It wasn’t the fact that her twins were clearly old enough to walk. It wasn’t that they were sitting in a double-wide pram. It wasn’t even because they were ginger. It was the fucking look on her fucking face as she smugly pushed her Hummer of a stroller down the footpath, clearing aside a sea of unsuspecting pedestrians.
You know who I mean. Black jogging tights with day-glo pink stripes, neon trainers, Oroton sunglasses and the cap that Frank Burns wore in M*A*S*H with a ponytail poking out the back. Yes, you. You fucking cunt.
Let me tell you something that you really won’t believe. The world doesn’t change because you didn’t use a condom. We, the people, get it. You’ve had kids. Whether it was years of traumatic trial and error and expensive IVF, or a drunken romp in the back of Gaz’s SUV after Nick and Shirley’s wedding, nobody gives a shit about your shitty kids. Nobody.
I’ll accept that those two fat lumps of orange-maned absolute fucking joy are too heavy for you to carry everywhere. And I even salute you for not having resorted to a dog leash like many parents do. But don’t expect me to recognise your slightly modified Conestoga wagon as a socially acceptable way to snake your shitty family down a shitty footpath full of innocent bystanders. It’s just not going to fly with me.
So when you give me that ‘step aside – I have a pram therefore right of way’ look from behind your deathgrip on the handles of The Starship Snotmachine, don’t be surprised when I don’t. Because I don’t have to.