Trust me, Tarquin is a little cunt

I was on my walk to the station this morning. Sub zero temperatures, ice on the pavement, no one had thought to grit the streets. I was skidding everywhere. Not pleasant. As I was walking I saw a young mother with one of those 3 wheeled "extreme pushchairs". You know what I mean, designed by McLaren, could be pushed up a mountain. The thing has tyres, not wheels. With inner tubes. More a fashion statement than a necessity in a major city. Anyway, as I got closer to her I noticed her grab her toddlers bottle and unscrew the cap. She then proceeded to empty half a bottle of breast milk onto the pavement beside her. Sorry, did I say pavement? I meant to say my fucking leg. I stopped moving as if frozen in Carbonite the very second the milky mess hit my leg and looked down in disbelief.

A couple of things to keep in mind here:

- It was 7:15am, Monday morning.
- I was wearing a freshly dry cleaned suit
- She had "new age" written all over her. She had faux dreads (she was white), an African headdress (she was white) and numerous dreamcatchers and fairy stones hanging round her neck (she was white).

I shook my head a couple of times, really wanting to be back in bed. That was the emotion on display. Inwardly I wanted to calmly put my hand into my inside coat pocket, pull out a pencil and snap it in half. Then I wanted to jab the snapped off end and slam it repeatedly into her left eye until it popped and ran down her face in a runny mess. Vitreous humour? I would have laughed. Then I wanted to grab her toddler and drop kick it across the incredibly busy road. Then and only then would I get the other half of the pencil and make a fucking mess of her other eye.

Enough macho e-posturing and back to reality. I stood there still not moving and staring at my milky mess of a leg and watched as she rummaged through her bag. I was of the mistaken belief that she was going to get a tissue and hand it to me. I would have demanded that handing a tissue to me was insufficient and that she should start scrubbing. No. She got a fucking lollypop out for the mewling child and carried on walking. I stood there disbelievingly watching her walk on whilst dreamily fingering a pencil in my hand.

Mothers. What the fuck has happened to you as a group? Why do you expect every single person on the planet to be as in love with your baby as much as you are? The only reason you love that kid is hormones. In actuality that child is ugly and annoying to EVERY SINGLE OTHER PERSON IN YOUR VICINITY.

We've all seen them, the mother who is so in love with being a mother she almost convinces herself that she shares something with The Virgin Mary. They are about as important to me as a fictional character who evidently put it about a bit and when she tried to explain how she was pregnant came up with the ridiculous excuse of "God put it in me". Why do mothers like this now take their children to pubs on a Sunday? A child does not belong in a pub. I swear, some fucking boozers round my way seem like playgrounds that serve beer. Fuck off. If that is what I am after I'll hop on a boat to France where it is acceptable to take kids in to bars. I got reprimanded in a pub once for calling my friend a cunt by a young mother and her equally insipid and pathetically bearded husband. She was afraid her little Tarquin would hear naughty words. My simple response of "shut up you cunt, this is a pub" shocked her immensely. What the fuck did she expect?