Let’s get cynical, cynical!
One of my favourite pass times on a sunny afternoon is sitting in my garden listening to the university students who live in the rancid shithole over the fence.
These students are so young, so loud and so fucking full of optimism and plans that I want to go and smack some reality into them. From what I have gleamed from their very loud conversations, they are in their final year so I needn’t worry – reality will come crashing down on them in the next year.
Their weed is strong (from the smell), their beards are fluffy and their hopes are high.
AND HOW I’D LOVE TO SMASH THEM DOWN.
I know, I know: I’m a prick.
I would love to say that I was just like them once with endless plans and enthusiasm for life, but I was was born to be a miserable, middle aged cunt. Jealousy is playing a part here too, because by the time I was 21, I’d been working full time for five years, was running a business, married with a mortgage and had a baby on the way.
In short, I learned that life is a hard, unfair slog very early on without the cushion of a good time at uni to stave off the terrible fact for a few more years. I never had that feeling that I was going to conquer the world, because from the age of 16, I realised that most people end up working in an office they hate until they retire, win the lottery or die.
My favourite student is the skinny blonde girl called Katy who is always drunk. I’ve seen her staggering to the shop on a Sunday morning for more cans of lager. I admire her dedication to alcohol. She’ll make a fantastic middle-class 40 something one day.
“I’m going to go travelling before I go into fashion” I heard her say one day, when I was being a sad old twat, listening to Heart and hanging out yet more clothes that I had washed for the ungrateful bastards that I gave birth to, “I am going to come home and start a boutique label, probably at Brick Lane as a pop up.”
OH HOW I LAUGHED.
No love. No you won’t. You’ll spend six months working behind a grotty bar in Sydney until you get knocked up by some tosser called Brett who will run off as soon as you say the words “you’re going to be a daddy”. You’ll spend the next two years living in your mum’s box room stinking of shit and baby sick and the only fashion you will see is the part time job in Primark.
And stop the fucking obsession with East London while you are at it, it was and always will be a shitheap.
See? Jealous old cunt here.
There’s a chap called Giles who lives in the house with her, he sounds very rich. He says ‘yah’ quite a lot and loudly asks if there is any more Gin. GIN! ARE YOU MY NAN, GILES? Fuck’s sake.
He’s going into banking. Oh, he will. He’ll end up in Shanghai snorting coke off transexual prostitute’s tits at the the age of 35 before coming back to England to marry Harriet that he went to pre prep with to appease Mummy and Daddy who are jolly concerned about him.
There is also Matt, who is studying music performance. Matt’s plans include getting his band signed to a major label and going on tour. Matt will soon be found working in a call centre bugging people about PPI until he finds a shit job in sales. He’ll end up a fat, balding 45 year old playing in a covers band at school fetes.
I’m being cynical and mean.
Maybe Katy will be the next Stella McCartney, Matt’s band will end up at the top of the charts and Giles won’t end up shagging trannies while off his face on blow.
But maybe they will end up in a shitty job they hate for the next 40 years and I think I should be the one to prepare them for that.
I kind of do in a way.
When Katy gives me a pitying look as I drag a screaming toddler down the road, buggy laden with shopping bags full of frozen shit and looking like death she is getting a glimpse of her future self.
“Fuck you, Katy” I think as I pass her size 6 arse, the arse that I used to have before all the booze and pizza caught up with me.
And fuck you Giles.
Actually, you’ll probably end up on the news for murdering one of those Chinese trannies.