Sometimes I’m glad I work every weekend

It means I miss things like this little insufferable cunt.

Now obviously given the mood in the country this week, I will not condone abuse of any kind upon a child.

But I reckon if you put his hand in enough bowls of warm water while he slept so that he’d wet the bed more than Heather Mills having her stump tickled.  Before long he’d develop a complex and have to sleep on a rubber mattress.  But he’s probably allergic to rubber.  He looks the sort.  He’d have to go through school as the smelly kid, and we all had one of them in our class.  He’d never get a girlfriend and the only job he’d ever get would be that of a clock repair man.  Because no one uses clocks anymore on account of the magnificentness of the time being displayed on the screens of our mobile phones.  Oh, and don’t forget the talking clock that you call up on the phone.  He’ll end up ringing that just to see if it’s still working to make it feel as though he has a purpose, in between calls to the Samaritans.

Stop me if I’m being too mean.

Far too articulate (no I’m not jealous) for a kid that age.  Wouldn’t surprise me if he had to memorise his review so that his 4×4 driving, salon bothering, ugg boot wearing mother could feel vicariously insightful.

Now there are Facebook fan groups set up for him.

I’m not on Facebook, so this is just hearsay as far as I’m concerned.

A “I want JohnJoe to fix my clocks” group has more followers than Jesus at this point I’m sure.

Bollocks to it.

I might just set up a Facebook account and set up a “Make this little turd wet the bed” group.  Or a “I think abuse against kids is awful, but I’ve a spare canvas sack of oranges if anyone wants a swing” group.

Maybe I need a catchier title.

Or maybe I’m just bitter about the fact that the 7 year old daughter of one of the owners of the hotel I work in told me that I would be working for her when she “gets this hotel when I’m older and you’re still just my servant”.

“Is that right?” I asked while her mother beamed with a smug pride that made me want to walk in dog shit and then kick her in the teeth.

“Yes it is”

“How did you figure that out?”

“Well Daddy never has to work, and he says that all this will be mine so I’ll never have to work”

“That’s nice”

“Yeah, you can go now servant man”

Well sweetheart, business is down, I haven’t been paid in three weeks and one by one the suppliers are refusing to supply us because daddy owes them so much.  Maybe he should put down the €200 bottle of red wine he always has to have because he won’t drink “the house muck”, and try working towards his promise, or paying me.  Because this is one servant man who is getting severely pissed off with your spoiled behaviour while I beat off the landlord with a shitty stick.

I give it a year and your very own personal country house hotel will be closedski.

And then you’ll have to give up things like servants and nannies and slum it back to Ailesbury Road and the only thing you’ll inherit is daddy’s bad credit because he wasn’t clever enough to trade as a limited company.  What a shame that would be.

I still hate that clock fucker though.