a pretty good template.
(jennymnemonic, Wed 15 Oct 2008, 22:58, 3 replies)

oh God
I work with the biggest spoilt brat around.

18 year old receptionist. She got the job because her parents are the boss' church pastors - she didn't have to endure a gruelling interview process, and no one has ever said anything bad to her, even when she fucked up royally.

Her parents treat her like a princess. She gets whatever she wants, whenever she wants, however she wants.

The bosses at work treat her the same. She swans in wearing her mothers designer clothes, looking like a $2 hooker, flips her hair around all the time, constantly looks at herself in the mirror, takes pictures of herself - the works. She does absolutely NO WORK apart from answer the phones and take the mail to the post box. At the start she got asked to do some "real" work, and she cried, said she couldn't do it, and they just patted her on the back and said "it's ok.. you don't have to do it". She leaves the office at every given opportunity for the others who actually work to pick up the slack for her. Nevermind the people pressed for time - if she wants to leave because she's bored, too bad for everyone else.

The thing i hate most about her is the fact that she is so damn fake. She's nothing but sweet and polite to the bosses, but anyone else can get fucked as far as she's concerned. She pretends to be all innocent and virginal, but she's the biggest skank around. She shits me to tears - she's exactly the type of person i despise. She's like 18 going on 8.

Thank God she's leaving in a few weeks.. i can't wait til we get someone normal.
(brotagaia, Wed 15 Oct 2008, 9:36, 10 replies)

Dad's a Bastard.
My wife somehow managed to burst a tyre on her car last week when she was pootling about. I drove over and changed it for her, and then swapped cars so I could take hers to a garage to get a new tyre.

I was forbidden from asking any of the details leading up to the bursting of the tyre and I was also recommended not to mention it in further as ‘bursting a tyre is not representative of my actions’.

Fine.

So that’s how I found myself on a dusty windswept industrial estate waiting for Kwik Fit to put a new tyre on my wife’s car. As I was waiting, I wandered into the nearest garage which happened to be a Lexus showroom.

Inside the garage bit there was a young man bawling his eyes out next to a car, and his dad (or older lover, ooer!) comforting him. There was an awkward looking salesman edging away to an office looking embarrassed, and stately looking salesperson was speaking in hushed, calm, measured tones to the young man and his dad/lover.

Under the pretext of looking at the myriad cars, I started to sidle over to the fracas.

While I was intently looking at an RX-400, I managed to get the gist of what the problem was. The poncey roadster that they were standing in front of was a convertible.

“Look I already told you, I don’t want a convertible!” snivelled the young man to all within earshot.

“And as I have already said, we informed you when you ordered it that this model is only available as a convertible” intoned the sage salesman, a Caesar of sales people.

“I don’t care, I want a hard top now!” shrieked the young man.

“Look, we have the order here with your dad’s signature, and the car is already paid for” said the salesman.

By this point, another salesman had locked onto me and was approaching with his “See anything you like, apart from me, haha just kidding, want a car?” spiel and I started to make my exit as I can’t even afford church mouse cheese at the moment, let alone a luxury hybrid SUV.

However I couldn’t stop thinking about what a bastard that guy’s dad was, buying him a convertible like that.

Some people.
(powervator and NONE SHALL PASS, Tue 14 Oct 2008, 17:29, 4 replies)

pint sized penguin
I fear that I, Mrs el pinguino am spoiling said small penguin...

I mean, its ridiculous- I do everyting for him, hes fed, kept warm, carried about, I sort out all his mess, talk to him, make decisions for him, he barely has to breath!
Do I get any thanks - no, just an occasional kick when theres too much noise or hes bored

Still, hes got to be born some time in the next fortnight

HaH! That'll learn him!
(el pinguino de la muerte ... now there's a small boy pinguino, Tue 14 Oct 2008, 1:08, 2 replies)

An ex's friend was a spoilt brat. Sometimes Karma is sad.
Some years ago, my ex told me an amusing story about one of her friends that was a spoilt brat.
Basically she was living a life of luxury. Got given an Audi car (despite the fact she couldnt drive it yet). Had a £300 handbag, designer clothes. And living in a lovely apartment with her rich good looking boyfriend. She herself was absolutely gorgeous and i'd have quite happily tapped it :)

Anyway, shes on a goer one night and talking to my ex about me. Saying how Im not good looking, and how I wear scruffy clothes and she was bragging about how her boyfriend takes her to nice restaurants and they go abroad and generally living up the fact she has a nice life.

Anyway, after some months it all finally came to light. He was beating her up! She rings my ex up in tears, because he's hit her and wow she had a good shiner! She had basically left him at this point and it turns out that she had cigarette burn marks on her arms and this wasnt the first time he'd laid a hand to her.

Its all sad and we all feel really bad for her because of the abuse she had been through. My ex offers to put her up, in a different area to get away from him. She assures her that she doesnt need him and can be fully independant. They look for jobs and she even gets offered one.

But she couldnt pull herself away. She continued to flash the expensive jewlery he bought, wear the expensive clothes. She never accepted her job offer, because she said she couldnt live on £1000 a month!

In the end, she went back to him. Despite everything, she just couldnt leave that upperclass lifestyle. When she went back she didnt even thank my ex for all her effort into getting her away. She said that he'll always be better than me. My ex simply said. "Well I dont care he wouldn't even come close to hitting me. I'd rather live in the gutter with him than go anywhere near your boyfriend" And with that we never heard from her again. I'll never know how that one turned out.
(Miggyman, Mon 13 Oct 2008, 19:04, 2 replies)

A little more than ADHD
I remembered this over the weekend, I think I'd blocked it out, its pretty horrific.

I knew this insane kid who had the dumbest parents ever. How no one saw what he was like was beyond me.

He was the biggest attention seeker I have ever known. He'd always wear his Sunday best for dinner, and, once, when this didn't get him enough attention, I actually remember him grabbing handfuls of food and rubbing it all over himself.

Honestly, he'd do anything to avoid being ignored. I heard that he once bit a cinema usherette for no reason at all. Yet still his parents were oblivious. Or in denial I guess.

Sadly, things took a nasty turn later in life, he raped and killed a girl called Susie. Horrible time that was. He actually took the body home with him, if you can believe that.

Yet, even after 10 years in prison, his parents still refused to admit there was anything majorly wrong. I swear, when he eventually got out, they found him sitting by Susies grave, surrounded by her bones.

And still, they said he was just an excitable boy.




(If you see what I did there, I love your taste)
( scarpe We Stole Bikes, Mon 13 Oct 2008, 9:11, 7 replies)

My ex-wife's kids were spoilt
They were 14 and 15 and were so used to getting their own way, my life as a step-dad was made nearly impossible. When I did tell them off for things they'd ignore me and/or flounce off to their rooms. And most of the time their mum would tell me not to be so hard on them.

One particular time sticks in my mind: I came home from work, and as I was usually the first one home would make dinner. The girls had but one chore of an evening: to empty the dishwasher and put the clean dishes away, then to put the breakfast stuff into the dishwasher.
This night though, I came home to find the kitchen looking like a bomb had hit it. This was particularly annoying and meant I had to spend a good 45 minutes clearing up before I could start dinner, and was a fairly regular occurrence. This night though, as well as the kitchen, every light in the house was on (that's a slight exagerration, but the main ceiling lights were on in the kitchen, lounge, hall, landing and both their bedrooms), the heating was on full, the computer in the lounge was on, as was the tv. Upstairs the girls had tvs in both their rooms, these were also on as was the computer in the older girl's room.
As well as all that the front door and patio doors were both wide open... and neither girl was anywhere to be seen.

Fuming, I closed the doors, switched all the lights, tvs, computers etc off and set to clearing the kitchen up. I was just about ready to start making some dinner when their mum got home and asked me how I was. After explaining how pissed off I was, her response?

"I know my girls aren't perfect, I don't need you to tell me, thank you very much", followed by storming off and mentioning in passing over dinner "oh girls, please make sure you close the doors before you go out in future"

Meh...
(Professor Kenny Martin Hmm? What?, Sun 12 Oct 2008, 14:12, 5 replies)

PRISONERS
I helped move a nice German lady into her new house today and all the while she was telling me her life story. Being born in the war, joining the army, and her brother being put in prison.

In many of the countries she's been to they get flatbread and water in prison. And that's it. No special health care or privileges of any sort..

But her brother told her when he got out of prison here in Blighty, it was so hard adjusting to life outside because being in British prison was the easiest most relaxed time of his life. It's disgraceful.

Bring back the death sentence, Deter the criminals, free up space, put the money saved into the NHS.
(RizzJizz doesn't do life., Sun 12 Oct 2008, 0:10, 8 replies)

Shallots, eh?
I'm surprised brackishboy hadn't heard of shallots, I mean it's not like they haven't been on sale in every supermarket and greengrocer in the UK for just about as long as I can remember. And, thereby hangs a tale...

One of my Mum's friends thought I was rather spoiled because, as an admittedly rather loud and annoying 8-year-old, I would often add stuff to the shopping list. Not being a particularly wealthy family, we shopped wisely but not extravagantly - no cheap crappy burgers, because there's very little actual nutrition compared to proper meat, kind of thing. So Mum's friend was a little taken aback to find that I'd come back with a big bag of shallots and a small (half-size) bottle of semi-decent red wine. "Mum, can I have these?"
"What for?"
"I need it for the boef bourginon, those onions we have are too harsh"

Yep. My Mum indulged my extravagant food shopping shopping (and to a fair old extent, encouraged it). Spoiled, though? I don't know, who got to sit down to a really keen meal that evening?

Length - about 2"-3", and about 1" to 1.5" across with brown or purplish skin, with more flavour but milder than an onion.
(gordonjcp, Sat 11 Oct 2008, 12:40, Reply)

On a flight back from Glasgow
two wannabe teenage parents - you know the type, fake tans, dyed hair, camouflage clothing - sat with their child, who was equipped with a personal DVD player.

Their kid watches a film without headphones on. I.e. the sound is coming out of the speakers. I'm three rows back and in the aisle across, and I can hear it quite nicely, thank you.

I start to seethe.

Kid then gets bored with the film. But doesn't switch it off. This *really* narks me.

I get up, go over, ask father nicely if the child can either use his headphones or switch it off.

Father then threatens me with violence. EasyJet staff do fuck all.

I sit down. Film remains on.

Spoilt child thanks to spoilt parents. After all, why shouldn't half the plane hear his film ?

Twunts.
( I_Was_Mordred, Sat 11 Oct 2008, 2:01, 6 replies)

WAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA
Long train journeys are very enjoyable when it's quiet - by which I don't mean actually quiet, but calm - kids are occupied and playing happily, no-one is bellowing at their mate at the other end of the carriage etc. On one Sunday evening I was on a trip back from Edinburgh, so far all had gone well. Until a woman with the most revolting little girl-child got on and the girl proceeded to shout and scream her way down more than a hundred miles to Derby - ’I want to sit near the window! WAAAAAAAI wanna sit near the window!!!!!’ Etc. Every time, her mother allowed her to scream and shout for a good five minutes before allowing her to do just what she wanted. The little brat thought nothing of climbing over her mother, basically shoving her out of the way to get her own. She stood up, jumped up and down on the seat, and responded with the same ear-curdling WAAAAAAA I WANNA each time Mummy tried to impose some discipline. Frankly Mummy looked as though she just wanted a couple of big tranqs and a quiet night in.

The whole carriage heaved a sigh of relief when they eventually walked out to the doors - whilst the train was still moving at a considerable speed we could just hear a distant ’I want to open the door NOW’, and I must confess that both I and the elderly lady sharing my table agreed we fervently hoped she'd get her wish. Sadly it wasn't to be.
(cisco, Fri 10 Oct 2008, 20:10, 2 replies)

Another one from my school days
A girl in my year at school parents paid £20,000 for her to sit in the background of Central Perk in one scene of Friends simply because she liked them. £20,000 for fucks sake. You couldn't even see the dozy bint, Ross's big face blocked her out.
(Holy Cremola Foam Batman will be back on, Fri 10 Oct 2008, 14:16, 18 replies)

Spoilt bastards
My mate spends billions on her kids - do they appreciate it? No way....
So everytime my mates not looking, I pinch the kiddies really hard....
No real life lesson there but who cares?!
Great times....
(catflap I went out with Nicholas Parsons, Fri 10 Oct 2008, 5:40, 1 reply)

I was gonna post this as a reply...
The vast majority of people at my school were rich flasy gits, they always had the latest clothes/shoes/gadets whatver.

But there was this one guy who started the same time I did (about 10yrs at school together)

They live on an large old estate in Kent (his house has an elevator!?), theres a cricket pitch and everything!

Anywhooooo

The point is, he NEVER let on that he was minted, unlike the vast majority of idiots there, and his car of choice after he left uni, got a job and saved up? A beaten up Nova.

Think he has a new car now, but nothing fancy.

He is probably the only most down to earth, easy going, top-notch, genourous, humble, hard-working, complete legend of a bloke that comes from a wealthy background that I know of!

Ahem, so it might be the opposite of the QOTW...oh well, hes a great bloke!
( P, Benny P, Thu 9 Oct 2008, 23:31, 3 replies)

Interesting that this topic came up today....
...as I find myself needing to make a serious decision about my future.

Im in love with a Carol. She is 5 years older than me and lives quite far away. We get on very well indeed, and if I were to take the plunge, she would be happy for me to move in with her. She is beautifull, smart, fun, witty...we really enjoy each others company.
Sounds perfect?
The problem is that she has 2 kids from her first marriage.
Her first husband died a few years back after a long, nasty, shitty illnes, which seemingly turned him into a bit of a cunt towards the end. (what Im told from her friends, I never met him.
Her oldest daughter is 15 and after a bumpy start and the old "im not trying to replace your father" talk, we now get on ok.
The youngest....well, Im not a fan of young kids anyway, but this thing is the devil incarnate.
Carol and her first husband tried for a long time to have a second child, and after several miscarriages, serious illnesses, an infant death and more miscarriages, she finally had Chloe, not long before her husband died, so the child is very precious to her.
Sadly, Carol has let this child have her own way all the time and she is now completely insufferable. Yeah, most kids have tantrums every now and then, but chloe has them several times a day, at ear-splitting levels. I would never have thought a child could produce such noises. NOTHING will appease the tantrum except her getting what she wants, whether its sweets from the shop, or sitting up all night watching dvd`s, or being allowed to write on the living room walls with a marker pen etc etc.
If chloe does this when I am there, I just dont know what to do... in the middle of a supermarket, she will throw herself on the floor, thrash about and scream loud enough to bring security guards running.... I cant stand it, and Carol lets her get away with it.
The child is comepletely undiciplined, throws food at mealtimes, scatters stuff all over the house and never tidies, expects her mum to jump whenever she shouts for something, she lacks basic manners, will never say please or thankyou but DEMANDS and if the demand isnt met, a screaming tantrum is certain to follow.

If it wasnt for the child, I would leave everything I have here tomorrow to be with Carol, but I detest the child. I know that carol is to blame for the way she has been brought up, and I just dont want anything to do with the child. Sadly, this brats upbringing is going to kill my relationship with Carol.

:(
(dave likes cheese, Thu 9 Oct 2008, 22:53, 24 replies)

Finally, one I can answer!
The only story I can think of off the top of my head involves a guy at my college, well, more specifically two of them...

First, some background. My parents, while being what could be described as reasonably well-off, didn't especially spoil me and my siblings. We never wanted for anything and by and large we got what we wanted for birthdays and christmasses, within reason.

Besides which Dad's done a good job with the family firm (where I now work), steering it through the last few recessions and generally looking after things, you could say he's definitely earnt the right to live well.

My schooling (selective grammar, of the purple persuasion) has meant that inevitably I've come across some right Nathans, but this guy takes the biscuit.

For his 17th birthday, he got a brand new black New Mini Cooper (and they were brand new out at the time and pretty rare this being in the days before all the estate agents got them) completely loaded with every conceivable extra. Basically, it was the balls. Everyone (myself included, and rightly so) were incredibly jealous of it. However, his loaded Dad must have bribed the examiner, because there was no way the boy had passed his test judging by his driving.

Within days, he'd reversed it into a telegraph pole, when attempting to parallel park. While an awkward maneuver, somehow he managed to climb the kerb and hit the post with a sizable whack that almost knocked it down.

Out comes Daddy's cheque book and the car's repaired and immaculate. No need for dent repairs, just replace everything and away we go.

Fast forward a couple of weeks, and he's bent it again, this time banging the nose on the car in front, again while parking. How he managed that I'll never know, yet off it goes to the bodyshop.

Then, the coup de grace. A few non-eventful weeks pass, and people come in to school to notice that Mini Driver and another person from our year were missing.

Apparently, over the weekend, Mini Driver no longer had a Mini, and the other classmate was lucky to be alive. They'd been tearing around backroads in the countryside when Mini Driver clipped a kerb just before a sharp bend.

The impact threw the Mini violently into the air, and as we all know, brakes no longer work when no wheels are in contact with the ground. Consequently the Mini didn't slow down. It went straight on at the bend, and then stopped.

Suddenly.

By hitting a house.

It was written off, and both were hospitalised. Mini Driver suffered cuts and bruises at the most. The other guy wasn't so lucky. His internal organs were battered to hell (ruptured this, strained that etc), and he spent a long time in hospital. He was never the same after that.

It served to prove to me that some people know the price of everything and the value of nothing.
( mr_wicksy is.... old., Thu 9 Oct 2008, 20:26, 2 replies)

Rich bastards
I grew up in a village.

One day I read in the local paper that a child from the same village was due to appear on Jim'll Fix It (yanks, etc: it's a TV show in which a shellsuit wearing weird old bloke makes kiddies dreams come true) (don't ask).

Anyway, this caused much excitement, who could it be? No one at school knew.

Turns out that it's a girl who lived in a great big house who none of us kids had ever met as she went to a private school and her parents were far too posh to mix with the proles in the village.

Her wish was:
"Dear Jim,
please could you fix it for me to wear a Kimono"

So, naturally, the BBC paid for her family to go on a holiday to Japan where she got to try on a Kimono.

How lovely.

My single-parent mum would take me to Clacton for a day on the coach, that was all the holiday we could afford.

Bet I'm more grateful to my mum too.

Grrr.
( stopmeandslapme Cometh the hour, cometh your mum, Thu 9 Oct 2008, 16:58, 19 replies)

while buying a cup of overpriced Fair Trade coffee the other day
I overheard a yummy mummy with an overengineered pushchair remark in hushed and horrified tones to her friend: "they spit on the floor in state schools you know!".

One can only hope her designer organic youngling is sufficiently sheltered from a harsh world where the dark, seedy underbelly of society don't sort their recycling properly and other such heinous crimes.
( crackhouseceilidhband Fuck off back to Mumsnet, Thu 9 Oct 2008, 14:43, 12 replies)

sweet 16?
has anyone ever come across that show on mtv?

i have to say some of those kids are terrible its all "Mum buy me those £400 trainers that are so ugly no one in their right mind would wear them?"

and after all the money has been spent on them and they have their party, are they happy?
no.

i watched an episode once were some 15 year old brat was so rude that none of the people hired to be their turned up.

the sad thing is most of these kids think they're really somebody... until they realise the world doesn't revolve around them.

.
(stumbleina, Wed 15 Oct 2008, 21:04, 10 replies)

Grumpy Old Man
On further reflection, by the definition of those of us who were children in the 70s, EVERYONE today under the age of 18 is a spoiled brat.

Struggling with having to do exams EVERY YEAR? Don't worry - we'll just cancel them!

You don't want a space-hopper? Of course we'll buy you a Wii, PSP, DS and Xbox 360!

Yes, you're right two tin cans and a piece of string ARE crap! Here, have a £200 mobile and naturally we'll buy you a new phone in two months' time when this one is "obsolete"...

I understand COMPLETELY that C&A's own-brand jeans are a bit rubbish - let me buy you these baggy ones where the crotch hangs round your shins. Or would you prefer these Playboy ones?
(Steve The Monkey, Wed 15 Oct 2008, 16:38, 8 replies)

I went to posh cunt school
on a scholarship. I used to get called "pikey" because on Non-Uniform Day I'd turn up in clothes from New Look instead of Gucci.

One of my favourite moments in those 7 years of hell was the biggest bitch-whore in my year reading the Telegraph before a lesson one day and suddenly spotting her parents' house in the extremely-expensive-property-for-sale section. As soon as lunchtime came she was on the payphone by the lunch queue, everyone listening as she bawled "MUMMEH! WHY IS OUR HOUSE FOR SALE IN THE NEWSPAPAR! WHY DIDN'T YOU TELL MEEE!"

Even better was after we left school though - she and the rest of her Bitch Brigade went to Kavos to celebrate the end of A-levels and appeared on ITV's "Greece Uncovered", running butt naked into the sea and back out for the cameras, showing off their slutty clubbing outfits asking "Do you think I look too tarteh?", shagging random chavs on the beach, and generally behaving like cheap slappers. They even got a two-page spread in the Sunday Sport, who delightedly pondered what their parents must think of how they turned out after they shelled out thousands and thousands of pounds for their education.

Jolly hockey sticks!
(Binary Solo loves a bit of algebra, Wed 15 Oct 2008, 14:53, 11 replies)

Have some sheep
My friend Andrew came to my house for tea when we were about 8 years old or thereabouts.He wasn't spoilt,but they did things differently than we did.We were having lamb chops to eat and Andrew says,"In our house,we have silver paper on the chops so that we don't get dirty fingers."
My father replied thusly:
"In our house we have soap and water,now go and wash your hands."
(archroy Get down wi' yer bad self., Wed 15 Oct 2008, 11:59, 3 replies)

oooh-errrr, sorry!
Long time lurker, first time poster, please be gentle!

I am making my apologies in advance for whoever has the misfotune of crossing my daughter in the future! It took me a very long time to get preggers on her and now she is here and 3 months old, and she is spoilt rotten. Not by myself or Mr Stella, but by papa Stella.

That's right, my daddy dearest, is spoiling my baby girl rotten. Already she won't go to sleep unless she's being walked around the living room. She's 12 weeks old and I had a bank statement for her, that my dad has been doing for her. £316!!!! My sister is also not helping matters much, she already has a good sized wardrobe, full of brand name clothes. Roxy Baby mostly, and a pair of baby Uggs. BABY UGGS!! Even I don't have Uggs!

I've been reading your stories and my blood is running colder and colder, I need to nip this in the bud now, before darling Baby Stella ends up like the horrid spoilt brats I've just spent the last half hour reading about.

AW GAWD!
(leglesss let that be a lesson to you, Wed 15 Oct 2008, 1:02, 12 replies)

My Neighbour is spoilt
Not so much in the 'Daddy's got a yacht' sense, but in the Mum won't let her duties go sense.

Twice a week her mum comes round and cleans the house top to bottom. She then takes all the dirty clothing and returns next visit with it all washed and ironed.

You may think that mum is just helping her young daughter out as she has too hectic a life?

But then you realise her daughter has never worked....

Is perfectly healthy...

Is married with 2 children.....

is 46 years old!!!!!!
(turtles head is touching cloth poked a dwarf on the forehead at, Tue 14 Oct 2008, 7:26, 6 replies)

Alice: The Epilogue
I posted the following story earlier today (WARNING: it's exceptionally long) :
www.b3ta.com/questions/spoiltbrats/post270185

Following a few requests (okay, one request) to hear how it ended, here is The Epilogue, or How I Finally Lost My Rag with the Selfish Bitch

_{And I apologise again for the length of this one}

To fill in the first part, (and spare you reading it) this follows my break-up with my first serious girlfriend, after about 18 months over which she progressively made me more and more miserable. Long story short, she was a rich bitch, a snob, and a pathological bully. (I was also severely lacking in the spinal department at the time.)

So, after a telephone break-up, we agree to "remain friends." I don't know why I thought this was a good idea, though at the time I didn't realise how much she was taking advantage of my good nature. I also felt a bit sorry for her because she didn't have any real friends.

In hindsight, it's no wonder she didn't have any friends, apart from the vacuous Chelsea bitches with whom she was now sharing a flat.

A few days after the break-up, I get a phone call from her - just clocking in, really: how am I doing, etc.

Then there's another call the following day. And the day after that. And again, and again, and again. Until eventually we agree to meet for coffee.

Fair enough, I've always thought the reconciliatory meeting is "the decent thing to do." And it's a civilised affair. No arguments, no hissy fits - hell, if she wasn't so obsequious she could almost be pleasant company.

But then there are more meetings. Phone calls nearly every day. To all my friends, it's becoming apparent that the bitch is determined to cling on to me as some sort of puppet and try and hijack my social life so that she can have some real friends.

I, of course, don't realise this. No, I follow blindly until she drops Bombshell No.1
Bombshell No.1: There's a bloke on her course who she fancies. God knows why, he's some flabby, ginger public-school git. Worse, he has a girlfriend. She's met up with him for coffee already and been assured that the poor girlfriend is nothing more than "a minor consideration."

Alice decides to seek advice. From me, her ex. She wants to know whether it's worth trying to pursue a relationship with this fat cunt who is openly admitting that he's happy to cheat on his girlfriend.

Hmmm...not difficult, is it?

So WHY did the stupid bitch decide that actually, it would be a good idea to positively fall into bed with this revolting oik? What was the point in even asking for my advice when you were planning to draw your beef curtains either way?

And why, WHY, did you then come crying to me when the inevitable happened? You knew I had an exam the following morning - or at least, I'd mentioned it when you called me AGAIN on that morning, but perhaps it was presumptuous of me to assume you actually listened to what I was saying. And yet still you called me the night before an exam and told me that you'd had sex with another man. You called because you were upset that he wasn't going to leave his girlfriend for you (what did you fucking expect?) - how the fuck do you think this made me feel?

So, no sleep for me that night. Just a long night spent lying in bed getting angry, jealous and frustrated and going on the following morning to cock up a plasma physics exam on which I'd previously expected to do quite well. Thanks a fucking bundle.

Bombshell No.2 doesn't get dropped until a lot later. So by this time I've just about got over the incident with the fat ginger cunt and accepted that she is going to be loitering round expensive bars with her Chelsea-bitch friends and chatting to rich, greasy, revolting city-boy types who are just looking for a trophy shag.

I, in the meantime, have seemingly no prospect of finding a new ladyfriend. (Partly because I've got her calling me every day and asking how my sex life is progressing. Well, it isn't. I'm still going to be available to be your fucking lapdog. Happy?)

So she comes out with a few of us to a favourite haunt of mine - the blues bar just off Regent Street. The Oscillating Gibbon was there in fact. I think all of us were a little shocked when she started talking to a random stranger and snogged him twenty minutes later, barely six feet in front of me.

And yet the self-centred cow couldn't understand why I was so angry. Oh, don't worry love, I'm just the jealous ex-boyfriend who's had to watch you porking a complete stranger. Fucking hell.

Somehow...fuck know how...I almost forgave her. But then she dropped Bombshell No.3.

I think even she realised she'd gone too far this time. She fucked a good friend of mine.

In fact, she clearly knew she'd gone too far, because she asked that we meet in a heavily wooded area of Putney Heath. The loathsome little coward had obviously anticipated that she was going to be shouted at.

Now I don't hold anything against said friend, because he had no idea that this bitch was milking me of my better nature. But she fucking knew better. What the fuck did she expect to achieve by this?

And that's why I stopped speaking to her. Finally, it got through to me that this bitch only had her own interests at heart and was just going to fuck whatever she liked the look of, regardless of how it made her 'friends' feel.

Time for a happy ending, I think. After the last blazing row with the Uber-Bitch, things slowly picked up. Due to feeling like utter crap, I ended up in a couple of relationships with girls who were perfectly nice, but with whom I was completely incompatible, and to whom I feel I might have been a bit of a twat on occasions.

But in the meantime, partly through the Bearded Whumpus, I was socialising a lot more with Ms Crow. She became a really good friend very quickly, and, a little while after the second of the aforementioned relationships fell apart, I realised I'd fallen in love with her. And I've been so much happier ever since.

As for the Uber-bitch, last thing I heard, she'd fucked off to Singapore and got a banking job. As long as she's on the other side of the world and no longer trying to contact me then that'll do just fine. I only hope she's never found anybody who'll treat her as well as I tried to, and she'll come to regret being such a bitch. But somehow I doubt it. Oh well.

Apologies for going on and on and fucking on, but it's been surprisingly cathartic. Thank you all for your patience.
(LongJohnBaldry, Mon 13 Oct 2008, 23:29, 6 replies)

My colleagues are spoilt.
NHS, IT Trainer. That's me. I used to work in Northampton, where I was one of 2 trainers, the other of whom used to do next to bugger all. This left me to deal with booking staff onto courses, preparing courses, setting up training databases and making sure the correct info was on there ready for each training session, as well as sorting out accounts and passwords, access levels, and sorting out helpdesk calls, as well as go-live support and general day to day tasks as well. All this in a hospital with about 5000 staff. We brought in a new system, which necessitated the training of about 3000 staff; at times I was doing 4 or 5 training sessions a day, sometimes without even as much as time for a cup of tea between them. In the month of go-live I racked up 70 hours overtime.

Fast-forward to the present day: I work in a hospital where there are about 7000 staff, and we have 10 trainers, 4 admin girls who do all the booking, a clinical systems team who maintain all the databases and a team who go out and do go-live support. Oh, and supervisors to make sure it all runs smoothly. The clinical systems team also do all the passwords, so we don't even have to worry about that.

That leaves us with the training, and occasional helpdesk calls. Three of my colleagues (who I usually refer to as "The Coven") spend most of each day playing Solitaire or Bejewelled, and then at every meeting we have they moan how terribly busy they are and something's going to have to be done about it.

Me? I just bite my tongue and quietly hope that one day they get to find out what busy means - preferably while I'm relaxing somewhere warm with a guitar and my girlfriend...
(Professor Kenny Martin Hmm? What?, Mon 13 Oct 2008, 22:31, 5 replies)

Rich foreign kids..
When I was growing up my parents mortgaged themselves to the hilt to buy a nice place and to help pay for it they rented the two small bedrooms out to the local language school. The deal was that foreign students learning english would board with us for breakfast and dinner and be treated a bit like the family every day so they could pick up the language in a natural way. As a kid this rocked as you were always living with some amusing, occasionally quite schizoid (a story for another time) and sometimes *insanely* wealthy people. So here's my three favourite rich kids:

The Saudi guy in his early 20s who's mate dropped by to see him and parked up on my parents little drive way in a Ferrari F40. (My dad figured it was worth at least twice the price of the house!) I think it was the same guy who didn't really like english cooking.. and what do you do if you don't like your host's cooking? Cook your own tea perhaps? - NO don't think so small!! - Why you phone home, your London home, every evening and tell daddy's buttler of course! Then he gets the chef to make enough for you and all your friends. Then the chef gives it to one of daddy's Chauffeurs who drives it 60 miles from London up to Cambridge. EVERY DAY. I think it was the same guy who bought Terminator 2 on video before it was on general release.. he just paid the £80 to buy it with the full rental rights and naturally just left it behind when he went home! (He also left a nice leather jacket which was a bit baggy and I kept.. though it did smell a bit of overly strong aftershave! Still can't complain too much, beggars can't be choosers..)

We had a nice Brazillian girl who must have been about 18 stay with us for a few months. She actually seemed quite normal.. yes she bought small bars of cheap soap for £20 from Harrods and so on, but she was polite and friendly so all was good. We didn't really figure out how loaded she was until a bunch of her family visited to see how she was doing one day. They were all having a weeks break in the UK and "dropped in" for a cuppa as it were. My mum got chatting to the grandmother who was saying how the whole extended family all lived on one big farm. My mum commented how it must be nice that she can see her grandchildren so often. Grandmama's response was "oh no, it takes most of an hour to fly across the farm to see them" Filthy rich? I think so.. but in a nice way.

My last Rich kid was a quiet fella who was only 16 and had come over to do a months english course from the United Arab Emirates. I was about the same age at the time so we got on and chatted about this and that. He lived in a different world though.. I fantasised about getting enough cash together to afford a crappy car, insurance and fuel once I'd passed my driving test. You know what he told me? - "If I pass english course my dad buy me a Lexus!" - Smug little B'stard!
(OrangeMochaFrappuccino last watched Dexter on, Mon 13 Oct 2008, 22:20, Reply)

Dirty Dave
This is not your typical spoiled brat story. Dirty Dave was king of the white trash spoiled brats. To see him you would think that he was homeless. Greasy long hair, unkempt straggly beard, pick marks on his arms and face. But the fact of the matter was his grandfather invented a type of chemotherapy that made them extremly wealthy.

When I met Dave I was an aspiring young pot dealer and he was a pot head. He would buy a half ounce twice a week and generally hang out as long as possible before I would kick him out. I wondered where he got the money for all the weed as it was obvious he didn't work. My answer came the time he told me he was tired and that his Mom was coming to get his sack. At one point the mother decided that maybe Dave could be a pot dealer himself and gave him $1200 to come over and buy a quarter pound. He did this for a few weeks before his order went back to the usual half ounce. I never asked what had happened, but through a mutual acquaintance I was told that he had called Dave for pot once, and his Mother was the one who dropped it off.

Dave had a different car everytime I saw him but it was always some crazy tweak mobile. One week a '78 Trans Am, the next a '66 Vette, the next a '71 Bug with all the fixings. One time he asked if I could deliver a bag as he had broken his wrist falling off his new Harley. When I pulled in his massive driveway I had to park a half mile away as all his classic cars were in various states of disrepair scattered down the driveway. His parents house was in the Hollywood Hills on a few acres that was home to Dave's wrecked dirt bikes, model train tracks, and archery targets.

Did I mention Dirty Dave was a Tweaker? No? Well, he was.

His parents dared not say no to him. While he was always cool with me, he was physically abusive to his parents who were terrified of him. His Dad had eventually had enough and said no to him one day.

Here's where it gets good, one day Dave calls me up. Usually it's just for weed, but the tone in his voice was different that day.

"Dude, I need to come over for a little while."

"OK, is something wrong?" I asked. "Are the police looking for you? What did you do?"

"My Dad is being an asshole. I need to get out of here."

Nervously I said, "Look, don't come over here if the cops are looking for you."

"Don't worry, it's all good."

And that was the last I heard of Dave until 4 days later when his Mom called me. He had been packing one of his cars to come over to my house. He had beaten her up pretty good and threw his Dad down the stairs so they had called the police. When the police showed up Dave just happened to be loading his rifles into the car. They jumped out of their squad car with their weapons drawn. Dave was told to put down his weapon. Dave's reply was, "No, put down your weapons."

Three hours, 30 police officers, helicopter, a tear gas grenade, a tazer, and a few dozen bean bag bullets later Dirty Dave was in custody. And now 3 days later his Mom was asking me to write a letter to the Judge stating that Dave was bringing the guns over to my house because we were going to the shooting range the next day. I never did write the letter, mainly because I felt a short stint in jail might be good for him. But of course his parents hired a crack legal team that got all charged dropped and he wound up with an $89 dollar fine for disturbing the peace.

Last I heard Dave was living in Santa Barbara with his grandparents as all other members of his family have restraining orders out on him. He bounces in and out of rehab centers and jail. Even after all that his parents still buy his dirty ass anything he desires.
(anotherlogan and the whit he shites, Mon 13 Oct 2008, 20:56, 5 replies)

My Mothers father was good at spoiling kids
Apparently, he used to touch them in inappropriate ways and was even sent to Prison for Statuary Rape. It has been suggested by some of his own children that he interfered with them too, but one of them is claimed to have liked it...

As for Grandfather's kids, they all grew up totally fucked in the head, my own Mother was very damaged by her abusive childhood of being repeatedly beaten, told that she was hated and just being unwanted. Her slightly younger sister though was the Golden Child, given many gifts, loved beyond belief and treated very differently to her five other sisters and single brother.

In later years, it was claimed by her angry siblings that this was the Sister who enjoyed her Fathers touch.

As an Adult now in her mid fifties, the woman is hated by her siblings and even disowned by her own children, who she emotionally and physically abused.

She tried to contact me via Facebook recently, but my only memory of her is that she took my Father away from me when I was ten, which led to my being adopted by my Step father when I was fourteen. (If you ever read this Dad, I love you so much for adopting me and my sister, you never spoilt us because you did everything with love and care.)

Spoilt children can be understood and something can be done about it, but spoilt adults are cunts and they cause irreparable harm. Funny to think that after twenty five years I still feel angry towards to my Aunt for all of the harm she caused to the people I love.
( Rev. Jayneflakes Buy my book, I need the cash for drugs and hookers, Mon 13 Oct 2008, 11:24, Reply)

My cousin
will go out clubbing, get rat-arsed and then phone her mam at 4am to demand a lift home as she can't be bothered to get a taxi...
I'd rather spend a night on the streets than face my parents after waking them up in the middle of the night.
( Mellicious is made of candy, Sun 12 Oct 2008, 16:45, 5 replies)

I thought I was a spoilt bitch...
I have a mountain bike I spent twenty hundred pounds on, a motor bike I spent thirty hundred pounds on and another mountain bike I spent twelve hundred pounds on. I have a lovely cat who adopted me and a girl friend who I love dearly. I go climbing when I want and I play on my bike when I want. I work twenty hours a week spread over four days for Halfords and in truth I want for nothing.

Except, I worked really fucking hard to get where I am and I was bullied out of my last job by a pile of Cunt like school children. The worst of the lot was a spiteful poisonous cunt who came from a religious family, the lovely Isaac. He was a foul mouthed, openly hostile, racist, sexist and homophobic little fucker who liked to intimidate female staff. Frankly, it would amuse me greatly to hear that Isaac died of being bum raped in Prison by a syphalitic, AIDS infected, jewish, Pakistani woman, if such a thing were possible.

The final insult, while he was using filthy slang words for Ethnic minorities and told a female teacher that raping her would be funny, he accused her of racism because she asked him how a young black man could speak so badly of others.

Some kids are foul, spoilt little cunts and it is the ineffectual parents who are to blame, burn them all in a wicker man I say.
( Rev. Jayneflakes Buy my book, I need the cash for drugs and hookers, Sun 12 Oct 2008, 1:17, 3 replies)

I was a terrible brat.
I'd be belted, told to go and stand in the corner etc pretty much endlessly, but if anything the more I got punished the worse I got.

Anyway that was my weekend, how about yours?
(apeloverage committed the vile act of onanism on, Sat 11 Oct 2008, 17:49, Reply)

She came from Greece, she had a thirst for knowledge
She studied sculpture at St. Martin's college...
( Gerbilinafishtank Gerbil in a fish tank...TURTLE POWER!, Sat 11 Oct 2008, 14:09, 6 replies)

greetings from the future!
I bring good news, and bad news.

The good news...McCain will not be President of the United States.

Not for very long anyway.
(apeloverage committed the vile act of onanism on, Sat 11 Oct 2008, 1:24, 4 replies)

Spoilt little brats.
They ask for food, they get it.
They want to go out and play, they get to do that, even when it's dark.
The don't clean the bathroom.
Never done a days work in their lives, and just spend most of the day in bed or on the couch sleeping or watching TV.

They decided they wanted to go away for a while, and didn't even tell their mom, who's worried sick about them!


Come back soon, Stealth and Ninja

Woo Edit: Stealth is home!

Hurry back, too, Ninja
( Batshitmentalist is sane for once, Fri 10 Oct 2008, 19:19, 2 replies)

The Girlfriends Family.......
First Post! (takes bow)
My girlfriends Brother and Sisters are right up there in the scale of being spoilt bastards...........

Her brother denies all responsibility for the mistakes he's made in his life. For example, it wasn't his fault that he crashed his car while he was pissed (The Breathalyser hadn't been calibrated correctly so he got away with that), never mind the fact that he was on his way to buy drugs... So the day before his court case while he's in the pub (having just resigned for no apparent reason) his mother was at home filling in his court forms because it was beneath him. Mummy paid his fines while he was out of work (through choice) and he repaid her by stealing her credit card and spending 3 grand in a week with his mates. It was mummy's fault though for stressing him out about getting a job.

Her sister isn't much better, while Mummy was flapping about after the brother. She was helping herself to £200 every week from her mothers business account to feed her gambling habit.........

Meanwhile back in the real world, none of them talk to me, Especially her mother as I was overheard saying that they'd never learn to be responsible with money so long as she wiped their arses for them.

Apparently I have a problem with the "upper class". Upper class = more consolidated debt than most small African countries...

Tossers.....
(Mr_Smig, Fri 10 Oct 2008, 15:28, 3 replies)

Youth work & spoiled kids
You would have thought that working with kids who need a youth worker have had a bad upbringing and the like right?

Complete opposite in some of the cases I have seen. The family is poor, literally dirt poor. Can't eat or pay rent but they have plenty of cash for "Smirnoff" or "Chadony" (real names) to go out and get hammered for their 12th birthday.

Or enough money to buy two wet teabags (a dress kinda thing)or even enough money to smoke till the weekend is over.

One of the best situations, or worst, is when we had this little shit come in and give it the "you can't touch me, you're teachers you've got to do as I say as my dad pays your bills".

Cue myself and the other duty worker looking at each other with looks of viciousness.

We very politely, firmly and loudly told him that:

A. We're an indepedent youth group and since his dad doesn't go to church he doesn't pay us anything.
B. We are NOT teachers and we are allowed to pick disruptive young people up and throw them out (on their faces may I add) if they misbehave.
C. If he wants to talk to us like we're dirt then he will be treated as dirt himself, as in no service, no Wii and no support from the workers.
finally D. If he didn't stop misbehaving and throwing his food/drink/console around then we would turn a blind eye to the kids playing the wii and as it was put previously in this thread:

"See how he likes picking up his broken teeth with broken fingers".

It wasn't exactly 100% professional but you can be sure that not a single prima donna that evening gave us trouble.

**EDIT** I am actually normally a very calm person and wouldn't even consider saying this to one of our regulars, but there are limits to misbehaviour and if the parents and teachers are unwilling to disclipline the children, they shouldn't stop those who have to work with them from disclipling them.
(Helo, Fri 10 Oct 2008, 13:28, 2 replies)

Greek kids
Must be some of the most spoilt in the world. I have taught around 500 of them and there were only a handful that were well balanced and normal. The rest had been brought up to understand that the whole world revolved around them, that they were all deeply special and individual, and that any kind of authority figure was the enemy. Among many examples, these two stand out.

1) I asked a pimply little prick to move seats because he was talking all the time. He replied: "I pay your wages - I'll sit where I like."

2) Some other gobby little slag I asked to stop talking told me: "My father has a gold Rolex. I don't have to do what you say."

I'd like to say that most failed their exams, but they either cheated, were aided in cheating by friends of their parents, or paid off the invigilators.
(frankspencer, Fri 10 Oct 2008, 10:08, 6 replies)

As I have probably mentioned before, I work in a the catering/retail department of a tourist attraction
Many bratty kids, but this one stood out.
The mother was American; they were on holiday visiting the grandparents on the English side of the family. The son started demanding burger and "fries," and when the grandfather (a lovely, patient, white-haired old man) told him that they weren't on the menu and he couldn't have them (a fact that I backed up) he received a kick on the leg - pretty hard, as well. When the grandfather told him off for this, the mother started defending him, while the father just stood meekly by.
They ordered (after persuading the boy to accept fish fingers as a substitute) and sat down to wait for their meal; fairly close to the counter, so I could still hear what was going on. All I could hear throughout the meal was, "Stop that!" "Don't do that!" "Give that to me!" "Why won't you do as I tell you?"
This was the brat talking to his grandparents.
(Pretty strangers and promises, Thu 9 Oct 2008, 19:42, 1 reply)

my little sister
is a spoilt bitch. my dad told me if my sister had been born first then they wouldn't have had another. he also says that the only time she smiles is when she's got wind.

she'll wake my mum up by shouting at her and asking for her breakfast... she can do all this herself.. but ask her to and she'll scream.if she's going out and she's left something in her bedroom she won't go upstairs to get it, she'll make my mum do it because "aww but i have to walk up all those stairs!"

she threw a loaf of bread at me because i told her she should get her own dinner. she locked me out of the house because it was raining and i asked her to hurry up and get her keys out. her reason for this?
"you shouldn't have rushed me"

she decided she hated my ex, because my parents liked him and he'd be at our house sometimes. she threw a bag at him once. and would come home and if he was there she'd go "mum whats HE doing here?"
she threw dvd cases at us both once. she'd come home and started being nasty to us so we told her we'd had sex in her bed.
funnily enough she only actually threw the cases at us when she found out that it was a joke.

ah well one more year and i'm hopefully moving out.
(i eat crayons, Thu 9 Oct 2008, 18:17, 6 replies)

Whilst in first year...
As you know the first year of university is a melting pot of people from many different backgrounds, i was prepared for this. What I hadn't been prepared for was taking the bus into town only to hear a posh public schooled voice pipe up behind me with "A bus! I've never been on a bus before!".
( Slippery Mick ‏, Thu 9 Oct 2008, 16:59, 6 replies)

I blame the parents
For they are to blame.
( stopmeandslapme Cometh the hour, cometh your mum, Thu 9 Oct 2008, 16:33, 3 replies)

Jo, the 40 year-old teenager
My now-wife's aunt, Jo, is a prime example of the over-protected molly-coddled brat.

Firstly, although she looks good for her age and is rather fit (she rides a lot, so you know it'd be good), she is, after all, 40. Yet, she dresses like a 14-year old girl - either horsey-stuff (jodphurs, boots and tight t-shirt) or tops and jeans that might look good on a teenager, but certainly don't suit her.

Then there's the constant whinging. Nothing's ever right. Yes, she had an ex-husband who was a bit of a womaniser and who gambled, but to be honest, if I'd married her, I'd have gone off the rails, too. She's got a kitchen with a £1000 cooker, yet she never, ever cooks. Ever. She'll drink a bottle of wine, eat a whole cheesecake, then bemoan the world and blame everyone else for her problems.

She moans about being lonely, so when she met a guy we all thought "thank fuck". Then she decided he was too into the idea of a relationship and she wanted to just have some fun and no-strings. He understandably told her to get fucked after she'd put him through the mill (not to mention getting him to build a stable block for her 3, yes 3, horse - only 1 of which can be ridden).

Then she met a guy who was up for jus a bit of bouncy fun and to be a mate. That lasted about a month before she wanted to have a relationship, but he didn't. So she went after the other guy again, saying she loved him. Then did it again.

She's a sales rep for a medical company and, because she's a) usually hungover, b) too busy fart-arsing around with horses (personally, I'd shoot the lot of them and sell them for glue) or c) shagging her fuckbuddy or, d) driving her "boyfriend" mental, she's hardly made a sale in a year. Her company has lent her money to move house, bought her a new Land Rover Freelander to replace the usual company hatchback (so she could tow the horses), pays her phone bill and internet and lets her work from home as and when she pleases.

Finally, her boss said that, given the fact she blew a £3Million deal by not turning up, he'd had enough and was going to fire her. She immediately signed off sick due to "depression" and fired off a load of emails to her boss' boss accussing her boss and her colleagues of bullying her and implying that was the reason she'd not performed well at work.

They gave her three months fully-paid leave to "recover", during which time she's finished the garden, redecorated the house and played at being mummy's girl to get sympathy. She has now made a miraculous recovery (primarily because she still has a job and everyone is now scared to criticise her, no matter how bad her work is) and returns to work this month.

I could slap her silly, I really could.

Admittedly, though, when I was first seeing my missus and was introduced to her, I did think "if it goes tits-up with my girl, I could have a crack at the aunt - she seems easy" - I'm ashamed to admit that she does have a very fine ass.
(Chad, Thu 9 Oct 2008, 16:32, 6 replies)

Mr Friend?
I knew a chap called Ben Jewell who lived down the end of our road who had EVERYTHING and really rubbed our noses in it (we weren't the richest group pf kids!)

Turns out he killed himself in a spanky new car that his folks had bought him whilst driving like a cunt.

Ho hum.
(TAZ220 Not giving a toss since, Thu 9 Oct 2008, 15:16, 2 replies)

marks and spencers
one of my dad's good friends and clients is an obscenely rich guy from manchester. they are a lovely family, but they do live on a different planet to most people. for example, he bought his son a porsche for his 17th birthday. his son wrapped it around a tree. he simply shrugged and bought him another one.

so a few years ago, they invited my parents to their hospitality tent at wimbledon. my mother was sitting next to his charming but clueless wife, whom she said looked like raggedy ann in a pair of what were undoubtedly wildly expensive dungarees. made of sacking. for some reason, the wife was telling my mother about making a costume for her son's school play.

"i needed some rags for the costume, so i popped into marks and spencers to buy some things to cut up," she said [well, who doesn't buy new things to cut up], and then leaned in confidentially. "and do you know, they have things in there that one could actually wear ??"

"gosh. fancy that," my mum replied, frantically tucking m&s tags back inside her collar...

the really ironic thing is that her husband made his money from a very successful insolvency practitioners. do as i say, not as i do, clearly.
( rachelswipe with a fork, Thu 9 Oct 2008, 15:04, 1 reply)

in the supermarket...
a mother and teen daughter. Daughter attempts to sneak a packet of choccy biscuits into the shopping trolley; the mother spots this and puts them back on the shelf.

Defiantly, the stroppy teen tries again ...

... but the mother then threatens to throw a strop at high volume unless the recalcitrant teen behaves.

The choccy biscuits stay on the shelf.


Does it count if it's the parent threatening to throw a tantrum?
(haberman is singing in the changes, Thu 16 Oct 2008, 11:50, 9 replies)

apparently a lot of the girls at my school
were "stuck up."

There seemed to be no connection between their parent's income and whether they were stuck up or not.

But there did seem to be a big connection to
a) whether they were pretty or not.
b) whether the guy describing them as stuck up wore tracksuit pants and lied about his scores on video games.
(apeloverage committed the vile act of onanism on, Thu 16 Oct 2008, 8:02, 2 replies)

Spoilt brats ...
Well those would be mine then.

Two of them. Utter darlings (mostly) at home, total monsters (occasionally) when out and about.

Difference? I can't smack their wee arses when out and about for fear of the child snatchers legally taking them away.

Result? One and a half generations (or six if you live anywhere north of York and south of Edinburgh) of totally uncontrollable wee shites.

Good one Labour.
(Que?, Thu 16 Oct 2008, 7:01, 6 replies)

I knew this girl once...
She came from Greece she had a thirst for knowledge. She studied sculpture at Saint Martin's College, that's where I caught her eye.
She told me that her Dad was loaded, I said "In that case I'll have a rum and coca-cola."
She said "Fine"...

Bitch.
( PMGT -Bacon., Wed 15 Oct 2008, 23:41, 5 replies)

Not strictly in line with this weeks QOTW but still.. read on.
Ok, so this isn't as much about 'spoilt' brats as just 'brats' in general.

Every bus journey you can guarantee there will be at least one group of girls, usually around the ages of 12-16 who think its absolutely hi-fucking-larious to play whatever festering turd of a song is ruling the chavtastic songworld at that moment in time. If they're not playing shitty music then they are having a conversation to see who's mouth can produce the most crap in 60 second spurts.
A typical conversation would go thus:

Chavette #1: Lyk ohmygodwhatthefuckyousaying
Chavette #2: no 'e wud-unt 'eez gunna get fukin battad
Chavette #3: fuk off u dont no nuffink.

And so on and so forth all expelled in exceptionally loud voices so that the rest of the bus can hear all about their pathetic excuses for lives.


Next.

The male chavs, you know the ones. They stand outside the shops in groups and proceed to ask every stranger that walks past "go in t'shop for us mate". When the stranger politely declines their request they suddenly show their true side "what a wanka, fuk off yer fukin twat, i'm guna cut ya wiv me flicky innit". Well fuck me sideways with the torch of gondor... thats where i've been going wrong all my life, your supposed to be rude and uncouth when you want someone to do something for you. Christ on a twunting bike... Their stupidity astounds me. Fuck Asbo's.... bring in mandatory steralisation for all chavs.

There are so many more 'brats' i'd like to unleash a foul mouthed diatribe about but i'll end this here.
(urbanbushmonkey, Wed 15 Oct 2008, 20:32, 7 replies)

Faaaar too many
so I spent 9 years on scholarships at public school (funny how much they'll shell out for someone who can play the tuba).

To be fair, most were just ill-informed and insulated rather than spoilt. I particularly remember having a heated discussion with the guy who thought the national average salary might be £40k (1995, we were 16).

But one chap who really stood out a mile shall be called Felix, to protect myself seeing as he could probably still afford to have me killed.

Felix delighted in pointing out my parents drove a Skoda, that I couldn't afford to go on school trips, that I had cheap clothes, and that my holidays were spent camping in Yorkshire.

Refreshingly, however, even though I was a pretty unpleasant teenager, and never going to win any popularity contests, this ceased when some older members of the priviledged classes decided to physically explain that this was not the way he should behave.

I still think most of them were tosspots, and some probably still are, but I have a grudging regard that they took the part of someone they really didn't like, me, because nobody hates spoilt rich kids more than non-spoilt rich kids.
( prince-igor si tacuisses, philosophus mansisses, Wed 15 Oct 2008, 14:36, 1 reply)

16 yr old Tara
This girl is beyond spoiled! If you have something - she wants it. There's no choice but share it with her. If she wants attention, no matter how busy you are - she gets it....you have to drop everything or else she whines and forces her way. Bedtime is always a struggle, rumaging through all my stuff while I'm trying to sleep. She wakes you up in the middle of the night with bad dreams and wants cuddles then expects you to get up and start her day when she says so. Forget about sleeping in! She doesn't have a job, pays no rent, sleeps all day, has so many toys....She thinks the whole world revolves around her. Well, it does sort of. My little princess is fast asleep on her pink blankie in her basket. Her 'after breakfast catnip' tired her out. Touch her - she'll lift her head, purr, give you the most loving look then put her paws over her eyes.
(OGH, Wed 15 Oct 2008, 13:53, 10 replies)

At university I met a human being who had spent his entire childhood at a boarding school.
He had never used a hob.
( WormuIus, Tue 14 Oct 2008, 20:33, 11 replies)

looks around nervously :unlurks:
Short but sweet:

Many moons ago in the beautiful town of Basildon, Young urchin scampers through the town centre with Fagin like parents letting him scream at people shout and generally act like a little fuckbag... Then his beady eye does spy a chance for fun... Crowd barriers essentially a 3ft high hoop in the ground, upon which some kids were playing doing tumbles around them etc. He runs under the first pushing other kids aside, likewise the second... Now onto the third unbeknowest to him must have been set a little deeper into the ground for while running at full tilt he decided to use the top of his head as a brake upon said barrier. Now the laws of physics will ensure that while his head did indeed stop (and very fucking suddenly I might add) his legs and the rest of him continued to run... Laugh I nearly shat myself....



Runs and hides again (hopefully only for a bit)
(Bonzodog29 is an unemployed sponge of the worst kind, Tue 14 Oct 2008, 14:17, 1 reply)

Violent Spoilt Bastard
When I were a wee boy scout, we used to live next door to a stereotypical dragon-lady - one of the ones who would yell at you if you lost a ball in her back yard. You know the type, or have at least seen the movie.

My mother was a good Christian woman (which meant no booze in the house, which was a bugger), so to be nice, she used to make me mow this old biddy's lawn and do other odd-jobs for her. One of these odd-jobs was to play with the old bat's grandson on his infrequent visits.

I won't go into the details of how spoilt this little spawn of Satan's knob-cheese was, but I will get to the point of the story. One fine summer's day he was visiting and, as usual, I was forced to play with him. The future reality-show contestant had decided that we should play in the back of his father's ute (truck to the 'merkins), which meant that I had to sit on the tailgate while he told me how great he was.

After a time, he stood up, walked over to me and pushed me off the back of the ute. Whereupon I tumbled down to the cold, hard concrete, greeting it with my forehead and a dull "thunk".

The worst part of the episode, beside the blinding pain, was that the little scrote's grandmother had witnessed the entire thing. She then told me off and said I shouldn't have been up there in the first place.

Fuck, but I was angry. And bleeding.
( argyleblanket The man on the roof works for me, Mon 13 Oct 2008, 22:53, 3 replies)

Phonecall
Maybe this is more an expectation of spoiltness that wasn't lived up to.

"OK, bye dad, thanks for calling. Oh and thanks for the birthday card"

"That's ok. We thought we wouldn't buy a present, because you earn more than us"

"That's...fine"
(teebie jeebie, Mon 13 Oct 2008, 16:06, 2 replies)

Vroom!
My son is in the least chavvy of the primary schools in our area, the problem is that the school has a high number of spoilt little sods who have well off parents. There also seems to be some form of competition between the well off mothers in my sons class to see who can buy the most expensive items for their kid.

A few weeks before my son was due to finish his second year of school I was on my way to pick him up when I saw G, a parent of one of my sons friends dragging a mini battery powered 4 x 4 ride on through the school gates. G is around 5 foot tall and in my opinion could have drove it to school herself and saved a lot of hassle (I believe she decided against it as the Mario Kart look wouldn't have gone down well with the other well off wives she hangs around with).

Anywhoo, her little demon spawn comes out of class and jumps into the 4 x 4 (without even uttering a word of thanks to his mother) and attempts to run over a few other schoolkids while G brags about the car and the extras they had paid for. Turns out that the car had to be bought for spoiltbrat a few weeks ago as he was upset that the teacher had banned him from playtime for some misdemeanour that G believed her little precious would never do. Before I could start a rant about the fact that G should have punished him and not given him a present or even ask her why the hell would anyone spend money on a CD player for a ride on toy car my kid finally appears from the class and we decide to go get an ice cream and walk home.

Now heres where Karma turns up, on the way back home from the ice cream van me and son spy the little brat sat in his 4 x 4 in the middle of the pavement a few yards away from the school gates and screaming his lungs out (We heard him yelling earlier but thought nothing of it- every day he finds something to bitch about). It turns out that his mum had forgot to charge the battery for the 4 x 4 up and it had run flat on his way out of school. His mother was trying to placate the little bugger but it was falling on deaf ears. He was just sat in the drivers seat refusing to move.

The situation was eventually calmed after his mum walked to the end of the street (a good 10 - 15 yards away from the spot where spoiltbrat was parked) and reversed the family people carrier G had driven down to school. Why she thought it would be necessary to bring this electric monstrosity for such a small walk is a mystery to me (The people carrier is also a mystery as spoiltbrat is an only child).

I then sat and watched as G loaded the 4 x 4 into the back of the people carrier and drive off while finishing off my 99.
(mon bison powered by magnets, Mon 13 Oct 2008, 13:15, 4 replies)

Not me.....
Well.... Yes me but my mate is much much worse.

Me:
My mum does all my washing and ironing.
My mum cooks every meal for me (apart from Lunch as I'm at work)
If I sleep in for work my mum wakes me up..
I pay £100 / month rent
(worst of all) I'll be 24 next week.

Sad. Fucking. Days.


Oh but my mate is worse ;) When he dropped out of Uni he lived his his parents rent free, NOT WORKING FOR A YEAR. And lazed about playing computer games all day. He also got his parents to pay for his weekends binge drinking and nearly everything else like clothes, CD's, DVD's and Driving Lessons.

We are both sad bastards it seems
( whenanimalsattackhumans clad in global hypercolour, Mon 13 Oct 2008, 9:28, 6 replies)

as i'm stuck at work
i might as well mention my colleague lisa, whose daddy is minted and whose husband is even more so.

she has diamond earrings the size of hazelnuts and a ring the size of a brazilnut. she gets 24 yellow roses every. single. monday. morning. despite being 34 years old, she is NOT ALLOWED to walk around london in the dark - she can never come out from october onwards. unless her husband drives in to collect her, as they live in wapping and otherwise she might have to walk for 2 mins in the dark down st kats docks.

but what really annoys me is... we all know the redundancy axe is hovering over all of us. and she is whinging louder than anyone else about it, whereas the rest of us are just getting on with the job until the inevitable announcement is made. er, hello, try being single and supporting yourself (and your mulberry handbag habit), then let's see how you sleep at night.
( rachelswipe with a fork, Sun 12 Oct 2008, 20:53, 3 replies)

Don't know him from Adam but
the little cunt who I see getting taken around his paper round by his Mum in their car is one spoilt little fucker.

Might aswell just have his mum do the fucking thing!
(Mr G to you , Fathead, Sun 12 Oct 2008, 15:37, 3 replies)

And another thing...
The same kids from the post below, upon being questioned on anything they'd done/not done, had one stock answer:

"Because"

Usually accompanied by a shrug and walking away. It had the unerring ability to send me from 0-60 in the blink of an eye. It's quite possibly the most annoying thing anyone's ever said to me. Picture it:

"Why did you punch your sister?"
"Because"

"Why didn't you clean the kitchen up today?"
"Because"

"Why did you eat all the chocolate in the house?"
"Because"

Aaaaaarrrgggghhhhhhh!!!!
(Professor Kenny Martin Hmm? What?, Sun 12 Oct 2008, 14:26, 5 replies)

Comeuppance
Me? I've always been of the opinion that children should be obscene and not heard.
(Chickenwire social lubricator extraordinaire, Sun 12 Oct 2008, 9:53, Reply)

Oh the brats I know.
I'm sorry to say but the kids who I half baby-sit while doing all my other jobs at work are a little bit spoilt. Just a tad.
They don't get what they want and they scream.

Now I'm always pretty calm and nice to them - I don't give in but I don't get nasty either.

Well except for this one time. They were down in their playroom at the back and the youngest two were screaming for a lollypop.
Such was the noise that the patrons out the front were actually looking as though they were half dithering as to whether or not they should call social services.

I had enough. The kids were screaming to the point were I was getting a headache - I was sick to begin with and by all rights should have been at home in bed.

"MUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUM I WANT A LOLLYPOP!" I hear being screamed from a mere 6 meters away. Their mother was busy serving customers - and the hue of her face told me she was feeling highly embarrassed.

So I just went down to the playroom. Stomp stomp stomp, went my feet. I literally yanked the door open and growled at them,
"RIGHT! Quit that screaming right now! There are customers out the front and you are scaring them away and embarrassing your mother! Stop this at once or you won't get ANY chocolate pizza. I mean it! You think your mum will give you treats when you act like this?"

The looks of fright from their faces was priceless. And they did shut up. And they've behaved theirselves pretty darn well since I frightened them like that.

It was so hard to yell at them though. I felt really bad. And at the same time the looks on their faces had me on the edge of hysterical laughter.
(Poppet some assembly required., Sun 12 Oct 2008, 3:43, 4 replies)

I wasn't spoiled at all
In fact, I had a pretty crap start to life. I never knew my parents - in fact, they made it very clear they wanted nothing to do with me. I spent my childhood moving from place to place, not really fitting in anywhere, and certainly without many luxuries. Eventually, however, my luck changed. I was taken in by a very rich man, and I suddenly found that I had everything I'd always wanted. Perhaps it went to my head a bit. I was convinced I always knew best, and it led me into a lot of trouble and fighting - even killing a man, and covering it up. Even so, I found and married a beautiful woman, and looked set to live happily ever after. Unfortunately, murder has a habit of coming to the surface, and it wasn't long before I found out that the man I killed was really quite important. Turned out, in fact, that he was my dad! As if that wasn't enough, I'd only gone and married my mother by accident! Bit of a bugger, that.

O.R.
( MatJ LOOK, Sat 11 Oct 2008, 16:51, 6 replies)

and he comes into work every day!
I work in a pub, not a family pub, not a pub that does meals, not a pub that does handy colouring in packs for the little folk, not a pub where the cherubim are welcome before 9pm.
It's a boozer. there is a lounge, it has carpet, there's a bar, it has lino, a pool table, a gambling machine, a jukebox full of obscurity, a manky yard, smoking for the use of, and thats it.
So why, when the lovely oldish bloke regular picks up where he left off with his ex wifey, does said wifey bring her obnoxious brat in with her?
She'll get herself 2 or 3 pints, get the child a lime and soda, go and smoke in the yard, and then ignore him. No matter what he does! We used to have a good early doors crowd loads of ordinary working people used to come and decompress with a pint and a game of pool, until the brat and it's parent started coming in.

She gets pissed and ignores him, whilst he runs amok in the pub, yells and shouts over people's conversations, orders me to turn up the jukebox loud enough to drown out peoples conversations (I turned it back down again and he whined and whined at his Mum until she told him to "Fuckin well shuddup". I actually had to shout at him when he tried to pull someone's chair out from under them because they didn't want to play pool with him. He also comes into the pub complaining that 18 year olds have beaten him up... There's not a mark on him, and all of the 18 year olds round here are either in the nearest big town getting pissed or in this pub, ditto.. It's the yelling and constant attention seeking that really wind me up. It's not that I haven't got children (single parent, 2 kids, 1 at Uni, one at FE college, Ithankyew)or that I don't like them. I just cannot be having with this one and his attitude, although two things have stopped me just slinging him and his drunken slattern of a parent out.

1) It really isn't his fault, it's down to parenting, so it's hers...

2) the poor sod's name. I won't give it here, I may get the sack, but it's the same name as one of King Lear's daughters, and a girl out of my mate's year... Yes this loathsome boy HAS A GIRL'S NAME!!!

I really should just get over it, I know...

Apologies for length, and for getting bent out of shape over it.. ooo err..
(Beer Elf Thought this was like a campfire, anyhow, on, Fri 10 Oct 2008, 21:28, 11 replies)

Bitch-cow from Hell
[unlurks]
I went to a fee-paying school. I was on an assisted place, but many of the kids there were the sorts who'd employ others to be poor for them.

One girl in my year was given a new BMW. I can't remember whether it was for her 17^th or 18^th birthday. It makes no difference either way.

And what really annoys me is that, though we weren't friends particularly, she was still one of the most down-to-earth, genuinely lovely people I've ever met.

The bitch. What's the point of people like that if you can't resent every single breath they take?


[/unlurks] How do you do chevrons without them disappearing?
(Gravity's Raincoat, Fri 10 Oct 2008, 15:30, 7 replies)

They're everywhere, these days.
2 girls talking in a corridor behind me, en route to a German lesson-

Girl 1: "But won't that [brand new car] cost a lot of money?"
Girl 2: "Yeah, but fuck it: daddy's paying, and he should have got me the pony I was after anyway."

Both girls in this conversation are 18, incidentally. Having always hated Girl 2 anyway, I wheeled round and called her a vacuous, repulsive, disgusting slag, with an emphasis on slag (sadly she was one of those girls blessed with incredible looks and a rich father, which means she dressed like a Versace sponsored hooker and expected people to treat her like royalty*).

Also, I've just moved into halls at uni. 3 days ago I discovered one of the guys from the floor below me won't drink the tapwater here. We're living in a highly urbanised area in [the UK]. He chose to cough until he could taste blood when he ran out of bottles of water after the shops had shut.

Cunt.

*I'd treat her like royalty if I could get away with it. Shame I'm a republican**.

**no, not the political party. VOTE OBAMA!
(bad1dea, Fri 10 Oct 2008, 14:02, 7 replies)

I used to work for a family...
... who were a bunch of tossers. They lived the life of the 'upper classes' with family money and thought they were something special, when in fact they were broke.

They had two sons who were spoilt little wankers. One of them (he was about 9 at the time) threatened to sack me when I refused to scan something for him (We worked out of a converted barn in their 'grounds').

The best though was when they climbed onto the roof of the barn and started shooting the gardener with one of those high powered BB guns. The parents did nothing.

A few years after I left, I read this article, and wasn't surprised.

www.thisislondon.co.uk/news/article-5016838-details/Three+suspended+over+school+porn+video+/article.do

I can just imagine his mother's face when the headmaster called...

Spoiled little posh twats.
(Strangechap I look normal on the outside..., Fri 10 Oct 2008, 12:10, 6 replies)

For a short time I did some paid work whilst at colege as a learning support chappy,
I did alsorts of everything from maintenance to cleaning, but occasionally did actually do some proper teaching.

There was a girl in one class who had blossomed a little excessively in the breast department and would have been a very attractive lass had she not decided she was Britney, and came dressed as such and adopted an appropriate prima donna attitude to go with the image.

Rather than knuckle down and do her work I noticed she had an alternative way of getting thru which basically involved acting dumb, talking like she was fecking 5, and pushing her breasts into the tutors, and annoyingly this seemed to work.

SO one day when she was doing her thing with me and I wasn't impressed, I told her I would show her again how to do it, but A: She should have been listening the first time and B: She would STILL be doing it herself, I would merely explain how (rather than do it for her as most of the others did).

Cue the worlds fastest personality change ever, a huge strop, many accusations and name calling, everything bar the full on floor slap basically, but the bitch did her own work that day.

Also I was happy to note after viewing that, one of the other tutors (out of 3) started doing the same, so at least she had to do some of her work to achieve her grade.
( ..wil, Fri 10 Oct 2008, 11:28, Reply)

Well....
When I look at my meagre 13k/year wage (and the jobs stressful D: ) and see what all my rich electrician buddies are earning - I like to say to myself...

You can't put a price on memories...



Which thanks to alcohol I also lack severely!

*Shakes fist at world
( whenanimalsattackhumans clad in global hypercolour, Fri 10 Oct 2008, 10:36, Reply)

I worry...
...That the spoiled people being discussed here today are the same folk who were thanking their parents or whoever else was nice to them in the last QOTW.

Just a thought.
(Just_Mister, Thu 9 Oct 2008, 23:18, 2 replies)

My cousin Kevin
He's sure to go to heaven apparently. You know the type, always spotless; clean and neat and all that jazz.

Apparently he's got a fur-lined sheepskin jacket as well. Fancy that. Fucking well fur lined. WoooOOOooooo! But me ma just doesn't get that I'm not like him, and never will be. We like different things. You know, he loves University Challenge 'cos he's a big girly swot and all that with degrees in useless stuff like bionics. And maths and physics and economics. OK, they might be useful. Hasn't done the banks any bloody good though has it? Eh? But still, he's always harping on about it. And the cheating cunt keeps winning at subbuteo.

Yeah, he's his mammy's golden boy alright. She even bought him a fucking synthesier and only hired the Human-fucking-League in to teach him how to play it! I mean; spoiled or what? The girls went mental, trying to get him to take them home with him and into bed. But he didn't notice; Kev's so wrapped up in himself that that's all he needs see? Himself. And his right hand. And his mammy, bless him. She probably does it for him, actually.


Aspects of this post may not be entirely true
( Davros' Granddad a voice of calm reason in a world of spastics., Thu 9 Oct 2008, 21:10, 6 replies)

Spoilt - moi?
According to my sister, Yes!

as the youngest of three - I apparently got everything, for example; "allowed" to go to the pub at 14 ( I was a regular at 11...)

The more serious allegation is that my parents helped substantially buy my first house (for me and my very pregnant girlfriend - now MrsRabbit) whilst she was earning 3,4 5,6 times what we were and her husband several times what she did...

Me and MrsRabbit got married, a 35 quid job at the registry office, between breast-feeds, with a party afterwards at our house. My parents paid for the booze - a baby bath full of ice with bottles of wine and Champers in it... and we did the buffet. Rabbit's sister's dress cost more than our *entire* wedding did.

However, the reason Rabbit's sister doesn't speak to Rabbit is because "Rabbit has it easy"........


Rabbit and Mrs Rabbit graft (like cunted fucks) to keep Rabbit minors fed and clothed - to the point that we have had to choose between paying food over gas over mortgage. whilst sister-of-rabbit twitters in Twickenham and we have it easy?

Length? Mrs Rabbit is spoilt!
(CheatingRabbit, Thu 9 Oct 2008, 20:37, 4 replies)

Friend of mine
Begins almost every sentence with a high pitched "uuhhhhh"*

Complains constantly that her teachers will kill her as she never does the work, despite having weeks to do it. This is most likely because she spends all her time either shagging her boyfriend, or playing World of Warcraft or both.

Treats her best friend (who is lovely and would do anything for Whiner) like a personal slave.

Expects everything to be done for her. For example, she expects without question a place at her choice of university, despite not having visited any, and having hardly anything to show by means of achievements and/or experience.

She puts me down all the time, Yesterday, she saw a dance I am working on in my file and told me that I was sad and pathetic for choreographing a dance for the next local hafla (belly dancing party/show) and that my dance was probably shit anyway. She usually follows all these put downs, especially the ones in which she accuses me of being ridiculously whiny, with an immediate "uuhhhhhh"* and a whinge about something or other.

To cap it all off, she lives in a two bedroom house (like me) and has a younger sister (like me), meaning she had to share a room. Not any more. Her parents voluntarily moved into the living room last year and now sleep on the sofa purely so she could have her own bedroom in which to shag boyfriend/play WoW. Both of which she is addicted to. We barely make it to lunchtime before we hear: "Uuhhhh! I haven't played WoW/had sex in like, five hours!!!11!!!11!!"





*Whiny noises are hard to translate to text.
(Applebite Uh! A cow!, Thu 9 Oct 2008, 19:41, 9 replies)

Nathan Barley
Good ol' Brooker and Morris.

thegestalt.org/simon/cunt/

Gems such as:

"Worthless upper-middle-class cuntsack Nathan Barley visits the cinema with his friends Susie and Emma to engage in loud, flirtatious banter throughout the film and intermittently scuff the back of your seat with his overpriced trainers.

Are you a loudmouthed little cocksucker with a posh accent who thinks he's some kind of sharp media commentator just because he's sitting in a fucking cinema? Do you and your odious companions consider yourselves faintly superior to everyone else in the building? Can you be heard noisily trading unfunny observations about the film with such relentless frequency that the person in front starts to fantasise about leaping from their seat to knock your fucking head against the wall until it shatters like an egg full of wolf guts? Do you deserve to be kicked about like a rag fucking doll, all the way down the concrete steps of the fire exit and into the alleyway outside, then left to bleed your last into a puddle of lukewarm dog piss? The Kilroy team would like to speak to you: call now on 002 7656 7018."

or

"Nathan Barley stands chatting to a group of giggly female record industry wannabes on an incredibly crowded stretch of pavement outside a famous Clerkenwell bar, wearing a green t-shirt with the number '1972' inexplicably embroidered on it in golden yellow fabric, when his mood is dampened by the arrival of a strikingly attractive up-and-coming dreadlocked musician sporting exactly the same item of clothing."

or

"Nathan Barley strides down Oxford Street in an All Your Base Are Belong To Us t-shirt, sucking his cheeks in and nonchalantly puffing his chest out, a bit like a peacock might if it turned into a human and had its brain replaced with a big ball of shit."
( ma0sm, Thu 9 Oct 2008, 17:25, 3 replies)

Not exactly a 'Brat' but....
There's a guy i know who basically lives the life that every working person wants. He's got a really famous dad and therefore, never has to work, which to be honest is enough to piss me off right there and then! As if that wasn`t enough, He spends all his time swanning about the place, Having 'Experiences' and meeting 'Strange and interesting' people and everyone seems to pretty much throw themselves at his Immaculate feet!

I've not heard from him in a while...Come to think of it, the last i heard, he was thinking of visiting jerusalem sometime around March or April and i haven`t heard anything since.... Wonder if he's Cross with me crucifying him all the time?
(Billyfindus Shy and retarded since, Thu 9 Oct 2008, 16:16, 10 replies)

Dont get me started on students
I lecture in a university near Paris, and if the students would just put half the effort into their assignments as they put into whining at me when their work comes back covered in red, they'd breeze through the course.

If you're a student, remember that while you have the right to an education, you don't have the automatic right to a qualification; the latter you have to actually earn.
(lolwhites, Thu 9 Oct 2008, 16:05, 5 replies)

My brother's new wife is nice
His last one was terrible. Always had to have things her way. Daddy's little girl. Criticises people's fashion sense at a funeral.

Her name is shitwife.
(teebie jeebie, Thu 9 Oct 2008, 15:47, 4 replies)

And I have to work with her
I work with quite possibly the most spoilt brat in all of eternity. To protect the subject in question (and myself for that matter) I will refer to the individual simply as B.

Now B is in her 40's. Or so people say. She looks like a 50-year old teabag. From what I can recall, her current employment is her only genuine employment (as in one she is paid for) and she has had to work in the same place as me for about a year now. So you can imagine how my day is. If not, just think about how middle aged people would react if they had to be told what to do by someone half their age.

B only works because she has to pay for the luxury motor Mr B bought for her (so she says) and to "get away from the kids." Unfortunately we all know its cos she is so far up shit creek no paddle could save her. She spends £5000 a year on a single holiday. She buys her kids ridiculous gifts for their birthdays (£1500 trips to london to shop etc) and she shops at M&S almost religiously.

The only problem now is, she's indebted so much to the plastic man that everytime she makes a payment on one of her many credit cards she has to cross her fingers. Even £2 on a sandwich brings on this butt-clenching, intensity akin to watching Jonny Wilkinson taking a World Cup winning penalty. But still the cash flowing continues. I think she booked another holiday for christmas, but only for 2 weeks cos 3 is just too much.

So I guess she's already got her comeuppance. Or maybe it'll happen when Mr Repo turns up to take away all her possessions. Either way, she's steaming towards a breakdown in a car with no brakes, and I wont shed a tear when it happens. Mostly cos she's a complete cow to me at work. Though that could be slightly selfish.

Ehh, who cares.

/troll
(guyie failed to be witty on, Thu 9 Oct 2008, 15:16, 4 replies)

My cousin Kevin.
He's got a fur lined sheepskin jacket. (my mum says they cost a packet).

He's his family's private joy - His mothers little golden boy.

He's got a degree in economics, maths, physics and bionics.

He thinks that I'm a cabbage, because I hate university challenge.



*BASTARD*
( Linbox has a serious dunk habit, Thu 9 Oct 2008, 15:02, 7 replies)

Gone off
I met her on holiday in Spain and initially she was great. Lovely blond hair, barrel of laughs, and very, very acquiescent.

I wanted to keep her good for as long as possible, but now unfortunately she's in an advanced state of decomposition and I can't use her any more.

Totally spoiled.
( rofl harris, Thu 9 Oct 2008, 15:01, 3 replies)

So there's this bloke I know
met him in a pub on a busy night, and he tells me all about his life. So there I sit, listening to this litany of luxury, made even more boring by the fact that he has the charisma of a beetle.

Apparently

- He went to a private school so posh and costly that they had cigarring instead of fagging.

- His fine wine palate means that he can tell what the Frenchman who made his wine had for breakfast.

- He could have easily made a ton of money doing slightly dodgy things in the Eastend, but he wasn't that sort of fella.

- He's got so many shares that he could have stopped the credit crunch, but he was too busy with his mates.

- He knows every bouncer in London and can get gratis access to all the best clubs.

At this point, my vision is going a bit wonky from boredom, and I need to get away from him.

Thing is, he starts to jabber on at such a high rate, a couple of drops of blood start coming out of his nose, but he still doesn't notice, so consumed is he with his monologue, and getting you to hear it. Thankfully, at that point I made my exit, and no-one was left to tolerate his ramblings.

He really was charmless.

Oh yeah, and his mate lives in a very big house in the country.
(LickOutTheJamsMotherfuckers!, Thu 9 Oct 2008, 14:35, 4 replies)

I spoil myself
So fellow QotW-ers

Should I drive the 800 metres to the recycling centre to drop off 4 empty cans of diet coke in my:

Lotus Exige?

Audi R8?

Aston Martin DB9?

thanks

Halfy by name fucking more than a half in me bank account arf arf
(Halfy By light alone, Thu 16 Oct 2008, 12:55, 19 replies)

Maybe not 100% relevant
More un-thinking than spoilt perhaps, but a few years ago we lived in a house next door to a student house. They weren't too bad most of the time - one was a music student and would practice the cello until late into the night - how can you complain about that?

But one Thursday night at around 2.30am there was a ring at the doorbell. Who the fuck!!! We were all asleep at the time - our sprog was in the middle of her GCSEs, we normally went to bed well before 12.00. So, pulled on my dressing-gown and went to see what the emergency was. There was a student there, in a shirt and trousers - shivering. I'd never seen him before in my life.

"Sorry to disturb you - I live next door. I've just got home, nobody's in and I've forgotten my key."

"Yes?"

"Well, I haven't got a coat and it's really cold out here."

What the fuck??????? The miserable student looked up at me with puppy eyes. What did he want? A sofa to sleep on? A house-breaking kit? A tele-porter? A nice hot cup of tea and a chat?

"Here you go," I said, taking my warm winter jacket off the coat peg, "you can bring it back tomorrow."

I passed him the jacket, closed the door and went back to bed. He wasn't outside at 6.30am when I got up, but he brought the jacket back later.

What was he thinking? If I'd done what he'd done, I'd have gone to a friend or suffered in silence. Friggin' students.
(Che Grimsdale Best before:, Thu 16 Oct 2008, 12:07, 7 replies)

I hate Harry Potter
In 2001 my wife, then girlfriend made me come to the local flea pit with her to see this cinematographic feast.

I arrived late, having gone to the wrong cinema, (well how was I to know it was considered an arthouse film for the love of god?), and was then put off by the number of toffee nosed (bear in mind this was in Cambridge, seat of learning and home to a large proportion of the countries fat-headed, overprivelidged youth), guffawing, vacuous little toe-rags seated in my immediate vicinity.

At one point some little fauntleroy who had been muttering to her friend for the past hour about what was going on in the film (I am an adult, and as a result had not partaken in any of Ms Rowlings tomes on the teenage wizard, and before any of you bleeding hearts start bleeting on about how great they are, they were written for children, no matter how much you dress them up), actually stood up in the cinema and raised her arms to the side in a sort of Jesus christ pose.

I tapped her on the shoulder and barked at her to sit down, please. (Never let it be said I forget my manners even when being assertive).

Her hook nosed harridan of a mother quietly asked her to sit down, and then cast me a reproachful look.

Clearly 'gifted' children should be allowed to do whatever they like.
(Vic Flange, Thu 16 Oct 2008, 11:40, 18 replies)

I have to admit it
My kids are spoilt. Spoilt rotten in fact in a - give you loads of things to shut up and let me get on with my wine "hobby" - sort of way.

They've had a live in Nanny, and a live out Nanny, various full time nurseries, music lessons, gymnastics, dance, ballet. Both could swim before they were 5. They have pizza every friday, chinese at the weekend. Birthday bashes since the year dot have had magicians, discos, clowns - they named it. They are in Prep and pre-Prep schools, delivered each day in the best motors money can buy. It's embarasing at christmas and birthday time, quite frankly. They've got all those stupid plastic japanese gonks, as well as bunk beds!Spoilt rotten they are, but I have a remedy.

For sometime now a few friends and myself in financial circles have been engineering a little surprise. I introduced the concept of the "credit crunch" to them last week over buttered fag and marmalade.

Hopefully the fact that pater is now unemployed and the bentley's with the balifs, and they'll have to make do with walking to the local Nelson Mandela Primary School, tap water sandwiches for lunch and an orange for christmas, this will finally give us parents the reason to say NO, you can't have my credit card to order wiggly worms III for nintendo DS off amazon, you've had 15 playstation games arrive in the last ten days, least not wiggly worms VI VII and VIII. Serves the spoilt buggers right.

Mind you as I'm a spoilt bastard m'self, and quite good at it, even if I say so myself, it's looking like the prols will bail us out through their pension funds without even knowing it. After all that Gordon Oik is a jolly decent chap. He'll do anything to be accepted. Even shit on his socialist pals and most of the rest of the worlds population to keep me in gainful employment.

EDIT: Seriously times are hard. We've had to downgrade to Kitzburg this christmas and lay a couple of the stable boys off.
( buffet_the_appetite_slayer ٩(●̮̃•)۶ jacked in to the ICE on, Wed 15 Oct 2008, 16:42, Reply)

Riddle me this
I have a roof over my head, a steady job, and enough cash to last. And yet I wish to reject all of this in favour of buggering off to a nice and warm foreign country to teach English. The reason? I can't stand the 9-5 grind. Wake up, go to work, come home, watch TV, rinse and repeat for 5 days and then the weekend is here. Again. Even with hobbies it gets all samey after a while. I'm beginning to reject the whole thing utterly and the only thing keeping me in a job is my pride, frankly. I will not be some dole-bludging hoon. However, to the point. Is being willing to work toward your dream of escaping this frankly dull and cheerless life in favour of something infinitely preferable being a spoiled brat, or someone with their head screwed on (or slightly off) being willing to follow their dream?

Incidentally this is not a "Please validate me and give me attention" post, more a genuine question. I appreciate your answers.
( jim_bob can herd cats., Wed 15 Oct 2008, 16:25, 32 replies)

Admit it...
If you had the chance (or the means), you’d ALL be spoilt brats.

Don’t say you wouldn’t. You would. You sooooo would.

They should rename this QOTW to:

‘Reasons why I’m jealous of rich people: C’mon B3tards, bitch and whine about folk because they have more stuff than you and tend to get their own way’.
(Mr Twisty Cheeky The worst kept secret in B3ta..., Wed 15 Oct 2008, 15:04, 13 replies)

Young journalists...
Yes, yes, we all love to say "In my day we had to earn our way..." etc, but seriously there are some in my paper who are infriggingcredible.
They wander out of uni and expect to be writing the front page immediately, talk down to the guy who corrects all their mistakes because "he's just a sub editor isn't he?" etc etc.
Classic example was the twat who announced himself on arrival with a biography in the in-house newsletter saying "I'm the guy sitting next to you with a social conscience" then went on to explain how he wanted to right wrongs, expose corruption, bring down evil officials and so on.
Fast forward one month - that's right ONE MONTH - and a mate spots him in a nightclub queue shouting at the doorman: "I don't have to line up with everyone else! Do you know who I am? Do you know where I work?? I'll RUIN YOU!!!"
And the worst part is, there's a new crop of the feckless upstarts every damn year.
How I long for a QOTW running "Tell us how you've taken someone who deserved it down a peg" because quite honestly a few colleagues of mine have made a fine art out of tripping these wankers up.
( difficultchild, Wed 15 Oct 2008, 11:57, 9 replies)

airline pilot
A guy on my course decided to turn up to his first day on his type rating course (biiiiig day) wearing jeans and shirt he had dug out of his wardrobe 10 mins earlier.
When the training captain asked why he wasnt in uniform, turns out his mummey hadnt packed his trousers.
This guy is going to be in charge of 200 passengers, but cant even dress himself...
(screaminlemmin, Tue 14 Oct 2008, 22:56, Reply)

Walking over Magdalen Bridge, Oxford.
I overheard the following exchange between an incredibly pretty, slim girl with a sleek swish of gold-blond hair, and her smartly suited gentleman boyfriend.

" Fucking WAIT, Tristan, my FUCKING PASH* is caught on the FUCKING HOLLY"

Her creamy home-counties face was twisted into a snarl of ferocious ugliness.

I bet Mr Rugby-shoulders has married her by now.

* abrv. "pashmina" A gauzy cashmere badge of true breeding.
(hahasnakes, Tue 14 Oct 2008, 21:37, 5 replies)

Me, totally...
"Hm, drat", I thought, "I need some new jeans and t-shirts..."

I had just discovered that my only clean pair of jeans (Asda £4.99, none of yer three quid shite) has holes in both the pockets.

So, I'm sitting here, watching my wonderful wonderful girlfriend sewing them up on her incredibly complicated-looking sewing machine ;-)

Oh wait, "spoilt" implies a lack of gratitude. That's not it, then.
(gordonjcp, Tue 14 Oct 2008, 16:39, 4 replies)

I went to Bristol University
It has a relatively high proportion of public and privately educated people, very very many of whom are nowmal, functioning people who are more than welcome to keep breathing and deserve to keep their fingers.

But there were also quite a few people who think that because their parents have money the are entitled. Like the guy who couldn't be bothered to learn how to open a loaf of bread so he just tore the bag every time.

What sort of person asks "what public school did you go to?".

Of course as I was a 'Northern' I would be asked "what comprehensive did you go to". I always found that "I went to a gramar school, because I earnt my education, I didn't get daddy to buy it" was enough to get them to scamper away leaving a trail of posh wee.
(teebie jeebie, Tue 14 Oct 2008, 15:46, 9 replies)

After reading alot of posts and some life experiences myself.
I seem to be finding that more and more people are treating their kids like 'the one' when they're little so they grow up with superiority complexes.

I was one of the intelligent kids through my early years development schooling and I was never reffered to as being a 'little angel' as alot of kids these days are. The best compliment I would get from my Dad is 'Smart Arse' and my Mam would chastise me if I didn't get perfect grades and feign interest if I did.

I don't have any ill feelings about that it's just the kind of people they are, but I used to fume at the kids who would recieve gifts if they remembered to put on their tie in the morning or not hit another child by dinner-time. Their parents didn't seem to realise that they won't view this as "Oh thank you for encouraging me to be good, I have respect for you and others now" but "Oh? I get gifts when I'm not a complete shit 100% of the time, let's just make it most of the time then and kick off when I don't get a present".

I'm not trying to be naive about any of this, I KNOW it's the parent's fault but their children are more devious then they seem to contemplate. I thought that would get better as I continued through education but you find that those little brats that would throw a hissy fit for not getting their own way had only got bigger, not matured.

The worst bit is alot of them are from families who have nothing yet their parents still go without to give them everything they want. With their low incomes the students also get every grant/subsidie/'loan' under the sun and they don't show the slightest bit of thanks or ever think "I know I might lay off my parents now I'm getting all these government funded scehemes" but still go home on the weekends and whinge until they get beer money because they spent all their uni-cash and overdraft on weed.

An absence of money doesn't make a noble man - being smacked around the head while they're being a little shit, does.
(Vikingheadache, Tue 14 Oct 2008, 14:16, 2 replies)

Sorry, a re-post which i dug up from my unearthly past
Oh go on then, i'll polish it up a bit just because I have nothing better to do :

Old friends visiting.
Having moved to a warm climate abroad, and somewhere which is a nice place to come on holiday. Ive suddenly found that I have many friends back home in the cold. Friends of friends and people I havnt heard from for ages, have all been eyeing up a nice opportunity for a cheap holiday in the sun. All under the premise of coming to see me, as friends.


My latest visit was from an old friend. Lets call her C, for a c*nt that she was and a total spoilt brat. She had been before during the summer, and I spoiled her rotten and all was well, taking her to the theme parks, the pools, the beaches, the shows, all the nice places.

Now this is a purely plutonic relationship as she has a boyfriend, Whom im good mates with.

C eyes up a cheap flight in January, the height of winter. I warned her that the place is dead during this time. And the summer fun of her last visit just wasn't there anymore. Its not hot, you can't guarantee wall to wall sunshine, Its out of season.

Mesmorised by a cheap flight, a cheap holiday and winter sun, this fell on deaf ears. When its 2C in england and I say its 15C here, people get visions of sunbathing on beaches. 15C is not warm!

C brings boyfriend out this time, which would have been fine.. Except they are having some relationship issues. Coming on holiday together simply heightened the problem. He was just doing everything he could to apease her and keep the peace. But that didnt stop her slamming doors, shouting and screaming, creating an atmosphere and making life uncomfortable for everyone else.

She was in spoilt brat mood. She just didnt grasp that this was a visit to see a friend, not an all inclusive package holiday. She was annoyed that it was only 15C outside, she winged when it rained and couldnt believe the pool wasnt open! When faced with trying any of the local delights food wise, she literally spat it out infront of the waiter. And then got in a huff when they had no WKD Blue and Smirnoff Ice! She was your typical british tourist, headed straight for the english places and wasnt happy anywhere else.

Personally if you have the pleasure of going to stay with soemone who lives abroad. It gives you an opportunity to get away from the tourist traps a little bit and live like a local. Afterall, thats one of the main reasons for travelling isnt it? Not for her. Nothing was good enough.

I took them into the hills to a nice village to walk around. Was a bit touristy but its hidden, and its not somewhere the tour busses go. Its a "Youve got to know it place" Well she winged and moaned around that too. Despite telling her it was in the mountains, she wore high heel shoes and her feet hurt because it was hilly, which caused everyone else pain.

We had organised a night out, she didnt want to go saying she had a stomach ache, meaning that her boyfriend couldnt go either. So they decided to have a night in.. yes at my expense. Got home to find 3 bottles of wine open with only a sip taken out of each one! No tops put on them or anything.. they were basically wasted. It wasn't him, it was her. I was at the point where she would just so get on my nerves. Half way through the week, I was tempted to kick her out. I couldnt even get on my own computer. I told her to bring her laptop but she didn't bother. It was too heavy for this princess to carry.

At last the time came for them going home. I didn't even bother going into the airport with them. Just dropped them off at the door and headed home. Good riddance.

So the karma? Well as well as loosing a good friend (in me!), her boyfriend dumped her when they got back home. Then she got fired from her job as well. She has taken it really really hard too. Yet still, somehow I'm the one to blame and she wants an apology off me for not acting like a good friend!
(Miggyman, Mon 13 Oct 2008, 18:53, 3 replies)

Fat Barry
Fat Barry was 2 things:

1. Fat
2. Called Barry

So far so good. We met him in our first year at uni. He'd just turned 18, and his simpering parents had bought him a brand new car. How sweet.

We eventually ended up sharing a flat with him. We put aside his slightly eccentric behaviour (imagine the brains of Roger Irrelevant and the looks of Felix and His Amazing Underpants*) as first and foremost, he had a car.

He gave us a lift to lectures and, as he came from the same part of the world as us, we got a lift most of the way home at weekends.

But as time went on, Barry became more unhinged. He started charging us petrol money - for journeys that he would be taking anyway. A bit pish really as he had no car costs to worry about - the car payments, tax, insurance, servicing were all taken care of by mummy and daddy, and I'm fairly sure they paid for his petrol anyway. All on top of his allowance. The miserable shitebag.

He started invited his dubious friends to stay over. They all had major personality disorders like being unable to hold a conversation without grunting, and being unable to stay in someone else's flat without stealing from them.

Barry was an only child and desperately craved attention. He seemed to think that he could get away with anything he wanted - having his junkie pals stay for weeks on end, not cleaning up after himself, not buying his share of the bog paper - the usual behaviour of a spoilt brat away from his mother's apron strings for the first time.

Things came to a head when his junkie mates threatened to stab a fellow flat mate. We finally gave him an ultimatum - fuck off, or um..ah..well...just fuck off anyway.

He did, fully expecting us to have to stump up for his portion of the bills for the rest of term. How wrong he was. He was hardly at the foot of the stairs by the time we had his bed fumigated and another mate moved in.

Tough luck fatty. I haven't seem him in nearly 20 years - and I'm not usually one to bear a grudge - but genuinely I hope he's had a shit life. I watch My Name Is Earl, so I fully expect Karma to do it's thing on that one.

*Apologies for the aging Viz reference. Yes, I am that old.
(Reverend Fister "a disciplined fuckwit", Mon 13 Oct 2008, 15:57, 8 replies)

Anyone for polo?
Said to me by an exceptionally posh girl I used to go to University with;

"We didn't have a TV when I was growing up...

...I had 5 ponies though."
(Rakky (forgot her password) The muffin maverick, Mon 13 Oct 2008, 13:27, 2 replies)

A rather bizarre child....
On a train freighting me to my mighty mister I was sat in front of a child. They did the usual things: singing annoying songs, bumping the seats and moaning.

Occasionally a little hand with poking out finger crept though the gap between the window and my chair to poke me on the arm. I shoved my elbow into them when they tried it next. So a cheeky child, but not one worth throttling.

Then they went on to looking out the window. Suddenly they yelled, "Agh! There are PEOPLE in that street!" I looked and there were indeed people walking about outside their houses doing the usual things. "There are people walking about down there! I HATE WHEN PEOPLE WALK ABOUT OUT THERE!"

His mother carried on reading her book and he carried on ranting about the idiocity of these people daring to walk about the streets in front of their own homes, when he so clearly hated it.
( vix0r was not Matthew on, Sun 12 Oct 2008, 21:57, 1 reply)

My mate Neil...
...point blank REFUSES to eat any other brand of baked beans other than Heinz's.

Posh bastard.
(scentless_apprentice takes two bottles into the shower!, Sun 12 Oct 2008, 20:46, 10 replies)

A few christmases ago...
My littlest brother - well, my half-brother, but let's not nit-pick - got a Gameboy Advance.

He complained that he didn't like the games, that all his other mates were getting Playstation 2s, and that it was all very unfair.

Without so much as a thought, my mum reminded him that when I was his age (fifteen years earlier) we didn't have carpets, our clothes were from charity and that for Christmas me and my brother were given a £2.99 Woolworths chess and draughts set to share between us.

Point, I feel, proven.
(scentless_apprentice takes two bottles into the shower!, Sun 12 Oct 2008, 20:31, 1 reply)

Private ed...
An ex employee, what a spoilt wanker,
Private education (approx £25000 worth) yet you can't even read his scrawl,
Does absolutly fuck all, Drives a £25.000 car, 29 and owns a house woth over quarter of a million.
As for the karma, his wife to be is a freeloading fuck pig.
(Murran_Butchstansanger Good bye Tony, R.I.P, Sun 12 Oct 2008, 9:30, 2 replies)

Ahhh, Schooldays
My parents where not rich people, and as a result I used to dread non school uniform days, as I'd go in wearing cheap trainers, jeans and tshirts while a lot of the other kids (I went to a fairly upmarket grammar school) got to wear the latest trainers and addidas/Nike/whatever gear. Looking back on it it shouldn't have bothered me as much as it did, and I still feel a little guilty about moaning about it to my parents (guess that's my selfish bit) Anyway, most of the other kids didn't give a toss about what I wore, or the two other kids in my class who didn't have well off parents. That was untill A turned up. He was the most spoilt person I've ever come across, he could do no wrong in the eyes of his parents, and was pretty good at sports so for some reason the school decided to turn a blind eye to the little shithead and his obnoxious behavior, apparently breaking a bunch of athletics records guaruntees you immunity. Anyway, this utter cunt was something of an alpha male type, a bully with a large circle of friends. Of course when it came to picking someone to ridicule the greasy haired cuntsack chose me, cos I was kinda small, wore crap clothes and NHS glasses and tended to get on the teachers nerves by generaly being lazy. Suffice to say he turned most of the class against me, and because he was so fucking "special" he usualy got away with it. Made my life hell, ridiculing my family and me for being poor and on the one christmass my parents managed to buy me an addidas Tshirt (god knows how they afforded it) chucked pva glue over it. Anyway I grew up and realsised exactly what a prick he was and thankfuly my 6th form days where a damn sight more fun, even though he was still around and still being a prick. Unfortunately what with this being the real world there was no great comeuppance, Karma never ambushed him or screwed him over significantly. Mind you at our leaving "prom" (i hate that word) he managed to get drunk on very little alcohol and spent most of his time puking his guts out in the toilets, which was kinda funny.
(Fredz A graveyard of hopes, a dump of ambition, Sat 11 Oct 2008, 16:02, 6 replies)

Back in my school days
Friend X was telling us that he had jokingly asked his dad for a (then) newly-launched Playstation 2. Not for his birthday, not for Christmas or a Bar Mitzah; it was just something he desired.

His dad was a man that would make Ebenezer Scrooge look flamboyant, so X was filled with astonishment and gratitude when his dad considered this for a moment before saying "Okay", and proceeding to the till to buy one.

We all shared in his astonishment, and exclaimed how lucky he was. Girl Y, the school's resident spoilt bitch, however, simply remarked thus:
"Gosh! I'd have to ask at least twice for a Playstation 2!"
(moltenretriever, Sat 11 Oct 2008, 15:04, Reply)

I have been waiting for whole week for an excuse to tell somebody this.
I'm currently working in the fruit and veg department of a large supermarket in Edinburgh. Last week I was passed by a woman with two children, the older of whom couldn't have been more than 9 or 10.

As she skipped passed me, she excitedly exclaimed in a plummy accent: "Ooooh, mummy, shallots! Can we have shallots? I LOVE shallots!"

I don't think I knew what a shallot was until I was in my teens.
(Generator cannot be named for legal reasons, Sat 11 Oct 2008, 11:26, 7 replies)

old v new money
If you've ever had to save for a Rolls Royce, you own one. If you've never had to save for a Rolls Royce, you don't want one.
( no longer a user, Sat 11 Oct 2008, 8:17, 1 reply)

Spoilt brat
As some of you may be aware, I'm a geek.

In the interests of earning some extra shekels whilst a post-grad student, I did private tuition of kids doing GCSE and A-level maths and further maths, and a bit of physics alongside.

One little sh!t (hello, Hugo, if you're reading) decided that he couldn't be bothered with lessons and I later learned that he was taking the £25 an hour he was meant to be giving me and going out and buying weed with it. Good lad :).

Unfortunately, when he *spectacularly* failed his GCSE maths his parents were less than impressed; I could show them the evidence that he hadn't been coming to see me. Heheheheh.

Comeuppance, thy name is parental fury!
(Eds Meds Mathskillz=1,Socialskillz=0, Fri 10 Oct 2008, 20:53, 2 replies)

self-pitying whinging response to QOTW
I am,myself,something of a spoilt brat,or rather a 'lapsed aristocrat' as Tony Benn or whoever it was calls them (my family can be traced back 12 centuries
and i have four quarters to my chevron,lucky lucky me),but fortunately i grew up at a time when my family had no money,so i've never wanted for anything i really
wanted,and my parents worked extremely hard all through my childhood.I avoided some of the spoiling that i should have suffered.
What bugs me is my friend,who's new money (envy much?),and was bought a 1963 Mustang Firebird for his twelfth birthday (yes,like the
one in American Beauty),will be given 120k in legacies when he leaves university,will immediately get a job in his father's upscale architectural
company (despite doing a degree completely unrelated to that),and will live a long,healthy life filled with trips to exotic places.He whinges that his life is falling apart because he
has to fill a shift in a bar every other week.
i'm supposed to be a taoist but sometimes i'm just sick with envy.sick.sick.
I live in university accomodation with a laptop and some books.his father has just bought him a lovely four-bedroomed house in the upscale part of town.
-weeps-
if you want to give me money so i can fund my bohemian/shit life...fuck it.ill get another job.
apologies for lack of funny.

EDIT : It's a 1963 Ford Mustang Coupe in bright red.Cunt.
(Fuckpig "That's not even a pound a midget.", Fri 10 Oct 2008, 19:00, 6 replies)

this is arguably an act of utter hypocrisy on my part
but I'm going to do it anyway.

A lot of people have posted on here about 'spoilt' workmates - maybe they're related to the boss, or the useless scion of an important client, or the boss is having an affair with them, or isn't but would like to...

anyway, people who make work miserable for everyone else and aren't held accountable for it because they have some kind of special status.

There's a reasonably easy way to protect yourself from this. Just saying.
(apeloverage committed the vile act of onanism on, Fri 10 Oct 2008, 15:47, 27 replies)

working class pride
When I was a mere lad, my mum ran a creche. It was no ordinary creche, but one at a private hospital specialising in discreet plastic surgery for rich people. All the kids were children of doctors, apart from me and my sister.

The most obnoxious were the five sons of the hospital owners - all unspeakably haughty little shits attending the best private educational establishments of Sheffield. Three of them went on to Eton, and the other two to Rugby. I remember one of them walking round the hospital with a football and, on being challenged, saying: "Do you know who I am? I can have you sacked!" He was nine.

Funny thing though. A couple of decades later, my dad met up with their parents and discovered that despite the tens of thousands spent on their education, none of the kids had done as well at school as I had. Indeed, my qualifications made them look like a bunch of retards.

My first novel is published in May 2009, and it's all the sweeter coming from a background of state-comprehensive glue-sniffing teenage pregnancy.
(frankspencer, Fri 10 Oct 2008, 9:09, 8 replies)

B3ta readers - plz help!
My lovely people, listen up.

I have a spoilt child related problem that you may be able to help me with.

My boyfriends niece - she's 5 in November and spoilt to shit. The thing is - she doesn't demand, she doesn't strop, doesn't have pissy fits. Lovely girl she is really. But her parents buy her stuff. Loads and loads of stuff. Its one thing to want your child well presented, but completely another to never have her appear in the same outfit twice. And toys - they get played with for a month and then put away and replaced with new ones - not because shes bored with them, just so they're always new.

Anyway - at Christmas and Birthdays it seems to me that the custom for everyone to do the 'lets all put in for this' thing. This is the point of botheration for me, I'd like to get her something that some year or so down the line she can look at it and go 'my lovely Auntie spent.fish got me this'.

So my dears, what are your suggestions - appropriate gift for a soon to be 5 year old that already has more stuff than any child needs. Expense isnt a big deal, but dont lose your minds.
(spent.fish flipping and gasping, Fri 10 Oct 2008, 0:57, 24 replies)

People
Theres some other people who have stuff I don't. They seem to find it important and often fear it's loss. Occasionally I'll wish I had some of their stuff. But its just stuff. No one needs much stuff. I feel no malice toward them.
( I have run out of coke is a little sweaty, Thu 9 Oct 2008, 22:55, 7 replies)

Spimf's story reminds me
of a particularly awful visit to Bahrain - not because of the country (it's actually quite nice - if building sites, whores, US troops, shady drinking dens and hookah pipes are your thing) but because of the client. On my life - I watched two grown men throw a hissy fit during what may rank as one of the most surreal meetings I've ever had the misfortune of being drawn into.

Spoilt twat #1 (our client unfortunately) then throws a total eppy when he returns to our offices, demanding to know why we haven't done any analysis work in the past 24 hours - "That'll be because the governing body here threatened legal action if we did, which you heard and agreed with in the presence of their solicitor."

Plenty of other moments arose where nothing would have given me greater pleasure than to firmly plant a steel-plated boot firmly in his puckered little hoop with a considerable degree of violent force.

He's 25, he's had the company bought for him, and when it all comes crashing down around him (which, given that he's running it on an oily rag, it will), daddy will likely just buy him a new one. After all, he owns one of the local banks.

Abhorrent little shit-poke.
(mymilkshakebringsallthemongstotheyard poison hearts, poison minds - joining hate, Thu 9 Oct 2008, 22:13, 3 replies)

I knew this guy in high school...
...who was a violinist. We'll call him Fred. We went to the same orchestra. And when everyone else was struggling with the cost of sheet music, he was bragging about the beautiful, professional bow his dad had bought him for his beautiful, professional violin.

Now I should say that he's a good player, but at this point he wasn't as good as he thought he was. But he wouldn't SHUT UP. His dad said he was great, so everyone else should think so too! So he didn't make many friends in the orchestra...

Anyway, at one point we had a guest conductor, who was used to directing a wind band. Upon listening to the string section butcher a phrase, he snatches Fred's lovely violin and bow, and starts miming dragging the bow up and down the strings.

"The bowing is down, up, up, DOWN!" He yells, dragging the bow with amazing force on the last downbow. Unfortunately, he had never played a violin before.

The lovely bow hair got caught in the violin's fine tuning pegs, ripping both the hair out of the bow and the strings out of tune. Cue Fred staring aghast at the remains of his lovely bow as the orchestra erupts with laughter...

It's a horrible thing to happen to any instrument, but it was great poetic justice!
(Sivvus trolley collision in the fruit aisle led to a jam, Thu 9 Oct 2008, 22:10, 1 reply)

Can't believe some parents let their kids become like this...
I was lucky enough a few years ago to go to one of the quite good drama schools in this country and be taught by some exceptional teachers. We were pushed hard and they gave their all to bring out the best in us.

There was one teacher / director who was loved by everybody. He was patient, gentle, intelligent and was as approachable and cuddly as your grandfather.

To earn a bit of cash on the side he'd teach at the local public school which was only 5 minutes away from the drama school. It was for them a bit of a coup - the teacher in question (let's call him Fred) had had 20 years teaching experience to some of the cream of English acting talent, and prior to becoming a teacher had been a respected and up-and-coming actor (before having to quit the profession for family reasons).

So, Fred had his drama class down at the local school, and sure, drama is a minor subject in any school, but he treated them like he treated us - as intelligent adults who he wanted to get the best from. Sadly, his pupils (or at least one of them) were incapable of reciprocating the favour.

One pupil, when asked why he didn't wish to do some exercise or other replied

"I don't have to."

"Why not?" asked Fred.

"Because my father pays your wages."

Fred didn't face another term after that - wouldn't teach the spoilt little shits any more. Still, their loss. I hope that kid has a bright career lined up washing dishes somewhere.
(sugar_tits, Thu 9 Oct 2008, 20:53, 3 replies)

Not me...
But my friend Alex goes to a grammar school. He's pretty down to Earth, but there are some kids there with money coming out of their ears. One story that sticks in my mind concerns a guy called Greg, who had just passed his driving test. What had his parents bought him as a first car? That's right.

A BMW M3.

He didn't like it. So what did they get him next?

A Mercedes Kompressor. Seriously.

It wouldn't be so bad if his dad wasn't someone who really should know better. He's a driving instructor.
( MatJ LOOK, Thu 9 Oct 2008, 19:46, 1 reply)

Having children should require a fucking state licence.
You cant drive a car without one, you cant practice medicine without one, fuck me you cant even sell rat'n'pigeon kebabs to piss heads without one. But children, our future, the next generation of our society! Any fuck tard with working testicles or a hospitable womb can make one. That my friends is simply not right...

Anywho.

My Aunt, lovely lady. My cousin, less so (partly because he is male and partly because he isn't so lovely). Now she is a single mother, has been since he was born pretty much and has fuck all money, yet she has given him everything. I don't argue with this as I was born into a similar situation and I never really wanted for anything. I understood from quite and early age that we were poor and adjusted my wants accordingly. Somehow this is lost on my cousin now mid-teens.

He was and still is very intelligent, accordingly my aunt wanted him to learn a musical instrument (My mother wanted this for me too but I fought against it, why didnt she force me!!!). After a few years farting around with various instruments he settled on guitars and is now a very fine guitarist with a bedroom that would make Metallica cream their collective pant. He has everything, a bunch of sweet guitars, a couple of flash basses, a drum kit, amps of all shapes and sizes. Yet he acts like his mother is Pol Pot and she bickers with him like they are siblings. When he cant get the latest musical implement or whatnot he goes off on one about how my aunt is a lazy cow without a good job. Hopefully karma will bit him on the arse when he becomes a poor crack addict musician.

It all stems from his mother treating him like an equal from a very young age. Consulting him with decisions etc. Children are not equals! That would be one of the first points on the parent tests.
(Bam Bam McPenis will change all this when he is fuhrer., Thu 9 Oct 2008, 18:34, 3 replies)

My Uncle, Aunty & Cousins
It was my 21st birthday this September, I got a handful of birthday cards, and a couple of gifts off my family and close friends (gifts of close friends included many pints and shots in the bar ^_^ oh, and a can of Special Brew, aaah, that golden can of chaos)

I've never been spoilt really in my life, yeah sure, my Nanna and Grandad on my Dads side would spoil me rotten as a kid, but it was once a week when I would go to their bungalow and I would be sent off home with 50p pocket money when I was really young, a "goodie bag" containing a handful of miniature mars bars and such, and an Enid Blyton book (I was so chuffed to bits when I got The Faraway Tree trilogy!!) and when I got older, my pocket money would increase due to inflation (Hubble Bubble bubble gum, going up from 2p to 5p, the shopkeepers may as well have just worn a black and white stripy jumper and carry a swag bag) to about £10 when I was older, until I got myself a job at 16.

This is completely irrelevant, I'm just showing what a good upstanding citizen I am, and that I take nothing for granted in my life, I work hard, and I feel terrible if someone thinks I take something for granted, and try to remedy it asap!

So yes, back to the beginning of my, by now, tediously long and boring post...

I turned 21 on 3rd September, two cards I would have expected never arrived.

A card off my grandparents in Ireland, they sent it, but it got lost in the post, it's happened before, and it will happen again, but they phoned up on my birthday and apologised and had a good old chinwag with me.

The other card that I expected but never arrived was one off my Uncle and his revolting spoilt offspring. (Oh, except the eldest, I haven't spoken to him for ages, but last I knew he had worked hard to get where he was, and is a lovely guy!)

There was no phonecall apologising about forgetting, they only live in Bolton, and I'm in Blackpool, so the chances of it getting lost in the post are lessened. It took about two weeks later, in a phonecall with my Dad, when he asked them why I didn't get a card, and he just casually said "I forgot".

This wouldn't have been a problem, if it was not for his two horrid spoilt bitch of daughters, who whenever they have a birthday coming up, my uncle and aunty phone my dad up to remind him it's their birthday, and that he better not forget to get them a card.

And when my dad forgot one of my cousins 23rd birthday, anyone would have thought he'd jumped on the table at their house on Christmas day and performed a strip tease *EWWW DO NOT WANT... BAD IMAGES... MUST... THINK... OF... NICE... THINGS* and then proceeded to piss on their roast pheasant.

My aunty went fucking apeshit, absolute ballistic.

When my dad told them he wasn't too impressed about them forgetting an important birthday like my 21st, they just said "It's just a birthday, it's nowt important"

...cunts

Apologies for a tedious story, if I was part of the b3ta clique, I'd do one of those length jokes, but I wouldn't know where to start... I just wanted somewhere to vent
(Multi-Coloured Pop Shop "twat with a ukulele", Thu 9 Oct 2008, 17:52, 10 replies)

Youth Speaks
So, back in my school days the eponymous competition was for all the secondary schools in the area, who would send a team of three kids to speak about something for a few minutes - fair enough.

So it comes to pass that I'm doing the main speech for my school in this competition, so me and my two mates traipse off to the town hall for this thing and meet all the other kids from local schools, including the posh private school that forces the pupils to wear wicker hats at all times. School by school we all do our speeches and it comes to mine - I've chosen to rant about people blasting dance music from their cars and casually mention that my dad refers to it as 'garage' music, because it's made by spotty blokes in their garages. The fact that this is my dad's own term is important...

Speech goes fine, we don't win, naturally that goes to the wicker hat brigade. Afterwards, as the kids are milling around, one of the be-hatted pointy nosed little twunts comes up to me, tuts and announces very loudly in a cut-glass Queen's English accent: "It's not called garage music, it's called house music. EVERYONE knows that."

I wish I'd had a good retort at the time, but I was floored by the presumption. At that moment I was filled with more of an urge to start class-warfare than at any time before or since.

Stupid fucks in their wicker hats.
( Sonic James Doom forgetting the date since... umm..., Thu 9 Oct 2008, 17:15, 4 replies)

Spare the rod spoil the child.
On holiday this summer we were in a place with a family we’re vaguely related to, nice people, but Christ on a bike shit parents.

Their kid is a five year old boy and they panicked if he ever showed a sign of not being completely happy with everything all the time. He’d developed this little whingy whining noise, like finger nails on a blackboard, which he uses to get his own way.

It was Pavlovian. They’d tell him to eat his dinner, he’d say he wanted chocolate ice cream, they’d say no and he’d start squeaking. 10 seconds later the Ben & Jerry’s being dished up. And that was half the problem, the poor wee fella would constantly be scarfing down sweets and coke. Come 10pm he’d be whinging and squeaking coz ‘perhaps it’s time for bed sweetie’ , while sucking down the 5th tin of coke for the evening. Eventually they persuade him into his bed, but only by promising a couple of Disney DVDs. Perhaps by around midnight he’d finally pass out.

This little boy constantly got his own way, nothing was too much for him….I’ve never seen such miserable kid, no matter what he got he new he was only a whine away from something more.
( Ring Of Fire A petty, drooling belming butthurt retard., Thu 9 Oct 2008, 17:09, Reply)

Shit cunt fuck bollocks wanky poo fart.
Sorry - I really needed to get that out after last weeks QOTW.
(Tugnut Ex of this parish, Thu 9 Oct 2008, 16:50, 5 replies)

eBay spoilt me...
since the advent of a well-paying job, meaning I haven't had to struggle to pay the bills, buy food and suchlike, I've been able to indulge my love of old computers and other geekery.

The fact I just bought an Apple Newton for £4 to add to the collection means that I am now truly spoilt in my old age...I've got every machine I lusted after as a younger nerd now!
(Chad, Thu 9 Oct 2008, 16:45, 2 replies)

Wahhh!
I want to be first!

DADDDEH!
(Ethelred is watching cheese grow, Thu 9 Oct 2008, 15:30, Reply)

Metal mental...
When I was an undergrad, I briefly had J as a housemate. She'd been in a fairly long-term relationship with someone whom I shall call "L", since that was his initial. He was a nice guy, inexplicably devoted to J, and could have done a lot better for himself. He would often come across to Hull from Leeds to see her.

The reason why J dumped L in the end was not that she wanted to see other men - her ongoing relationship with him hadn't stopped there being a steady stream of other guys between her fairly chunky thighs. It was that he bought her a gold bracelet.

The inconsiderate bastard ought to have known that she only wore silver. He clearly had it coming.
( Enzyme is powered by sunlight, Thu 9 Oct 2008, 15:08, 12 replies)

The family bone**
I was the youngest of 4 in the greater family. My sister and my cousin Patty were oldest, then patty's sister then me.

I was always left at home when our gran went on family holidays because there was there wasn't enough space or something like that.
I was an outcast for absolutely no reason.

Patty's sister Natalie was the firm favourite with everyone. It made no difference that we were in the same class at school and my marks were always better, I was still excluded ad-nauseum.

when we were 16 she got pregnant by the worst kind of tool about and had what was to become the naughtiest little shit Ive ever met. She dropped out of school and has just recently, 10 years on had another child with someone else.

I on the other hand have got 2 diplomas, a great job where i can sit on B3ta all day, 2 cars, a fantastic 2 year old and am getting married to the most beautiful woman I have ever met.

Thanks for not spoiling me Grandma!!! but tell Natalie to feck off I'm not supporting her children...

**Not what you thought eh? sick bugger
(Bluffboy South Africa! World Champions!!!, Thu 9 Oct 2008, 14:55, Reply)

Spoiled
Maybe my workenemy, who cannot hold a conversation unless it specifically relates to her, or she can twist the current topic back to an instance that involved her and her story.

She would implode if she tried to have an abstract conversation, like, what happens when you die, or do you think your dreams are symbolic interpretations of actual events.

She is getting married in 2010, and hasn't stopped telling us ALL about it, in the most skull-fuckingly minutest details

I DONT FUCKING CARE ABOUT YOUR STATIONARY
(Cancer Joy was short lived, Thu 9 Oct 2008, 14:44, 10 replies)

My daughter's little sister
She's quite honestly a bastard witch of the highest order. She's not of my genes, thankfully, because if she was related to me I don't think I'd want to live any more. She lives with their mother, but I babysit them occasionally to help out.

The kid simply refuses to do anything she's asked or told, still shits and pisses herself in bed, at home and in school despite being seven years old, fights constantly with her siblings and her mum to get her own way, and is incredibly difficult company.

Despite this though, she's actually quite sweet, and when she's being good she's attentive, funny, and bright-eyed.

She's the absolute clone of her mother. Apart from the shitting thing.
( Noeli overtheshoulderboulderholderthingstraplatchboobs, Thu 9 Oct 2008, 14:35, 2 replies)

Bah humbug
You didn't let me be first so I'm going to squeeem and squeeem until I'm sick :-(

But I will tell you about my younger sister. Aged 30 now! I tend to end up in the middle of her tantrums, she fell out with our Mum last month. Her version goes something like this ...

YS: "Huh!"
Me: "Problem?" (What now???)
YS: "Mum is a pain in the arse? She won't do anything for me"
Me: "Do tell ..."
YS: "She wouldn't send me the application for for the OU course on Creative Writing, so I couldn't start this week like I wanted to - and now I can never do it and I've always wanted to!!!!!!!!!"
Me: "Sigh" wonders off wondering when my sister decided that creative writing was going to be this years thrill - she'd always been more scientific and sporty - lots of trekking round the world, working off shore as a surveyor, doing _proper_** rowing, triathlon, and was last heard of plotting doing one of those walk to the North Pole races.

Next day and I'm speaking to my Mum on the phone ...

Mum: "Your sister is in a snit with me again"
me: "Really? What could it possibly be?"
Mum: "Well she applied to OU for an application pack last week so she could do a CW course"
me: "Riiiiiiiight"
Mum: "So the pack arrived Saturday, and your sister asked me to send it on to her"
me: "So? I see no problem"
Mum: "Well yes ... she's in Angola on a ship. So she wanted me to scan the 12 page application form and email it to her"
em: "and ..."
Mum: "OU wanted the original by post on Monday ... and the course starts next week, she's not back from Angola until the middle of next month, and then she's off on holiday for 4 weeks"
me: "So ummm what did she say to that"
Mum: "Ranted on about how I never do anything for her ... wouldn't listen to the impossibility of the timing"
me: "Never mind she can do it next year"
Mum: "No need they run it twice a year"
me: "Ohhhhkay"

Last night ...

Me: "Hi sis"
YS: "Ohhhh I'm so fed up with Mum!"
Me: "Is that the front door? - I'll call you later"

** realy _proper_ - rivers are for wimps
Length gag - About 3,000miles.
(Biff..., Thu 9 Oct 2008, 14:35, Reply)