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  1. It was the girlfriend's birthday this week, so I broke from my usual cuntish existence, and booked a nice restaurant in South Kensington. I'm happy to admit it's not the kind of place we'd usually go, unlike our resident charlatans Walter Spunkgape and International Head of Ethics for the Caravan Club, DingTheDoggie, who spend their days living off all expenses paid meals of quails eggs, vintage claret and their own bullshit. Anyway, we're sat having some decent grub and nice wine - for the Welsh on here, think bottle of Blue Nun and pair of well done steak from Little Chef. Then some speccy-eyed, mildly autistic looking cunt who probably works in asset liquidation, in a pink shirt and green chinos, gets seated next to us with his little Tarquin, probably aged 5 or 6. I fucking hate kids, especially posh ones. So I'd like to give the little toerag some credit. He was quite well behaved, apart from occasionally lolling around the seating like a moderate to severe spastic due to extreme fits of boredom. I think he was one of those posh kids who would be an absolute dribbler, if it wasn't for the 10k-a-term private education, which elevates him to an almost median level of intelligence. The good behaviour can probably be attributed to him knowing if he misbehaves at daddies lunch time, he gets sent back to the boarding school in Jersey again, where he gets buggered raw by the senior choristers and choir master. Anyway, I digress. The poor little cunt asked for ham, egg and chips, as a normal kid might. Of course, they can't accommodate this, so his absent father just orders him salmon chantilly. The poor little cunt looked devestated. It didn't help I was joyously eating my ice cream desert right next to him with a big, shit eating grin on my face.
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