What I did in my summer holidays (when I was 19) by no offenc (aged 23)
There was a brief period of my life (well, a summer holiday when I was at uni, if I'm to be honest) when I was dossing down in London with a couple of mates I'd made in my teens. One of these mates was Billy, a lovely lad, if a bit dimmer than most. He'd wound up vanishing off to live the dream after school - by that, I mean he wanted to be a rock star, and went to seek his fame - and so it came as a bit of a shock when I got a phone call off him saying he was back in the UK (I never knew he'd left!), and would I like to come down and stay with him and Paul, who he'd apparently bumped into down there whilst working. Of course, being 19, freshly single and skint, I jumped at it, and a few days later I was down in the Big Smoke, rucksack over my shoulder, wondering exactly what the fuck I was playing at. I'd sulked when my mam said I couldn't have money for a ticket, and she only relented when I started giving her the silent treatment. I was a kid and wanted to see two of my better mates from school, couldn't she understand that? Obviously looking back now, I was acting like a spoilt knobhead, but at the time I felt justified as fuck.

Anyway, I'd gotten there on a Saturday morning, so the next two days were spent getting reacquainted with the two of them in the most traditional of ways - buying copious amounts of cheap knockoff booze from the offy and proceeding to knacker our livers and brains. It was sometime on Sunday morning when Billy pointed out to me that he should probably lay off it once it gets to tea time because he was in work tomorrow. "Work?" I asked, as if the concept was alien to me. Actually, who am I kidding; I was a media student, of course it was fucking alien.

"Yeah mate, I've been given a fuckin' fantastic job, I get to work with royalty and everything!" He said, looking smugger than R Kelly probably did when he got off that kiddy diddling charge. "Really," says I, "What doing?"

Of course his face turned red at this; perhaps he'd thought bragging he worked with people from Buck House was enough to sate my curiosity. He was wrong. "Well... actually, to be honest, it's not that great," he said, now shame-faced and beginning to regret he'd a) drank so much and b) told me about it at all. "I work..."

"Go on," I said.

"...ah Jesus. I work in the fuckin' laundry, okay?"

"The Royal laundry??"

"Well it's not like I wash the Queen's frillies, it's mostly just the guard stuff like." He then proceeded to tell me, in detail, just how manky and disgusting the guard's uniforms get from standing outdoors in those stuffy little guard boxes, and how they had to stick them in giant vats of stupidly-hot water to literally cook the smell out of them. Especially so in the summer, as it was then.

After this, we carried on drinking. Billy more than myself or Paul, probably so he could get a nice hangover on for the next day's work. At some point during the evening, I made a proposal - if I could finish the rest of the cans and save Billy from puking into a big tub full of coats or bearskin hats, I got to go into work with him tomorrow morning to see the inner workings of the Palace, and maybe help him out for a bit of sly cash on the side. I'd even made him sign a badly-scrawled affadavit saying yes, I (Billy) agree to let you, no offenc, do all of that if you finish the last of the booze.

So I did. I awoke the next morning with sick in my mouth, which isn't pleasant when you realise you've forgotten your toothbrush and your host doesn't seem to have one of their own that you can borrow. I leapt out of the couch and into the kitchen, where I deftly gobbed the vomit into the sink and washed it away. A quick half-pint of Thames Water's finest, and I felt at least marginally human. And then I spotted the piece of paper from last night. And it all came flooding back.

The ride to work was unpleasant to say the least. As much as I'm a fan of public transport (it's cheap, it's generally reliable, and in plentiful supply) when you're riding a bus with what seems like an entire officeful of people and a raging hangover, it's not in the slightest bit fun. Even less so when you've got to stop your also-hungover mate from sicking everywhere. Thankfully we got there without as much as a dry heave, and so Billy snuck me past the guards (well, no, actually, there were no guards, it was just a door with a clock-in thingy, but anything to make a dull story more interesting) and we got changed. Apparently one must wear special overalls when working in the royal laundry. Whatever.

We wandered down the corridor from the changing room to the main laundry room, and upon opening the door the most foul, sweaty, ripe stench struck me in the nose. I very nearly spewed my hoop there and then. Thankfully I must have been made of stronger stuff than I thought.

"Christ, what's the smell?" I said, gagging from the hangover and wondering if they kept pegs down here. "The smell?" quipped Billy, looking a bit green but grinning at me as there was a joke I wasn't in on, "'s boiled bear-'ats, innit?"

Length? I barely even KNEW 'er.
(No offenc - not to be confused with no_offenc, Wed 15 Oct 2008, 11:30, 8 replies)

‘Here’s the science’…

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

oh God
I work with the biggest spoilt brat around.

18 year old receptionist. She got the job because her parents are the boss' church pastors - she didn't have to endure a gruelling interview process, and no one has ever said anything bad to her, even when she fucked up royally.

Her parents treat her like a princess. She gets whatever she wants, whenever she wants, however she wants.

The bosses at work treat her the same. She swans in wearing her mothers designer clothes, looking like a $2 hooker, flips her hair around all the time, constantly looks at herself in the mirror, takes pictures of herself - the works. She does absolutely NO WORK apart from answer the phones and take the mail to the post box. At the start she got asked to do some "real" work, and she cried, said she couldn't do it, and they just patted her on the back and said "it's ok.. you don't have to do it". She leaves the office at every given opportunity for the others who actually work to pick up the slack for her. Nevermind the people pressed for time - if she wants to leave because she's bored, too bad for everyone else.

The thing i hate most about her is the fact that she is so damn fake. She's nothing but sweet and polite to the bosses, but anyone else can get fucked as far as she's concerned. She pretends to be all innocent and virginal, but she's the biggest skank around. She shits me to tears - she's exactly the type of person i despise. She's like 18 going on 8.

Thank God she's leaving in a few weeks.. i can't wait til we get someone normal.
(brotagaia, Wed 15 Oct 2008, 9:36, 10 replies)

oooh-errrr, sorry!
Long time lurker, first time poster, please be gentle!

I am making my apologies in advance for whoever has the misfotune of crossing my daughter in the future! It took me a very long time to get preggers on her and now she is here and 3 months old, and she is spoilt rotten. Not by myself or Mr Stella, but by papa Stella.

That's right, my daddy dearest, is spoiling my baby girl rotten. Already she won't go to sleep unless she's being walked around the living room. She's 12 weeks old and I had a bank statement for her, that my dad has been doing for her. £316!!!! My sister is also not helping matters much, she already has a good sized wardrobe, full of brand name clothes. Roxy Baby mostly, and a pair of baby Uggs. BABY UGGS!! Even I don't have Uggs!

I've been reading your stories and my blood is running colder and colder, I need to nip this in the bud now, before darling Baby Stella ends up like the horrid spoilt brats I've just spent the last half hour reading about.

AW GAWD!
(leglesss let that be a lesson to you, Wed 15 Oct 2008, 1:02, 12 replies)

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

America: Importing the spoiled rich
Actually, the person I'll call JD, for that is almost his name, was extremely nice, friendly, and in no way condescending to anyone; he came from a no doubt lovely and charming family in India, and everyone liked him very much, he just had way too much money. He lived in my dorm when I was a college freshman, and he would pay my roommate $20 per load to do his laundry for him. At the time I considered smothering her in the night so I could land that lucrative deal.

I later found out that the previous year, when JD was a freshman, his solution to dirty laundry then was to just give anything he'd already worn to his roommate, and buy more clothes. (I know this to be true because JD's freshman roommate is now Mr. MadRabbit.) I wonder if he fell on hard times that summer and had to find a way to cut his wardrobe expenses...
( madrabbit is fully prepared, Tue 14 Oct 2008, 23:51, Reply)

airline pilot
A guy on my course decided to turn up to his first day on his type rating course (biiiiig day) wearing jeans and shirt he had dug out of his wardrobe 10 mins earlier.
When the training captain asked why he wasnt in uniform, turns out his mummey hadnt packed his trousers.
This guy is going to be in charge of 200 passengers, but cant even dress himself...
(screaminlemmin, Tue 14 Oct 2008, 22:56, Reply)

My Housemate
in the Czech Republic was an asian guy, in his late twenties, lovely person, but completely incompetent.

I had to show him how to
wash his clothes
chop an onion
cook said onion
make tea (without using a frying pan - for some reason he would only ever try and make tea in a frying pan)
change a lightbulb
and my personal favourite/least favourite - show him how to clean a toilet.

He was 27 and had never done any of those things for himself. I was 20, and had.

However, he wasn't as spoilt as his brother.
Whilst we were living in the Czech Rep, his brother, back in the UK, got caught speeding, and was told to report to the police station several days hences, present his license, and have points added (or however it works). His brother already had the maximum number of points on his license that he could have and still drive, so he put my housemates name down as his own.

Whereupon their father flew my housemate back to the UK for a few days to enable him to report to the police, as he had a clean license. And paid the fine for him, and gave him extra 'spending money' (on top of his 300 quid a month allowance - money that went far in the czech rep in 2002!) to make up for the hassle. What made this all the more ridiculous was that a) it was not the first time it had happened and b) my housemate and his brother look about as different as two men from one family can look.
( ascorbate, Tue 14 Oct 2008, 21:56, 3 replies)

There was this person who needed babysitting..
whenever her mum went on holiday and she was then home alone. My friend's job was to go stay at the house all night while she was fast asleep upstairs. She was 19 at the time, which gives you an idea of the spoiled upbringing she had.
(Le Moribond is not dying, clearly., Tue 14 Oct 2008, 21:39, Reply)

Walking over Magdalen Bridge, Oxford.
I overheard the following exchange between an incredibly pretty, slim girl with a sleek swish of gold-blond hair, and her smartly suited gentleman boyfriend.

" Fucking WAIT, Tristan, my FUCKING PASH* is caught on the FUCKING HOLLY"

Her creamy home-counties face was twisted into a snarl of ferocious ugliness.

I bet Mr Rugby-shoulders has married her by now.

* abrv. "pashmina" A gauzy cashmere badge of true breeding.
(hahasnakes, Tue 14 Oct 2008, 21:37, 5 replies)

He's a little princess
A dear friend of mine, the youngest of seven and the only boy in an Asian family with a small empire of successful restaurants.

The God-child incarnate.

For his first term at university, he put his clothes in the washer but failed to add any laundry detergent.

I was the one to disabused him of the belief that the cleansing suds were an automatic function of the machine itself.

After this unhappy discovery, he decided that he was simply not cut out for such wearisome drudgery.

He posted his smalls back to his mum and sisters for laundering and took all his shirts to the dry-cleaners to be washed and pressed.

Shameless.
(hahasnakes, Tue 14 Oct 2008, 21:16, 2 replies)

My nose!
I grew up (inasmuch as I have in fact grown up at all) in a commuter town in Surrey. Back then, it was all fathers were something in the city and mothers lavished attention on the kids. There were one or two spoilt kids (well, all of them except me and my brother, obviously). We had the kind of upbringing where you could "express yourself" but if you hit one of the limits, you could expect a spirited attempt to put another crack in your arse (to quote my mother, honestly!)

There was this one in particular. We only saw him once. I can't remember how old we were, but it must have been around five, six, something like that. His mother had decided that her spoiled crotch fruit should meet us for some reason. So, there he is, one-upping away: "My Dad's bigger than your Dad". Bro nods sagely. Our Dad's 5 foot 2 (but is trained in Kendo). "Our car's better than your car" - we had a grey Mini, but are rolling about in the back of their Volvo estate. More noddings. I simply stayed out of it as my nose is stuck in a book, as usual.

And so on, until he gets to the killer: "My koala bear is the koalaest bear in the WHOLE WORLD!". Sadly, my brother is unable to contain himself, and laughs in crotch fruit's face. As you would. Crotch fruit is mortally wounded! He will not have this! Vengeance must be sought!

And so... he leans over, and rakes his sharp fingernails down *my* nose! What had I done to deserve that?!?

I bled profusely. My book was wrecked, and I think I may have got some on their car. I don't really know how this got sorted out, but I do know I still have the scars, as my skin is as soft as butter. I tell this story from time to time, whenever anyone asks what happened to my nose. I wonder where he is now.
(purplegod counting down for Christmas!, Tue 14 Oct 2008, 21:09, 1 reply)

At university I met a human being who had spent his entire childhood at a boarding school.
He had never used a hob.
( WormuIus, Tue 14 Oct 2008, 20:33, 11 replies)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Big deal.

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

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

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

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

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

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

And on EVERY SINGLE LID, the instructions.

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

Then my favourite bit...

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Dad's a Bastard.
My wife somehow managed to burst a tyre on her car last week when she was pootling about. I drove over and changed it for her, and then swapped cars so I could take hers to a garage to get a new tyre.

I was forbidden from asking any of the details leading up to the bursting of the tyre and I was also recommended not to mention it in further as ‘bursting a tyre is not representative of my actions’.

Fine.

So that’s how I found myself on a dusty windswept industrial estate waiting for Kwik Fit to put a new tyre on my wife’s car. As I was waiting, I wandered into the nearest garage which happened to be a Lexus showroom.

Inside the garage bit there was a young man bawling his eyes out next to a car, and his dad (or older lover, ooer!) comforting him. There was an awkward looking salesman edging away to an office looking embarrassed, and stately looking salesperson was speaking in hushed, calm, measured tones to the young man and his dad/lover.

Under the pretext of looking at the myriad cars, I started to sidle over to the fracas.

While I was intently looking at an RX-400, I managed to get the gist of what the problem was. The poncey roadster that they were standing in front of was a convertible.

“Look I already told you, I don’t want a convertible!” snivelled the young man to all within earshot.

“And as I have already said, we informed you when you ordered it that this model is only available as a convertible” intoned the sage salesman, a Caesar of sales people.

“I don’t care, I want a hard top now!” shrieked the young man.

“Look, we have the order here with your dad’s signature, and the car is already paid for” said the salesman.

By this point, another salesman had locked onto me and was approaching with his “See anything you like, apart from me, haha just kidding, want a car?” spiel and I started to make my exit as I can’t even afford church mouse cheese at the moment, let alone a luxury hybrid SUV.

However I couldn’t stop thinking about what a bastard that guy’s dad was, buying him a convertible like that.

Some people.
(powervator and NONE SHALL PASS, Tue 14 Oct 2008, 17:29, 4 replies)

I wonder if this has been done..
..Seems rather obvious to me but is a bit different to the other stories I've seen here.

Music lovers are spoilt in this age.. that's my stance. I've got no love for most of the record industry and believe CDs should be going for more like 2 quid than 12, but it's suddenly become nigh-impossible to make any sort of living out of making records, for obvious reasons to do with the internet.

It's not just a financial problem.. Seems that the whole experience of "owning" music has been degraded horribly. In an era when you can attend a fun "file-sharing party" (sounds like a lot of fun) and download 80gb in a few hours, notions of taste and discrimination go out of the window and appreciation of the music plummets. The few remaining vinyl-lovers are mocked and it becomes acceptable to blast whatever Shaz gave you at the weekend through your tinny phone at the bus stop like an aural STD.

I like to get home, make a cup of tea, roll a cigarette, dim the lights.. whatever - make preparations - then select a record from a crate, obsessing over the perfect choice, then sit back and appreciate it fully. After about 20 minutes side one will be over and then you have to flick it back over or choose another record. No-one understands the appeal of that anymore.

So, music-lovers are spoilt. On the flip-side winamp and last fm have served me well for parties and just monging in front of the computer, and I will admit to downloading stuff for free and not feeling guilty about it but.. it leaves a bad taste in my mouth ultimately and I will always go back to my record collection.
(lost, Tue 14 Oct 2008, 16:49, 13 replies)

Me, totally...
"Hm, drat", I thought, "I need some new jeans and t-shirts..."

I had just discovered that my only clean pair of jeans (Asda £4.99, none of yer three quid shite) has holes in both the pockets.

So, I'm sitting here, watching my wonderful wonderful girlfriend sewing them up on her incredibly complicated-looking sewing machine ;-)

Oh wait, "spoilt" implies a lack of gratitude. That's not it, then.
(gordonjcp, Tue 14 Oct 2008, 16:39, 4 replies)

These stories of posh schoolkids have reminded me of doctors...
Junior doctors, to be precise. Most of them are fine, in fact I trained one yesterday who was senior enough to have doctors under him but still not quite a consultant, and he was a lovely guy.

However many of them are borderline unbearable. Just because they've been to medical school they think they own you. One of them recently complained that the hospital's IT policy prohibited facebook, and demanded that we unblock it. Just for him though, not for everyone. O_o
(Professor Kenny Martin Hmm? What?, Tue 14 Oct 2008, 16:34, 5 replies)

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

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

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

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

*THOK*

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

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

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

Foreign Exchange
I've just been reminded of a nice social faux pas from an old school exchange student I was forced to endure the company of.

Jan was from a wealthy farmer family in Germany. His parents owned a stretch of land half the size of their town and naturally lived in the most lavish piece of German architecture available at the time. Visiting his family was quite awesome. Food was always available and I got to drive his Dad's tractor into a ditch and kill some small animals. For a poor lad from an estate it was ace.

And then Jan came to visit. As soon a he stepped off the coach and noticed the broken windows at my school you could sense his urge to run back into the coach and hide in the luggage compartment until the chauffeur arrived. Alas, all that waited for him was my family and our run down Ford.

Fortunately due to the German private school's insane budget for trips I didn't see much of Jan outside of the evenings. When he came back for dinner he was shocked to find that Tesco Value was a staple part of our diet and we didn't have the luxuries of supper and after-dinner coffee.

The problem with Jan's English is that he often chose the wrong word for situations without realising it (or at least we hoped). Upon arriving at the aforementioned chav-infested food warehouse Jan immediately enquired into where the peasant was kept. Honest enough mistake, but this was Tesco. You're lucky to find a chicken that isn't 17% water yet alone posh birds.

After we passed the sweet isles Jan immediately switched to tantrum mode, despite being 13 years old at the time. "Shockade!", he'd scream. Turns out Daddy always buys him all the 'shockade' he wants when they go shopping. We decipher that this means chocolate and allow him one of his choosing. He only takes a tin- a whole bloody tin- of Cadburys fucking Roses and lumbers me with a 10p Freddo.

Disgruntled, we arrived at the tills and had our items scanned through the beeping machine. And then comes the revelation which got my family escorted off the premises by a security:

"Foxy, where do they keep the nigger that packs the bags for us?"

So that's no weekly shop, no chocolate and a very awkward remaining few days. I still hope to this very day that he got his words mixed up. Posh twunt.
(FoxyBadger (try saying it backwards), Tue 14 Oct 2008, 16:19, 7 replies)

Me!
I went to public school then one of the posher Universities and I was SPOILT. I'd grown up in a vast house in Kensington and used to feel sorry for people who lived in terraced houses. The idea that neighbours could be separated from you by only a wall completely freaked me out. At Uni I had a wacking great monthly allowance and a car... you get the picture.
I never looked down on anyone (far too insecure to do that) but I never got round to imagining what life must be like for anyone who wasn't in my shoes. I fear then that I must often have given the impression of brattishness. It simply never occurred to me that I was 'flashing' cash - I was just buying things.
Unfortunately what I mostly bought was heroin, which made me feel better about coming from an emotionally illiterate family that sent me away to boarding school aged seven where I was systematically abused.
I was in rehab by 21; I'd pissed away my trust fund by 35 and I now live in a house where the neighbours are often audible through a thin wall.
I know the knee-jerk reaction when you see a braying idiot in a rugby shirt is to feel a curious blend of repulsion and envy, but there are some wounded souls amongst them. Do as you would have done to you.
(RayPugh So, what are you wearing?, Tue 14 Oct 2008, 16:15, 4 replies)

I went to Bristol University
It has a relatively high proportion of public and privately educated people, very very many of whom are nowmal, functioning people who are more than welcome to keep breathing and deserve to keep their fingers.

But there were also quite a few people who think that because their parents have money the are entitled. Like the guy who couldn't be bothered to learn how to open a loaf of bread so he just tore the bag every time.

What sort of person asks "what public school did you go to?".

Of course as I was a 'Northern' I would be asked "what comprehensive did you go to". I always found that "I went to a gramar school, because I earnt my education, I didn't get daddy to buy it" was enough to get them to scamper away leaving a trail of posh wee.
(teebie jeebie, Tue 14 Oct 2008, 15:46, 9 replies)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I feel dirty just writing this…

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Fondest regards,

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


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Indigo Child
Someone else (Browser) mentioned Indigo Children so I went and looked into it.

www.indigochild.com/

Here's how you know if you have one or not:

# They come into the world with a feeling of royalty (and often act like it)

# They have a feeling of "deserving to be here," and are surprised when others don't share that.

# Self-worth is not a big issue. They often tell the parents "who they are."

# They have difficulty with absolute authority (authority without explanation or choice).

# They simply will not do certain things; for example, waiting in line is difficult for them.

# They get frustrated with systems that are ritually oriented and don't require creative thought.

# They often see better ways of doing things, both at home and in school, which makes them seem like "system busters" (nonconforming to any system).

# They seem antisocial unless they are with their own kind. If there are no others of like consciousness around them, they often turn inward, feeling like no other human understands them. School is often extremely difficult for them socially.

# They will not respond to "guilt" discipline ("Wait till your father gets home and finds out what you did").

# They are not shy in letting you know what they need.


So there's no such thing as a "spoilt child". They've just been misdiagnosed and are actually Indigo Children.

New Age people should be forbidden to breed.


Cheers

Edit: On re-reading that they sound more like Children Of The Damned.....
( Legless Mister Stabby - shanks for the memory, Tue 14 Oct 2008, 14:47, 18 replies)

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

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

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

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

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

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

Click "Reply" to see a pic of him.


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