Let’s all shoot the feral children

Why do the owners of the evil products of their sexual intercourse assume that everybody else wants to hear and be disturbed by their feral offspring?

More importantly, if I were to shoot dead an out of control unattended unchallenged feral child, everybody would pour buckets of sympathy all over the parents and tut tut at me as if I were some kind of monster.

Increasingly, these awful parents are taking their feral offspring to restaurants and letting them behave in a completely out of control fashion, destroying the dining experience of everybody else. Well, me.

beefTake last Sunday, for instance. The A49 road passing through Ashton-in-Makerfield, Wigan, sports a reasonably priced, good quality steakhouse/restaurant called ‘The Fat Bull’. Now, I like the Fat Bull because it isn’t pretentious stupid food. You know, it’s not gigantic plates with a tiny bit of food plonked in the middle and then somebody squirting the empty areas of the plate with a tasteless congealed sauce to make it look pretty. Drinks are not delivered in used jam jars or any of that ridiculousness. None of that.

The Fat Bull is a good place to go to graze when actually hungry, any day of the week.


Sadly, they allow people with feral children in. And, on Sunday, they allowed this family to fester on a table getting drunk. Yes, I know, most places serve lots of alcohol, usually with the idea that drunk people will be incapable of realising the food is shit, but alcohol isn’t needed to dull taste buds in the Fat Bull. The food is good.

Drunk parents pay no attention to their children, as we all know, they are far too busy talking in slurs at each other in raised voices and cackling piercingly loudly. I’m guessing it somehow blots out the feral child noise.

It doesn’t blot it out for the rest of us.

On Sunday there was a seven year old and a five year old. When they weren’t running around and bashing into other people’s tables or chairs, or serving staff carrying dishes full of hot food, they were screaming. Ear piercing, brain shattering screams. At times they’d be repeating, “Mum! Mum! Mum! Mum! Mum!” over and over again trying to get something, anything, out of their parents. Then, of course, they’d get all crotchety and tired and crotchety and tired and … louder and more piercing and more disruptive.

Decades ago, as soon as a baby or child kicked off, then it would be quickly removed from the restaurant by the mother (yes, that used to be a mother’s job), calmed down, and only returned to the restaurant when it was settled. Children were also taught from the moment they could grasp the concept to shut the fuck up in such public places.

Today, it’s all gone wrong. Everybody just runs wild, and I’m not allowed to shoot any of them dead. At the very least I should be allowed to blow tranquilliser darts into the necks of parents and their devil children and so make them sleep and allow me to enjoy my yummy steak in peace, the way nature intended it.