Misinformed, angry, coffee-addled ranting.
The late, great Christopher Hitchens once wrote that the four most overrated things in life were champagne, lobster, anal sex and picnics. Although mostly accurate, Hitchens’ list is lacking in a key area. It neglects possibly the most overrated thing in this history of things, ever since ‘things’ were invented in 1942 by Sir Thomas Thing. Children.
Possibly the most pointless thing ever to exist, children are beloved by such an extraordinary number of people that it’s high time someone pointed out how rubbish they are. They run around like loud, shouty little gnomes without contributing a single thing to society. How many doctors do you know that are children? Exactly.
They offer nothing to anyone, apart from the broody misguided dullards that go all gooey every time they see a child, no matter whether that child is playing sweetly with Lego bricks or shoving pennies up their nose. These cretinous fucknuggets live under the assumption that all children are angelic fleshy sacks of cuteness, just dying to be all cooed over. Anyone who’s ever shared a flight with one of these dwarfish shrieking demon brats knows full well that there is nothing cute about children, apart from maybe that adorable gurgling noise they make when you plunge your fist down their gullet.
Every time I’m sat next to one whilst getting a haircut as they bellow their lungs out, I can’t help but start humming Stuck In The Middle With You under my breath in the vague hope that the hairdresser responsible for the little turd might snap and go all Reservoir Dogs on them. At least then they’d have a reason for making so much bloody noise.
And they’re mind-bogglingly stupid. Most of them haven’t even got a GCSE. They can’t tie their shoelaces and they lack even basic general knowledge. Even the important stuff. How have we allowed a society to exist where a huge number of children have no idea who The Rock is? I bet they wouldn’t even appreciate my Reservoir Dogs joke earlier, and that was comic genius.
But I think my main problem with Children is this – despite my constant efforts to behave otherwise, I am no longer a Child. I’m nearly 20 now, and whilst some of you may scoff at the notion of 20 being old, it’s absolutely bloody terrifying. Did you know that there now exist teenagers that were born in the 21st Century? How scary is that? Especially since I can vividly remember welcoming in the new Millennium dressed as Darth Maul smashing my aunts and uncles in the shins with a shitty plastic lightsaber. Those teenagers weren’t even born then.
The person I blame most for me realising I’m old is Raheem Sterling. For those who don’t know, Raheem Sterling is a professional footballer for Liverpool and England. He’s just turned 18.
This man-child is already pretty much guaranteed to be a millionaire. And for what? For kicking a bit of leather round a field? I could do that. Granted, I haven’t played football in years ever since I realised I was shit at it and thought maybe learning to play the guitar would impress girls instead (It didn’t). But still. I could give it a go.
He’s already earned more money in his short career than I probably will in the next 10 years. A couple more years and he’ll most likely have earned more than I will over the entirety of my existence, and that of my as-yet-non-existent, much-resented offspring. He’s two years younger than me. In terms of bringing you back down to Earth, it’s up there with completing a very satisfying workout at the gym, only to be hit by a bus on the way home; and then waking up in hospital to be told that you’re paralysed from the neck down and also that you’ve got cancer of the arsehole. It just serves to outline the sheer pointlessness of your existence.
Supposedly, Sterling is valued at around £15 million. Even if I was kidnapped I wouldn’t be worth £15 million. The ransom would probably start at about 20 quid, and then be negotiated down to something much more reasonable like a Twix.
But I digress. It turns out that as well as being a miserable bastard, I’m now a miserable old bastard. And I don’t like this at all. I should be skipping merrily to the swings in the park and playing Spyro 2: Gateway to Glimmer for an entire weekend straight (Admittedly I still do those things but with a slight pang of guilt that I really should know better). A worrying percentage of my time is now being taken up wearing slippers and drinking tea. And shouting at those damn kids to get off my lawn.
It’s not fun being a grown up. That’s why Children deserve our hate.