Against my better instincts, we hosted a birthday party yesterday for Iggy Dylan Moonunit TNA (and trust me, that wasn’t the most stupid name at the party). It was supposed to be on the beach but my parents have arrived from Blighty and have brought the rain with them again.
The party itself went off without much incident, a clash of heads during a game of musical chairs and a moment of scratching our heads briefly when one boy stated that he didn’t eat vegetables, fruit, meat, crisps, jelly or ice cream (OK, here’s a glass of water and you can watch the other kids eat. And stop crying).
However, my world was rocked when it came to the time for the parents to collect their little men.
Most arrived, picked them up and quickly left with the party bag. One family turned up with the invitee’s four year old brother and hung around well past their welcome, however.
The Dad had already got my hackles up when he arrived and did the stupid too-strong handshake thing along with a declaration of his first AND lastname. Mate, I don’t give a fuck what your lastname is, this is the weekend not the office.
He then added further layers to my diagnosis of cuntitudeness by announcing, apropos nothing, that his sons would be attending “Shore“. Well, fucking bully for you mate, but, 1. I didn’t ask/don’t care and, 2. See (1).
Next, he started talking about Iggy Dylan Moonunit’s participation in rugby this year, “can he play rugby and soccer?” he enquired, clearly meaning “are they played on different days or is there a clash?”.
“Absolutely not”, I firmly replied, “not because there’s a scheduling problem but because no child of mine will be allowed to grow up indolent, ill-disciplined and of the belief that feigning injury is a valid tactical response to being out-played”.
I’m not sure he appreciated that answer as much as I would have liked.
But the coup de grace came when they finally deigned to get the fuck out of my home. At this announcement, the four year old threw a bigger hissy fit than I’ve ever seen before, and I’ve played rugby and won against a team full of Kiwis, so I’ve wintessed some pretty big sulks in my time.
There then followed a bizarre and almost surreal quarter of an hour of negotiations. Any reasonable parent would have simply picked the screaming brat up and carried them out, but Mr. Shore Cunt went for the alternate technique of reasoning with a kindergarten-aged child.
With no success, obviously.
Guess what happened next?
No, he didn’t slap the child and drag him out the house but, instead, offered one of my son’s toys for the little shit to take home to play with.
Yes, you read that correctly; he actually rewarded bad behaviour by confiscating a well-behaved child’s toy.
But the worst thing is, I didn’t stop him. I just stood there, mouth agape, wondering whether I was an unwitting participant in a cruel social experiment.
My self-loathing reached new highs when I later reflected on the event and wondered why on earth I hadn’t just belted his kid for him and given the Dad a friendly clump in the chops for good measure.
I did make a point of collecting the toy this morning, however.
As we’ve seen before, there are some good indicators and predictors of shite behaviour from Australian kids. Sadly, I’ve not worked out the equivalent list for their parents. I’m unlikely to learn these rules quickly either as I’m banning Iggy Dylan Moonunit from having anything to do with the family….. which is going to be made easier this term as the eldest son hasn’t made the cut into the top stream class at school because he’s thick.
So it’s probably just as well that he’s going to be attending Shore then.