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Grandparents blaming their grandchildren on their children

GRANDPARENTS looking after their grandchildren are blaming their f**king awful behaviour on their parents, their own children.

Retirees stuck doing the childcare during the holidays are placing all responsibility for their charges’ rudeness, constant demands and vile personalities on being badly raised by the people they raised.

Susan Traherne, aged 68, said: “Spoiling starts at home. Kids like rules. I never held back and mine turned out alright, apart from as parents obviously.

“It’s amazing that with such a clear example to follow they managed to bugger it up. All she had to do was reproduce every aspect of their childhoods exactly, but the smart-arsed bitch thought she knew better. She was the same as a kid.

“And now I’m stuck looking after these little brats when it’s too late to give them the discipline they need so I have to buy them sugary treats instead.

“Amazing it went from me doing a perfect job to my daughter doing it so wrong in just one generation. I knew she wasn’t listening when she was six.”

Daughter Louise Traherne said: “As far as I’m concerned the old bastards and the little bastards fully deserve each other.”

The six heart-sinking stages of helping a mate move house

DID a bastard so-called mate take you up on your offer to help them move house? You’ll go through these six states of despair: 

Arriving: Resignation

You turn up at 10am, as agreed, in the vain hope you’ll find them efficiently taping the last box closed. Instead they’re hungover on the sofa and have f**k all ready. So you’re spending the first two hours shovelling their crap into bin bags while wanting to incinerate it.

Hoarding: Anguish

Not the ideal time to discover your friend’s a hoarder, with every copy of 2000AD since 1983 stored in unbelievably heavy crates. Watch the hours piss away as you haul boxes of Inspector Morse DVDs and other charity shop rejects down the stairs as if anyone would want this shit.

Transportation: Hopelessness

Catastrophic ineptitude meant your friend didn’t rent a van for the big move and, as you’re all middle-class pricks in London, nobody knows anyone who owns one. So you’re left trying to fold a stained double mattress into the back of a VW Polo for the first of many, many trips.

Breakages: Vexation

Professional movers have insurance. You don’t, so when you trip over a step in the new flat and drop a laundry basket full of crockery the only recompense your mate has is being pissy for the rest of the day, even though you know they eat all of their meals straight out of microwavable containers.

Re-Assembly: Dejection

The phrase ‘help move a few boxes’ does not mean entirely dismantling and reassembling an IKEA futon, but you’re trapped now. The only consolation as you put it back together is it won’t last more than a few nights before collapsing under them at 4am.

Remuneration: Misery

After 12 hours of back-breaking work, your now former friend buys you a pint and a curry by way of thanks. Even in f**king London that means you’ve earned about £1.80 per hour and they should be arrested under the Modern Slavery act. You’ll content yourself with never seeing the prick again.

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