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This is a question Spoilt Brats

Mr Newton sighs, "ever known anyone so spoilt you would love to strangle? I lived with a Paris Hilton-a-like who complained about everything, stomped her feet and whinged till she got her way. There was a happy ending though: she had to drop out of uni due to becoming pregnant after a one night stand..."

Who's the spoiltest person you've met? Has karma come to bite them yet? Or did you in fact end up strangling them? Uncle B3ta (and the serious crimes squad) wants to know.

(, Thu 9 Oct 2008, 14:11)
Pages: Latest, 15, 14, 13, 12, 11, ... 1

This question is now closed.

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".
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.
(, 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.
(, 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.
(, Fri 10 Oct 2008, 15:11, 13 replies)
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.
(, 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...
(, 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.
(, 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:


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.
(, 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.

(, 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?


“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.
(, 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.
(, 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.
(, 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.
(, 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.
(, 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
(, 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....
(, 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.
(, Fri 10 Oct 2008, 14:44, 8 replies)
I'm not answering this question
until someone buys me a pony.
(, 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.
(, 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.
(, Tue 14 Oct 2008, 14:18, 29 replies)
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.
(, 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.
(, Thu 16 Oct 2008, 10:51, 10 replies)
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?"
(, 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.
(, Mon 13 Oct 2008, 10:41, 17 replies)
this obnoxious posh kid at the zoo
insisted on petting the lions. He was Eton.
(, 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.
(, 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.
(, 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.
(, 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.
(, 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*
(, 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.
(, Fri 10 Oct 2008, 10:56, 3 replies)

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