I went to the park today for a quick bite to eat in the overpriced, but pleasant, café. Upon arrival I couldn't find anywhere to sit, now, there was a lot of tables, and a lot of chairs, so why couldn't I find anywhere to sit? I shall tell you: There were children, and tennis players, everywhere. Two sections of society that I would like to throw into bags, and then trebuchet into a castle wall - there is nothing worse than mixing these two groups together. The tennis group play a game of 'pass the broom, my anus is feeling empty', and the children play a game of 'whoever can shout the loudest, most non-sensical rubbish, wins the prize of being resoundingly beaten by all the other children'. Now, fine, children are shrill, whatever, big deal. They're also obnoxious, this is where my issue comes in. They just wander around aimlessly, as if their internal compass has been thrown out of whack by some kind of polar disturbance; bumping into you, running over your feet, hitting chairs, punching cabinets, kicking each other. What the hell is wrong with them?
Simple: Their parents are the scrapings fetched from beneath the bottom of the barrel. They are the fucking barrel. Jesus, brain deficient? No, that implies that might have had one once, fuck that, these people are vapid husks of humanity; pre-programmed by an onanistic God hell-bent on causing chaos throughout all the generations. They have the same hollow eyes as their children, the same 'trench-foot' gait, the same warbling voice, devoid of emotion; the only pleasure gained is from turning to you with a fawning look and going: "Ha, children, eh?" I will spell it out now: I don't want to talk to you, you're an idiot, that's not a sentence. Speak properly. I don't think it's funny. Your child just trod on my toe and spat on my arm. Control them you idiot, or I will take it into my own hands and throw them bodily from my personal space.
A few incidents we should recap, just to add a bit of colour to my angst. Standing in a queue that could quite easily have stretched thrice around the globe, I was keeping myself to myself, trying to avoid eye-contact with anyone who might take that as an advance to speak of their child's beauty. What kind of narcissism is that? Look at my kid; isn't he fucking cute? He looks like you for the love of all that is holy! He's yours. No, he's hideous. So are you, get your overbite away from me, horsey. Anyway, I digress. Standing in the queue, running this internal monologue of hate, waiting for my turn to order my sandwich. Children running all over the place; there is only one way to imagine this. Imagine you are in a minefield, a minefield that has been rather illogically placed within a creché. The mines are children. They're everywhere. If you step on one, you might as well die. This irritates me. I step back to avoid a child, and clip another child. I get 'stare of death' as if I had just turned round and kneed the cunt in the face, spat on the mother and told the dad I fucked his mother's ear. Mate; I stood on your child to avoid another one, I'm so fucking sorry, next time I'll just trip the one in front of me and get that reaction from them instead shall I? You want me to apologise? Erm, no, I don't think I'm going to do that. Why? Oh, let me see:
1) It's your fault.
2) It was an accident.
3) It's your fault.
4) Your child is fine.
So, no, take a jump you prig. In all honesty, I'm glad it happened. I stood on 'Flowerface''s toes? Serves her right, it's better than the bullying she's going to receive when she turns up to school with that abortion of a name. What made you want to recreate Hindenburg in your child? Ah yes, your own failings as a human. Sorry, forgot.
Anyway, incident two. I bought my stuff, went to leave, the child-gestapo are barring the door; three or four indentikit robots gurning at each other. Oh yes, you're fabulous, oh, wait, what's that on the back of your Liverpool shirt? Gerrard? Are you really? God, don't hit me then! Oh wait, you're not, you're a small boy with a smug-ass grin, and dribble on your neck. Get out of my way, I don't want to see you, hear you, smell you, be near you, want you to touch me, I generally just wish you weren't here. Why must you dress like that? Is it to torment those of us who were lucky enough to be born with eyes? Football socks with crocs? God I loathe you. Yes, so, allegorical machine gun at the ready, I blurted out: "BEEP!" thinking that this would be construed by the children as playful and jocular, and by the adults as facetious and a bit of fun and games. Oh no no no. Apparently I'd just stripped off and cock-slapped everyone in the room. Genuinely, I could've dropped a Holocaust joke and received a better reaction - there's bound to be an anti-Semite in the room, but is there anyone without children? Is there fuck.
I had to flee. Genuinely flee. Waylaid by the glances of doom from almost all points, I managed to get back to my table, cake in hand. Mission complete?
No. At my table (which we had found around the back, on the patio, the only table; we moved it from the shade to the corner which retained the last etchings of warmth and sunshine (it was midday, naturally)) I found that we'd inadvertently situated ourselves inside a playpen, and that what I mistakenly thought of as 'patio' was actually 'bike track', and what I thought of as 'path' was clearly 'small plastic toboggan run'. Lord have auditory mercy, please. When you hear this: "I'm going to do it again, it was, scary", followed by, "I wonder where mum is", you know you're in hell. So, mum, where are you? Ah, of course, sipping coffee on the veranda of arrogance and self-worth; super, no problem, shall I watch the kids? Of course, no bother. They're eleven you say? How wonderful. So, did you teach them manners? No, independence, naturally. Superb.
So here I am faux-babysitting a plethora of mammary-suckers, trying in vain to eat my food, drink my drink, and have a conversation. It's not to be. The bikes prevail. The path prevails. Children have won.
Run.
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