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)

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)

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)

Cake - Rock N Roll Lifestyle
How apt!

uk.youtube.com/watch?v=aLEG2YMAQgs

Well, your CD collection looks shiny and costly.
How much did you pay for your bad Moto Guzi?
And how much did you spend on your black leather jacket?
Is it you or your parents in this income tax bracket?

Now tickets to concerts and drinking at clubs,
Sometimes for music that you haven't even heard of.
And how much did you pay for your rock'n'roll t-shirt
That proves you were there,
That you heard of them first?

How do you afford your rock'n'roll lifestyle?
How do you afford your rock'n'roll lifestyle?
How do you afford your rock'n'roll lifestyle?
Ah, tell me.

How much did you pay for the chunk of his guitar,
The one he ruthlessly smashed at the end of the show?
And how much will he pay for a brand new guitar,
One which he'll ruthlessly smash at the end of another show?
And how long will the workers keep building him new ones?
As long as their soda cans are red, white, and blue ones.
And how long will the workers keep building him new ones?
As long as their soda cans are red, white, and blue ones.

Aging black leather and hospital bills,
Tattoo removal and dozens of pills.
Your liver pays dearly now for youthful magic moments,
But rock on completely with some brand new components.

How do you afford your rock'n'roll lifestyle?
How do you afford your rock'n'roll lifestyle?
How do you afford your rock'n'roll lifestyle?

Excess ain't rebellion.
You're drinking what they're selling.
Your self-destruction doesn't hurt them.
Your chaos won't convert them.
They're so happy to rebuild it.
You'll never really kill it.
Yeah, excess ain't rebellion.
You're drinking what they're selling.
Excess ain't rebellion.
You're drinking,
You're drinking,
You're drinking what they're selling.
( ma0sm, Mon 13 Oct 2008, 20:52, 2 replies)

My kids NEVER had tantrums.
Not one, ever.

I avoided them by enforcing the nap regime.

Young children get tired very quickly and can't be reasoned with.
They become so befuddled that they can only scream - imagine if you were on your feet for 24 hours solid and were then asked to fix your mate's computer. You'd probably react the same way!

So I would put the baby/toddler to bed when they needed it instead of keeping them up, and they never got into the habit of grizzling.

Worked for me.
(Juan Quar is clinging to her front teeth on, Mon 13 Oct 2008, 20:35, 8 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)

Blame the parents
A close friend (term used loosely) of mine, an only child. Her mum and dad both had really successful careers, they wern't expecting to have kids so they doted upon her and gave her everything she stomped her feet for. She was privately educated at a swanky school from ages 3-18, bought a car, holidays bought for her, designer clothes etc etc.

My actual point in all this is that she was the most unapprecative person ever to grace the planet. If she didnt get what she wanted she would hurl abuse (and objects) at her parents until they catered for her needs. They would bow down to their child who could do no wrong.

Anyway, this happened..

She only did one A level and got an E. She went to uni last year and spend all her loan + overdraft in the 1st two months so mother and father gave her money + credit card to keep her going.
She dropped out 3 WEEKS from completing her course.
She now lives in the scummiest end of town in rotten flat working in a bar.
She got fired from her 'real' job last month because at least once a week she would ring in sick.
Her mum and dad pay her rent and give her £100 a week.
Her boyfriend gives her £50 a week.
She went to Cyprus with her parents and another of my friends in July. She threw a radio at her mum because she wouldnt give her money to go to a bar.

I could reel off many an example but frankly they are tedious and generally revolve around the same idea of her acting like a complete twat...

She does nothing selfless and everything is for personal gain. Iv never met a person so convinced that the world owes her everything.
Shes lost the majority of her friends and has few people to turn to.

Still her mother and father think there is no-one more honest/loyal/generally wonderful that they could ever have as a daughter.

Money doesnt buy brains
(i should have joined myspace, Mon 13 Oct 2008, 19:50, 2 replies)

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)

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)

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)

I have many things to learn.
Having just come to uni, I have met many lovely people over the past month (even if a fair number of them tell me I sound 'well posh'). However, one of our housemates is a food-stealing, Abercrombie-clad little princess who transferred here from Liverpool because 'the course was amazing, but I just really didn't like the people there'.. o rly?
Nothing to do with the fact it is impossible to get along with you? Her boyfriend has come to stay almost every weekend too, which is fine under normal circumstances but he is a tosspot of epic proportions. One evening he criticised a dinner that she had hogged the kitchen for a good three hours or so to make, before telling one of the guys who had been promised a share in the huge meal that he should eff off and wait for him to have seconds.

The heartbreaking thing is that they lived less than twenty minutes' drive from where I come from, so all of my floor now hate Surrey kids. Believe me, I'm not spoilt, I am grateful for all I have.. Still, for my own safety I think I should lose the accent.
(dogman, Mon 13 Oct 2008, 18:53, Reply)

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)

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)

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)

A short anecdote before dinner.
Switzerland, winter 2006.

Stalker Girl: And of course if I don't stay in HELL [sic: Canterbury) after graduation, then I'll have to move back in with my parents. They'll charge me rent of course, it's only fair isn't it?
Me: Really? For you maybe. My parents always said as long as I cleared up after myself, they'd put me up rent free.
Stalker Girl: OH MY GOD YOU'RE SO SPOILT! Anyway I'm getting a new car for Christmas if my old one can't be fixed.
( Maladicta, Mon 13 Oct 2008, 18:06, Reply)

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)

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)

someone I know.
Her parents bought her a flat on Brunswick Street (Melbourne). She lived there for about 3 days before deciding that she didn't like it so her parents paid the rent for a house in Collingwood. They also gave her $100.00 per week and more when asked and pay for flights around Australia whenever needed.

They've recently bought her a new house in Belgrave, gave her a credit card to use at will and they pay the bill, she doe's quite well out of benefits as claims the house is rented, is capable of working but chooses not to, has income from her partner and $300 from me via CSA.

And still she wants more as she can't live on what she has.

She lies and cheats to get what she wants and usually gets it in the end.

Grrrrrr
( SpikeyPickle wishes he was mabazaritchie, Mon 13 Oct 2008, 16:35, 6 replies)

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)

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)

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)

A couple of quickies
Lad I went to school with got £75 a week pocket money (this was late 80's - early 90's), but his dad was determined that his son "wouldn't grow up spoiled" so set him a list of jobs to do each week for his money (his dad owned a string of rental properties, the jobs mostly consisted of easy repairs) - the lad paid me £40 a week to do the jobs for him.

I used to share a house with a bloke in his early 30's that had been so spoiled by his mum that he couldn't look after himself - his mum would drive to our house once a week to do his weekly shop for him and sort out his laundry. He was so spoiled that he would eat his dinner (which would always be a ready meal, since he could cook anything that didn't have the cooking instructions on the side of the box) and just put his plate down where he sat and leave it there - he expected it to fly to the sink and wash itself, I guess.

Friend of a friend. He's a perma-student because his familly are seriously rich. An average birthday present haul will be around £100,000 despite the fact that he's fast approaching 30. Loves to point out that the interest on the money he has stashed in and Icelandic bank earns him more than I get from working (in a fairly decent job). Oh wait... Icelandic bank? I wondered why he wasn't out on Saturday...

I also know of three women who have married purely for money. Including one, who married my mate Phil The Doctor. She dumped him in his second year of uni, when it looked like he was going to fail. Then mysteriously fell back in love when he graduated. She had quit her job and was pregnant within six months of the wedding.
(ScousersPet, Mon 13 Oct 2008, 15:04, 5 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)

You can't win 'em all...
On Saturday there was a Guide Dogs charity stall in town. It had a board full of nails where you paid 10p to pull one out and if it was painted a certain colour you won a sum of money. In front of me was a mum giving several pounds worth of goes to her 7-8 year old daughter.

Eventually the mum said 'that's it dear, no more.' At which point the girl screamed the place down, insisting she had more goes. Her mother explained that they'd given the doggies enough money and 'you can't win them all.'

To which her lovely daughter screamed "YES I CAN!!!!!!!"

She'll go far.
(Mr McKenzie Mr McKenzie, Mon 13 Oct 2008, 14:48, Reply)

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)

I hear
that Gary Glitter spoils little girls...







I know, Hell awaits and not the Slayer version...
( Rev. Jayneflakes Buy my book, I need the cash for drugs and hookers, Mon 13 Oct 2008, 14:30, 4 replies)

Spoilt Twunt I Went To University With
Called Adrian, of course he had a double-barrelled surname and his parents owned a significant chunk of Devon.

He drank like a fish, smoked like a chimney[*] and annoyed the piss out of his room-mate such that he got moved into a University Halls room of his own.

Regarding the smoking, and his heavily asthmatic condition, he didn't seem to worry:

"I'll just pay for a heart and lung transplant..."
(caescarna Hell's Roomba, Mon 13 Oct 2008, 14:18, Reply)

scarpe's post reminds me
...of a kid at our school who had some kind of wasting disease.

He was on crutches in primary school, and by secondary was confined to a wheelchair. The rumour around school was that he'd die before he reached 18.

This kid's parents would lavish him with expensive toys and he had a proper thing for petrol driven remote control cars and planes.

To a 9 year old kid, 18 seems an extremely old age - it was half a lifetime away, ffs. I often wished I had a wasting disease too, as it seemed a fair swap for a petrol-powered 4 wheel drive remote control behemoth.

He was a bit of a brat and one of my earliest memories of him is that he used to spit on people if he didn't get his own way. Anyway, I can forgive him all that as he didn't even make 18.

/apologies, lack of funny etc
( rofl harris, Mon 13 Oct 2008, 14:04, 2 replies)