“Can’t do I’m afraid. I’ve only ever had ‘relationships’ with pricks who were either too skint to leave the house or didn’t like me enough to actually spend a couple of hours alone with me without back-up”
Fuck. I am at an event and some bastard has introduced me to another person. I was quite happy standing in the corner inhaling the canapés and taking full advantage of the free booze and texting my friends, but now I have to talk.
Actually, I think I would have looked down on someone like me. I would have thought they were stupid, feckless, they should have planned their life better. Those fat scumbags who eat oven chips from Iceland and live off government handouts.
She’s got stretch marks from those bastard children and the weight gain and loss, a saggy tummy from the cesarian overhang and wobbly thighs because she prefers sitting on her arse in the pub eating chips to moving around.
“Bugger,” you think, as you look at all the Instagram photos of the big bloggers with their shite blogs and whiny children getting free holidays, “if only I had thought of standing in front of brightly coloured walls wearing Topshop five years ago, that could’ve been me”.
Landlords and estate agents don’t like the sort of scumbags who claim housing benefit. Even the sort of scumbags who claim a housing benefit top up while working full time because the rental prices in London are out of control.
As toddlers, my children laugh in the face of toilets.
I know what teenagers get up to. I did it all, believe me. It has left me totally un-shockable, but totally in fear that my children will do it too.