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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, 10, 9, 8, ... 1

This question is now closed.

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)
looks around nervously :unlurks:
Short but sweet:

Many moons ago in the beautiful town of Basildon, Young urchin scampers through the town centre with Fagin like parents letting him scream at people shout and generally act like a little fuckbag... Then his beady eye does spy a chance for fun... Crowd barriers essentially a 3ft high hoop in the ground, upon which some kids were playing doing tumbles around them etc. He runs under the first pushing other kids aside, likewise the second... Now onto the third unbeknowest to him must have been set a little deeper into the ground for while running at full tilt he decided to use the top of his head as a brake upon said barrier. Now the laws of physics will ensure that while his head did indeed stop (and very fucking suddenly I might add) his legs and the rest of him continued to run... Laugh I nearly shat myself....

Runs and hides again (hopefully only for a bit)
(, Tue 14 Oct 2008, 14:17, 1 reply)
After reading alot of posts and some life experiences myself.
I seem to be finding that more and more people are treating their kids like 'the one' when they're little so they grow up with superiority complexes.

I was one of the intelligent kids through my early years development schooling and I was never reffered to as being a 'little angel' as alot of kids these days are. The best compliment I would get from my Dad is 'Smart Arse' and my Mam would chastise me if I didn't get perfect grades and feign interest if I did.

I don't have any ill feelings about that it's just the kind of people they are, but I used to fume at the kids who would recieve gifts if they remembered to put on their tie in the morning or not hit another child by dinner-time. Their parents didn't seem to realise that they won't view this as "Oh thank you for encouraging me to be good, I have respect for you and others now" but "Oh? I get gifts when I'm not a complete shit 100% of the time, let's just make it most of the time then and kick off when I don't get a present".

I'm not trying to be naive about any of this, I KNOW it's the parent's fault but their children are more devious then they seem to contemplate. I thought that would get better as I continued through education but you find that those little brats that would throw a hissy fit for not getting their own way had only got bigger, not matured.

The worst bit is alot of them are from families who have nothing yet their parents still go without to give them everything they want. With their low incomes the students also get every grant/subsidie/'loan' under the sun and they don't show the slightest bit of thanks or ever think "I know I might lay off my parents now I'm getting all these government funded scehemes" but still go home on the weekends and whinge until they get beer money because they spent all their uni-cash and overdraft on weed.

An absence of money doesn't make a noble man - being smacked around the head while they're being a little shit, does.
(, Tue 14 Oct 2008, 14:16, 2 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)
There's always one...
Back in the day, there was a guy at school, a year younger than myself. And his family are loaded. I'm talking rich in a fee paying school.

Anyway "Dick" was quite badly spoiled and was an appaulingly arrogant little shit. He has a lovely family, but they gave him everything, and it made him think he was the second coming.

He came back from school holidays boasting about how he successfully spent AU$10 000 on clothes. And, of course, he always thought he was right. Perfect.

But it turned out fine in the end. A fair few of us started a bit of a pogrom against him (to his face of course). A noteworthy mention must go to the exceptional fellow who surprised him wielding a toy knife we found. After much tomfoolery (none of it quite that in-his-face) and several cries, he threatening us with 'his lawyer'. Then we graduated, leaving the rest of his grade to keep up the groundwork we put in.

He had better not end up at my university...
(, Tue 14 Oct 2008, 13:26, 5 replies)
This happened just last night.
I don't know how things go over across the pond, but over here the days are still warm and the nights are cool. The leaves have started changing colors and acorns litter my back yard, there's often a tinge of woodsmoke on the air, and I find that right about now I like a good dark beer.

Autumn is really here at last.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Worst spoiled brats I've ever encountered.

(May not be 100% FACT. Actually, it contains very little fact at all... aw hell, so I made the whole thing up. There, ya happy?)
(, Tue 14 Oct 2008, 13:22, 13 replies)
Indigo children
Further to the posts below regarding autism/naughtiness; it should be mentioned that misbehaviour in children can often be attributed to their purple aura. These children should be treated as royalty.

(, Tue 14 Oct 2008, 12:56, 9 replies)
Mrs Sp@m's excellent post below (kudos to you btw)
has prompted my to put this.

My next door neighbour is in late middle-age and has a daughter in her 30s. This daughter is a fucking horrible chav who has a burgundy Vauxhall Vectra with the biggest spoiler you have ever seen and all the other acoutrements of a moron's car.

She also has 3 kids. These kids constantly shriek and are shouted and sworn at from the moment they arrive at their grandmother's, to the moment they leave.

We have been informed that one of them has an autistic disorder as if this is an explanation for the behaviour....

I can perhaps accept that one of the 3 kids might be a little more unruly than the others because of this, but the way in which they all shout and scream, and the mother does the same back disgusts me quite frankly.

Just wanted to get that off my chest.
(, Tue 14 Oct 2008, 12:50, 7 replies)
In general...
Have you ever noticed that, when some little scrote gets murdered / run over / killed while doing something they really shouldn't, their parents always end up on the local news saying about how their dearly departed was "a loveable rougue" or "misunderstood", despite the fact that the little fucker had a criminal record stretching back to when they were 11?

They are the spoiled ones. If I got arrested when I was 11, my parents wouldn't call me a "loveable rougue", they would have called me "who? No, we have only ever had one son, we don't know who you are talking about. By the way, do you like the new, 11-year-old boy shaped window which overlooks the new patio?"
(, Tue 14 Oct 2008, 12:32, 9 replies)
Confession time.
When I was younger, I announced to my mother that I'd got her something for mother's day.

Her face dropped when it turned out that that something was a pile of laundry.
(, Tue 14 Oct 2008, 12:07, 2 replies)
The right way to do it
In Tescos a child decided to throw a purple screaming fit in the aisle I was in.

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

Mother gave it the "for fucks sake" look.

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

Surpisingly the fit stopped after about ten yards. She must have done it before.
(, Tue 14 Oct 2008, 12:07, 6 replies)
What about a device like a remand prisoner's tag

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

What's the adress for Dragons' Den?
(, Tue 14 Oct 2008, 12:06, 6 replies)
Sound proof helmets
I invented this thing I wanted to take on Dragons Den - it is like a lightweight motorbike helmet, but in transparent plastic. It is also completely soundproof - so if your child starts screaming you just pop it on their head until they shut up.

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

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

Click "I like this" if you are a fat lonely loser with bits in your teeth.
(, Tue 14 Oct 2008, 11:53, 8 replies)
Drug Education
A former friend of mine has a rather strong continuous craving for weed and cocaine after starting to do the stuff on his 15th birthday. After being dumped on his parent's doorstep covered in vomit and permanent marker (yours truly giving him a full Groucho look and tattooing "stupid stoner fuck" on his forehead) his wealthy thick as turd liberal parents thought it would be a good idea to give him 'the talk'.

Did I mention his parents were wealthy and thick as turd liberals? Rather than your traditional "drugs are bad, mmkay?", he got legal tips from his dad on how to carry the stuff and not get nicked and a bag of some mindnumbing ranked stuff from his parent's secret supply.

Needless to say, that didn't work and he soon got shitcanned for possession with intent to sell. Realising that this wasn't working, the parents stepped in again to deter him from his addiction.

They bought him a 5 bedroom house. All bills paid. En-suite bathrooms. 5 minute walk to town centre. Last month it got raided as a drugs den.

Some people shouldn't have kids.
(, Tue 14 Oct 2008, 10:38, 2 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)
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)
I was a bit spoiled...
Back in the day I had grown up abroad and it was pretty normal for us to have several servants (I believe they are referred to as 'helpers' etc. now).
When we returned back to the UK we reverted to 'normal', however no one told a young (4yr old) brycemonkey this.
We happened to go out for a curry (very exotic back then) in the busiest curry house in Glasgow. The place was packed. The was a que down the street of people trying to get in. Every table was packed.
After a bit I felt some pressure on my bladder and being a 'big boy' I was sent off by myself to take care of business. I must have met a member of staff while I was in the toilet. I chose to relate this encounter to my parents sitting at their table at the bottom of the stairs, by shouting at them from the top of the stairs. "MUM, DAD! THEY LET THE SERVANTS USE THE TOILETS IN HERE!!!"

All noise in the busy restaurant stopped. My parents hoped that the earth would open up and swallow them. It didn't.

I'm much better now though.
(, Tue 14 Oct 2008, 10:25, 2 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)
My cousin's son
Is a little shite.

At a family do he felt he wasn't getting enough attention, so he climed a tree and threw an apple which hit my then girlfriend's head.

It was months before we realised he had made the right decision.
(, Tue 14 Oct 2008, 9:34, 2 replies)
My Neighbour is spoilt
Not so much in the 'Daddy's got a yacht' sense, but in the Mum won't let her duties go sense.

Twice a week her mum comes round and cleans the house top to bottom. She then takes all the dirty clothing and returns next visit with it all washed and ironed.

You may think that mum is just helping her young daughter out as she has too hectic a life?

But then you realise her daughter has never worked....

Is perfectly healthy...

Is married with 2 children.....

is 46 years old!!!!!!
(, Tue 14 Oct 2008, 7:26, 6 replies)
I notice,
after reading some of these stories about small children that are spoilt, as opposed to your grade A university fuckwits, that the parents often seem to be entirely at blame.

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

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

Heres my solution:

Cattle Prods.

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

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

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

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

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

Now relax, and spend the rest of your journey in a child free, hassle-less environment, safe in the knowledge that should anyone disturb your peace further, you can fuck them right up with thousands of volts of electricity.
(, Tue 14 Oct 2008, 3:48, 9 replies)
I'm sure everyone knows someone like this...
But that doesn't make them any less irritating.

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

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

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

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

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

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

I'll tell you what it makes you. It makes you a cock. A complete and utter cock.
(, Tue 14 Oct 2008, 2:34, 14 replies)
Noses Run In My Family.
I was in the beer garden of my local pub necking a few beers with my mates. A table or so away from us was a little girl, about 9, who was happily colouring in some book. She was quiet, well behaved and didn't look the least bit spoilt.Then she looked up and yelled:

"Mum! Nose is running...."

and her dear mum legged it across the garden to wipe her dear daughters nose.

I started to giggle as, inside my head, I could see them at home. Voice comes from the bog...

"Mum! Arse needs wiping......."

(, Tue 14 Oct 2008, 1:15, 1 reply)
pint sized penguin
I fear that I, Mrs el pinguino am spoiling said small penguin...

I mean, its ridiculous- I do everyting for him, hes fed, kept warm, carried about, I sort out all his mess, talk to him, make decisions for him, he barely has to breath!
Do I get any thanks - no, just an occasional kick when theres too much noise or hes bored

Still, hes got to be born some time in the next fortnight

HaH! That'll learn him!
(, Tue 14 Oct 2008, 1:08, 2 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)
Alice: The Epilogue
I posted the following story earlier today (WARNING: it's exceptionally long) :

Following a few requests (okay, one request) to hear how it ended, here is The Epilogue, or How I Finally Lost My Rag with the Selfish Bitch

And I apologise again for the length of this one

To fill in the first part, (and spare you reading it) this follows my break-up with my first serious girlfriend, after about 18 months over which she progressively made me more and more miserable. Long story short, she was a rich bitch, a snob, and a pathological bully. (I was also severely lacking in the spinal department at the time.)

So, after a telephone break-up, we agree to "remain friends." I don't know why I thought this was a good idea, though at the time I didn't realise how much she was taking advantage of my good nature. I also felt a bit sorry for her because she didn't have any real friends.

In hindsight, it's no wonder she didn't have any friends, apart from the vacuous Chelsea bitches with whom she was now sharing a flat.

A few days after the break-up, I get a phone call from her - just clocking in, really: how am I doing, etc.

Then there's another call the following day. And the day after that. And again, and again, and again. Until eventually we agree to meet for coffee.

Fair enough, I've always thought the reconciliatory meeting is "the decent thing to do." And it's a civilised affair. No arguments, no hissy fits - hell, if she wasn't so obsequious she could almost be pleasant company.

But then there are more meetings. Phone calls nearly every day. To all my friends, it's becoming apparent that the bitch is determined to cling on to me as some sort of puppet and try and hijack my social life so that she can have some real friends.

I, of course, don't realise this. No, I follow blindly until she drops Bombshell No.1
Bombshell No.1: There's a bloke on her course who she fancies. God knows why, he's some flabby, ginger public-school git. Worse, he has a girlfriend. She's met up with him for coffee already and been assured that the poor girlfriend is nothing more than "a minor consideration."

Alice decides to seek advice. From me, her ex. She wants to know whether it's worth trying to pursue a relationship with this fat cunt who is openly admitting that he's happy to cheat on his girlfriend.

Hmmm...not difficult, is it?

So WHY did the stupid bitch decide that actually, it would be a good idea to positively fall into bed with this revolting oik? What was the point in even asking for my advice when you were planning to draw your beef curtains either way?

And why, WHY, did you then come crying to me when the inevitable happened? You knew I had an exam the following morning - or at least, I'd mentioned it when you called me AGAIN on that morning, but perhaps it was presumptuous of me to assume you actually listened to what I was saying. And yet still you called me the night before an exam and told me that you'd had sex with another man. You called because you were upset that he wasn't going to leave his girlfriend for you (what did you fucking expect?) - how the fuck do you think this made me feel?

So, no sleep for me that night. Just a long night spent lying in bed getting angry, jealous and frustrated and going on the following morning to cock up a plasma physics exam on which I'd previously expected to do quite well. Thanks a fucking bundle.

Bombshell No.2 doesn't get dropped until a lot later. So by this time I've just about got over the incident with the fat ginger cunt and accepted that she is going to be loitering round expensive bars with her Chelsea-bitch friends and chatting to rich, greasy, revolting city-boy types who are just looking for a trophy shag.

I, in the meantime, have seemingly no prospect of finding a new ladyfriend. (Partly because I've got her calling me every day and asking how my sex life is progressing. Well, it isn't. I'm still going to be available to be your fucking lapdog. Happy?)

So she comes out with a few of us to a favourite haunt of mine - the blues bar just off Regent Street. The Oscillating Gibbon was there in fact. I think all of us were a little shocked when she started talking to a random stranger and snogged him twenty minutes later, barely six feet in front of me.

And yet the self-centred cow couldn't understand why I was so angry. Oh, don't worry love, I'm just the jealous ex-boyfriend who's had to watch you porking a complete stranger. Fucking hell.

Somehow...fuck know how...I almost forgave her. But then she dropped Bombshell No.3.

I think even she realised she'd gone too far this time. She fucked a good friend of mine.

In fact, she clearly knew she'd gone too far, because she asked that we meet in a heavily wooded area of Putney Heath. The loathsome little coward had obviously anticipated that she was going to be shouted at.

Now I don't hold anything against said friend, because he had no idea that this bitch was milking me of my better nature. But she fucking knew better. What the fuck did she expect to achieve by this?

And that's why I stopped speaking to her. Finally, it got through to me that this bitch only had her own interests at heart and was just going to fuck whatever she liked the look of, regardless of how it made her 'friends' feel.

Time for a happy ending, I think. After the last blazing row with the Uber-Bitch, things slowly picked up. Due to feeling like utter crap, I ended up in a couple of relationships with girls who were perfectly nice, but with whom I was completely incompatible, and to whom I feel I might have been a bit of a twat on occasions.

But in the meantime, partly through the Bearded Whumpus, I was socialising a lot more with Ms Crow. She became a really good friend very quickly, and, a little while after the second of the aforementioned relationships fell apart, I realised I'd fallen in love with her. And I've been so much happier ever since.

As for the Uber-bitch, last thing I heard, she'd fucked off to Singapore and got a banking job. As long as she's on the other side of the world and no longer trying to contact me then that'll do just fine. I only hope she's never found anybody who'll treat her as well as I tried to, and she'll come to regret being such a bitch. But somehow I doubt it. Oh well.

Apologies for going on and on and fucking on, but it's been surprisingly cathartic. Thank you all for your patience.
(, Mon 13 Oct 2008, 23:29, 6 replies)
Violent Spoilt Bastard
When I were a wee boy scout, we used to live next door to a stereotypical dragon-lady - one of the ones who would yell at you if you lost a ball in her back yard. You know the type, or have at least seen the movie.

My mother was a good Christian woman (which meant no booze in the house, which was a bugger), so to be nice, she used to make me mow this old biddy's lawn and do other odd-jobs for her. One of these odd-jobs was to play with the old bat's grandson on his infrequent visits.

I won't go into the details of how spoilt this little spawn of Satan's knob-cheese was, but I will get to the point of the story. One fine summer's day he was visiting and, as usual, I was forced to play with him. The future reality-show contestant had decided that we should play in the back of his father's ute (truck to the 'merkins), which meant that I had to sit on the tailgate while he told me how great he was.

After a time, he stood up, walked over to me and pushed me off the back of the ute. Whereupon I tumbled down to the cold, hard concrete, greeting it with my forehead and a dull "thunk".

The worst part of the episode, beside the blinding pain, was that the little scrote's grandmother had witnessed the entire thing. She then told me off and said I shouldn't have been up there in the first place.

Fuck, but I was angry. And bleeding.
(, Mon 13 Oct 2008, 22:53, 3 replies)

This question is now closed.

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