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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)
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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)
You should have sold him the full bottle
£500 more for the restaurant and a great brandy smell in the car when the police pull up some angry red-faced man speeding on the way home...
(, Tue 14 Oct 2008, 10:48, closed)
What a truly disgusting child
and an utterly nauseating father. They deserve each other frankly.
(, Tue 14 Oct 2008, 10:54, closed)
Good christ!
I think I'd murder her!

Was it Maddie? Would explain a lot

(, Tue 14 Oct 2008, 10:58, closed)
I hope he locked her in a cellar.

For 24 years.
(, Tue 14 Oct 2008, 10:59, closed)
That's just
evolution gone wrong!

(, Tue 14 Oct 2008, 11:04, closed)
That's horrendous.
I know this might make me sound like a Nazi, but I genuinely think that people should have to pass a test before they're allowed to breed.
(, Tue 14 Oct 2008, 11:45, closed)
agree with Reverend Fister.
definitely, Nazi or otherwise.
(, Tue 14 Oct 2008, 12:02, closed)
I'm sure
that a few B3tans have seen the future of this devil spawn!
(, Tue 14 Oct 2008, 11:48, closed)
Just out of interest
Which restaurant was it?
(, Tue 14 Oct 2008, 12:24, closed)
Not sure I should say...
But I shall gaz you!
(, Tue 14 Oct 2008, 12:47, closed)
And people want to BAN smacking?
(, Tue 14 Oct 2008, 13:21, closed)
I wouldn't smack
I'd dropkick her out of the nearest window
(, Tue 14 Oct 2008, 15:40, closed)
both child and parent deserve a good, hard slap.
in fact, if i'd behaved like that as a child, i'd have got a kick up the arse, one of those special kicks that catches you right on the tailbone, so you spend the next 10 minutes running around, crying and clutching your hoop.
(, Wed 15 Oct 2008, 23:17, closed)

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