Wednesday, September 1, 2010
The school run
During this week my good lady wife, the Rablet and myself have taken advantage of the reasonably sunny weather and have ambled along to the local primary school to collect my nine year old brother in law.
It's nice to have a wee stroll in the fresh air and the Rablet enjoys surveying the view as he is pushed along in his pram. He is of the age that he likes to sit up and hold on to the sides of the pram and everyone who passes by is greeted with a drooling toothy grin, (from the wee one, not from me).
The school is less than five minutes walk from us and is situated on a busy road. The lollipop lady is kept busy ensuring everyone crosses the road safely.
A high blue palisade fence encapsulates the school grounds and building, as you would expect. The gates are shut tight during school hours. Got to keep all the paedophiles and child killers out, of course. The gate is opened to allow access to parents picking up their children at home time and as we approach the gate we see the first group of 'them'.
We usually arrive a few minutes before the bell rings, to signal the end of another day of brainwashing and leftie indoctrination. I have a look around at the waiting parents and I always say the same thing to my wife.
"Are we the only normal people here?"
Honestly, you would think that you had been picked up by some force unseen and dropped into the middle of a crowd scene from Dawn of the Dead. Except most of the 'people' in the playground are fat. No, strike that. Not fat, but fucking obese. And proud of it, by the way they like to dress.
To be fair, at least they are wearing outdoor clothing to collect their spawn from the school. Only a brief half hour ago they were shuffling to the local shop/post office wearing nothing but slippers, pyjamas and a dressing gown. And a brass neck. Thank goodness for small mercies, I suppose.
It goes without saying that 90% of parents waiting in the playground are female. Their partners will be at work. (Only kidding!) They will, in the majority of cases, be single mums. Getting fat by sitting playing on-line bingo and stuffing their faces with pizza and lambrini whilst their children are hurling rocks through the window of the local chinese takeaway.
Not all the mums are fat disasters. Some are skeletal thin. These scummy mummies are the ex junkies or, in some cases, still are junkies. All have that same 'screaming skull' look and their poor kids all look the same. Small and old before their time. You just know that in a few years time most of the kids will have the same 'issues' their mother has/had. The circle of 'victimhood' by the righteous continues. Without these alleged victims, hundreds of thousands of support 'workers' would be unemployed. Anyway, I digress.
There are a handful of men around. One or two, like myself, will be on annual leave from work. The rest are unemployable. Some fall into the junkie/ex junkie bracket like some of the scummy mummies. Most are just 'no use bastards'. Never worked a day in their lives and have a collection of tattoos covering their necks and hands and sometimes even their faces.
Finally it's time to leave. We exit via the gate, pushing our way past people who seem to have no idea of self awareness. The road is heaving with cars parked either side of the road. The majority are decent cars, only a few years old. Filled with one or sometimes two fat disasters, (they are ALL fat, no exception), all the cars have one thing in common. They have disabled parking permits on the dashboard. All the cars are 'mobility motors'. Paid for by me, the tax payer.
As we take a slow stroll home, I'm suddenly struck by a thought.
It's me and my family who are not normal. The scene I have described is normality in the Britain of today.
I'm a freak.
And you know what, I'm proud to be a freak.