Bullies, Bitches and Bastards
(Not so much a book, more a moral crusade)
by
Eileen Condon
and
Amanda Edwards
Illustrations by Joy Gosney
This book is dedicated to all our family and friends—the perfect antidote to the BBBs out there. (You’re not in it. OK!)
All the characters in Bullies, Bitches and Bastards are entirely fictitious. Sadly, their behaviour isn’t. Furthermore, the authors accept no liability for persons recognising in themselves any of the bullying traits described herein. Quite frankly, if you do—shame on you.
Table of Contents
Chapter One Husbands/Boyfriends
Chapter Three Bosses/Colleagues
Chapter Six Neighbours and Local Folk
‘I have never made but one prayer to God, a very short one: “O Lord, make my enemies ridiculous.” And God granted it.’ (Voltaire)
That’s it. That’s enough. They’ve gone too far. By all that’s right and holy, they should be shuffling round a prison yard, shackled by the ankles to a Russian cannibal. But they’re not. They’re everywhere—people whose characteristics read like a thesaurus of cunning: sly, Machiavellian, gerrymandering, duplicitous, crafty, vulpine.
Bullies. Bitches. Bastards.
Unfortunately, you can’t get away from them. They’re in your home, in your workplace, and—God help you—even in your bed. And they didn’t come with a whiff of sulphur and a tail, did they? Bastards!
You’re trapped, doomed, finished—damned to hell in a Hyundai. Hold on: brakes, reverse. There is a solution: pin them down, slit them open and dissect them like frogs in a school lab. Not in a vivisectionist way, obviously, but metaphorically speaking.
So here they are, fully exposed: the Snake Charmer, the Utter Nutter, Beelzeboss, the Wicked Whittler, Foul Weather Friend, Lord of the Manor. And that’s only a handful of the…BBBs.
Beggar me backwards! They’re ridiculous.
The Git-ometer
The following icons will help you rapidly identify your bullies, your bitches and your bastards. (Oh dear—some have even scored a hat-trick.)
Chapter One Husbands/Boyfriends
The Enormous Baby Boyfriend
What he does
Never grows up. Even if you have babies of your own, he’ll be a bigger baby than any of them. At least your proper children will give you intermittent periods of joy and wonder. He won’t. He’ll whinge, whine, make demands, have moods, inflict sullen silences and throw tantrums. Ultimately, he’ll chuck his toys out of the pram and vomit all over you if you don’t give him your Full Attention.
His priorities in life? Music, electrical-techno things, money, mates/booze/footie/rugger, socialising (the pub), holidays (snowboarding), DVDs (Tarantino), games (monster-girl-gun-shoot). Oh, and the kids. Anything else? Ermmmmm. Oh yeah! You.
Mooching about in his skateboard gear, he drinks latté in a takeaway cup—with a straw. He will text, text, text, text, text. He’ll plug into iMacs, iPods, PSPs, hi-fis and Wi-Fis in the company of friends and family. He will glaze over if the conversation doesn’t revolve around him.
When he’s not hooked up to a gadget, he will take to his bed for afternoon naps because you and the children ‘exhaust’ him, and he needs to preserve his energy for…more takeaway coffee and downloading iTunes. He is 42.
That’s the age at which people used to die years ago, having led a full, adult life, with all the trimmings: fighting for their country, starting a family at 20, not getting into debt for shiny things and trinkets, being mature enough to realise that once they had children of their own, they had to put away childish things.
Not this one. Even in his early middle age, he still requires a babysitter himself.
If, say, you decided to leave your infants in the care of a 15-year-old youth with a penchant for sinister video games and self-harming, fair enough: you wouldn’t be surprised to find him splayed out on the sofa while the fruits of your womb are running amok, sticking their fingers into every available socket. This, however, is not what you expect when you ask your other half to mind the kids while you take a quick phone call in the bedroom.
Essentially, when you require him to be at his most grown-up, he will let you down worse than any five-year-old denied access to a Wacky Warehouse Christmas free-for-all.
A halogen-downlit office. You, trying to unpack the cargo of verbal nonsense a 19-year-old estate agent is offloading. EBB next to you, head down.
You:…so, essentially, what you’re saying is that the vendors’ purchase has fallen through?…oh, they’ve found another house?…but that’s