So I was at Comic-Con day today.
Just a few hours, half day from work. But it was so much better than last year.
Last year I went on a Saturday. I queued for two hours to get into the Excel centre stuck behind a home counties Harley Quinn, a male Black widow, a teenage Gandalf and an impossibly sexy cat suited anime character who’s pants were so tight you could count the change in her back pocket.
£2.47. Sorry (Not Sorry)
This year I arrived at 2.30 on a Friday and walked in without waiting. Whats the point of going on a weekend when the queues for every coffee, sandwich, autograph and game demo are so long you need a weekend pass and come twice to see everything?
And the stalls have always run out of anything worth buying by Saturday lunchtime. Which should be noon-ish but ends being 3 after you’ve queued to eat your double priced authentic sushi which will send you running to join another hour long queue for a toilet cubicle.
But above and beyond my dislike for the great English pastime of huffy, bored annoyed queuing is the same reason why I like going to 18 movies over 15 movies. My desire to avoid children.
Now allow me to explain before you all clutch your pearls to your buxoms and gasp. I have nothing against children. (There’s a joke in there but I’m above that)
I dislike the effect that the children of today have on the parents of today.
Watching children torture their parents is like watching Katie Hopkins clubbing baby seals. It feels wrong to watch but you can’t help yourself and it makes you feel sad.
I’m single, spawnless, sexy and starved of sex! o sole mio.
I get it that the fruit of your loins has a barb in you like a deep sea creature and I won’t deny that you appear to be in some beautiful symbiotic relationship but as practiced observer of humanity I don’t see love in your eyes so it must be locked in your heart. All I see in your eyes is the empty horror of the thousand sleepover stare.
Watching children drag their parents around is like watching a cartoon where road runner gets lasoo-ed and then drags the poor coyote around.
I hate to show my age but I’m old enough to have grown up in the age when children were seen and not heard and when they were seen they were seen to be slapped on the arse by a frustrated mum.
The first generation without discipline had grown up, popped sprogs and after starting to bring up their children the way they wanted to be brought up are now rethinking their options and wishing it was still OK to slap the snot out of their seed.
Your child can walk. Why are you pushing a seven year old around in a stroller or towing a nine year old around on their scooter as if you were some sort of pack animal. Your child literally can’t stand on their own two feet. Literally.
I learnt patience and perseverance from walking till my feet hurt and then being glared into silence when I whined.
I feel a mix of schadenfreude and pity watching children suck the air out of their parents lungs one privileged, selfish demand at a time.
Oh yeah while I’m ranting off my rag how about children in movies. What adult thinks its Ok to bring a 10 year old to a movie that only made a 15 certificate after they reduced the number of expletives. What’s up with that?
Every Saturday multi-coloured, plastic dante-esque hellholes called playgroups and funhouses open up and swallow the hopes and dreams of once free spirits.
There. My two cents worth. Which you probably need after your progeny have rifled through your pockets to get their video game monkey off their back.
And yes I was a child once too. Look I have proof
Sorry (Not, sorry)