Aubrey's Falafel And A Bun In The Oven.

Have you ever been to Mecca? I have. Not the real Mecca, I don't like flying. I went to Cunt Mecca. The place where the most hardcore of all cunts like to go on a weekend. The Knobhead Devout. The Twat Fundamentalist.
YOU might have been as well. Though not by choice. Unless of course you're a cunt. In which case you might plan your week around it. Especially if you're in need of a Nordik lampshade or an avante garde curtain pole.
I had the misfortune of visiting Ikea.
Ikea, for those out of the loop, is a warehouse crammed with discount, flat-packed furniture, that - like the chocolate river to Augustus Gloop -attracts a cunt like nobody's business. And you're reading the words of a woman who's spent time in a Scouse Netto. Think on.
Long story short, I went to look at furniture. You can get half decent wardrobes in Ikea for 25p a pop. But I'm telling you, it's not worth it.
As soon as you approach the grey (they're always grey) habitat of the soulless, you encounter some cunt with his ugly kids in a 4x4. Driving in like he owns the joint. Paying scant regard for the Highway Code in a bid to squeeze his fucking totally-necessary-in-the-city people carrier into a Corsa sized hole, just because it's four inches nearer to the furniture.
Eventually I get in.
It's the kids. I'll be honest. I'm not arsed about the fucking parking, or the greyness of the exterior. It's the kids. And the parents of the kids.
Kids in Baby Gap clothing. Ugly, posh, ginger kids with names like Aubrey and they run in front of you and sort of punch you in the fanny and instead of the customary 'Sorry' from an harrassed parent (the likes of which you would get from single mothers in any shit bit of any city in any country), you get a sort of, 'Yeah bitch, what?' staredown from some middle-class cunt in a fucking beret and tracksuit. They think that little Aubrey is the future, and should be allowed to express himself on account of him being a CHILD. THEIR CHILD. And important.
And yet, one need only take a perfunctory glance at Little Aubrey to work out that the pie faced mongaloid (not a REAL mong, I'M not the cunt here) is only ever going to be a replica of his dull parents. Equating colour with style, assuming a taste for obscure jazz makes them interesting, boring the fucking WORLD with their views about Satre.
I escaped to the cafe bit to get cheap cake (another Brucie Bonus) and a brew, only to be subjected to more of these pointless little drones. Sat around with tiny little tupperware pots, trying to forcefeed their useless fucking kids bits of apple. Looking exasperated and screeching, ''Come on Cassius, you LOVE Falafel!" Making sure the entire cafe is in no doubt as to the cosmopolitan consumption habits of their ridiculously titled progeny. Loudly congratulating any half-mumbled preference for one bit of knobby posh scran over another. Ignoring the violent interludes between siblings, or worse, using elaborate syntax about reason and sharing and peace to address four year olds in need of beats as they steadfastly refuse to listen and continue twatting their brother with an Ikea weaning cup.
In all, visiting Ikea leaves you with 25 reasons to never have kids.
In other news, I'm four months pregnant.
Want to get married and buy cheap shelving units?