Random mutterings, sighing and gasping, finger jabbing, brow dabbing and general bleatings about everyday bollocks. Brought to you by Angie Annetts, author of the highly-acclaimed short story collection, 'Tales From Around The Bend'. http://www.talesfrom.co.uk/

Friday, 15 April 2011

Breeding, Chimneys and Ho Ho Ho

Thankfully, I had the very good manners not to become a parent. For starters, I would have been crap at it. I mean, come on; some mornings I can barely wrestle my own undercrackers on, let alone having to deal with somebody else’s. Nah, children are just too needy for my liking. And they whine (and whimper) and tug a lot. And generally get on my tits. Furthermore, if I’d bred, they’d have interfered with me doing what the buggery I like – and I’m far too much of a selfish moo to be putting up with any of that caper.
            So I didn’t have any. And that’s a good thing. 
            On occasion, I chance upon a small person that doesn’t have me running for the nearest flame thrower. And I have, on occasion, been known to (briefly) engage with a child-type thing (when I’m feeling all glowing and human, and like one of those tarts from a hairspray advert). But it doesn’t happen that often. And besides, I’m not qualified to yak about Hannah Montana, Lego, knickbocker glories (and the suchlike).

I have a recurring nightmare...

            For some god forsaken reason, babies seem to like me. When I see one in the supermarket, getting wheeled around in the hot seat of a trolley, its eyes will lock on me and it begins to gurgle and clap, and generally bounce around a bit with a soppy grin on its face. Perhaps they like the smell of alcohol. Or maybe, they sense someone else who is devoid of responsibility and likes to spend their time pissing around. I have been known to give these little things a gummy smile back in return.
            I expect some of you think that I’m being a ‘bit harsh’ on the tiddlers. And maybe I am. Maybe, (just maybe) I should be directing my harshness towards – and I think I could be onto a winner here – the loathsome scrote(s) who thought it would be a good idea to permit children into the hallowed adult domain that is, ‘The Pub’. And moreover, perhaps I should point a quivering finger of rage towards the berks of parents who think it’s acceptable for their offspring to conduct shrieking laps of said pub, whilst us grown-ups are trying to enjoy a bit of peace and quiet, get pissed and talk bollocks (and maybe embark on a light-hearted scuffle on the way home). And, it’s just no place for children. Pubs are for grown-ups to drink their way through their pocket money. Children are for doing homework, cleaning the car and going up chimneys.

Going up the chimneys from the age of three hasn't done this lad any harm...
...apart from his bolloxed knees...and the fact he's sprouting pubic hair out
of his back and arm...and that someone's super-glued a broom to his hand
...and while I'm at it, that hat's doing him no favours...

This one's taking the piss.
Rather than getting his bony arse up that chimney pot, he's muscled his
way to front of the bar and is demanding a large portion of Bombay Mix.

            And if they really, really, really have to be allowed out in licensed premises, then take them to one of those theme pubs, called Captain Ho Ho Ho’s Flame House All In For A Fiver And We’ll Chuck In A Bouncy Castle (or similar). Send them there, I say, to bounce and vomit chicken nuggets all over the upholstery. And leave me to stylishly slump over the bar of an adult only pub without any screaming Timmys and Tabathas swinging from the rafters and flicking KP nuts into my barnet.

These little shits were found beating the crap out of the fruit machine
and are now being swept home for a fate worse than death...no TV for a week.

            I dedicate this blog to the scene that greeted me upon returning home last Sunday, (after a stonkingly good weekend away) and entering a local pissior (at roughly 10.30pm). At the time, I feel I may be forgiven for initially thinking that I had stumbled into some form of Wild West brawl mixed with a crèche breakout; such was the chaos that confronted me. Drunken parents shouting their gobs off, children catapulting through the air and doing their best to muller the pool table; prams, crisp packets and a roaming dog.
But this was no Wild West brawl. It was far worse than that: the half-term holidays had begun.
Mind you, I can’t help but feel that as the children break-up, some of the parents should go in…

1 comment:

Feeling a little heady and reckless? Then limp over to your keyboard and leave me a comment...