October 10, 2007

Every year we hold a hateful Bonny Bloody Baby competition, whereby chubby mums in tracksuits, trainers, chewing gum and Regal fags bring their unfortunate offspring down to a local store to have their pictures taken, afterwards they'll then spend £979 worth of benefits on mobile phone credits, dialling up to vote for their own Cabbage Patch Kid to win £20 worth of Mothercare vouchers and as much Licorice Imps as they can eat. Or something.

Today, our man was down there for this Truly Biblical Hellfest of screaming kids and pushy chavanorphic mums.

"What's his name?" he asked one mother.

"Chunks," she said.

"Chunks?" he asked.

"Yeah," she said, blowing a bubble. "Fucking Chunks."

"And, er, your daughter?"

"Me daughter?"

"Your daughter. That one-"

"Bitch."

"Bitch???"

"Yeah."

"Well, that's not very nice..."

"Oh I dunno," she said. "She is a fucking bitch."

Both kids are under the age of three.

At times, you know, living round here is just like Brideshead Revisited.