But I've thought about it and there's three reasons I don't have children.
Three main reasons and I'll share them with you.
Three reasons.
One. There's millions!
The world's over-populated. No-one's going, "Rick's not having kids.
We're gonna run out. Fuck."
Two. Kids are scroungers. Aren't they?
I mean, from day one, it's all "me, me, me", isn't it?
"Feed me."
"Clothe me."
"Pay for my chemotherapy."
No...
No.
Not my problem, son. Not mine.
Luck of the draw, boy. Luck of the draw.
It costs the average household in the West $200,000 to bring up a child.
And they don't want to pay you back.
They're not grateful.
They don't go, "Thanks for having me." It's "I didn't wanna be born."
Even if they get a top job, which they won't,
you'll never see that money back.
They'll just put you in a home, okay?
And my kid,
he'd be born into ridiculous wealth, wouldn't he? So...
He'd be a little cunt.
A little Hampstead cunt...
running around with all the other fucking little Hampstead cunts,
being all Hampstead and cunty.
"I'm a little Hampstead cunt." Yes, I know.
"These are my cunty friends." I know, it's obvious.
I can tell from your little fucking cunty hats
that you're little Hampstead cunts, you little posh Hampstead...
First, he'd know he was a little Hampstead cunt.
"I'm a little..." Yes, we know.
Everyone knows, right?
He'd know that, right?
On the other hand, he'd know he'd never live up to being as brilliant as his dad.
I'd say, "I worked my way up from nothing,
and you're just a useless Hampstead cunt."
He'd go, "Yeah." And that would probably prey on his little mind a bit.
Eleven, twelve, he'd be naughty, run with the wrong crowd,
try and get out from under my shadow.
Then he'd turn to drugs. About 30, he'd come home,
and overdose on my Afghan rug.
Twenty grand, that was, right?
And as he was there, convulsing,
and throwing up his fucking lungs, right,
and with his little posh, high-pitched, fucking death rattle...
his little fucking dying words,
he'd go, "Do you love me now, Daddy?"
No!
No.
No, I never did. That's why you'll never be born,
you useless, fucking junkie, Hampstead cunt.
And, three...
I'd worry sick about him. You know?
No I would! I've only got a cat now and I worry sick about her.
I check the door three times when I go out, so she doesn't escape.
I put food and water in every room in case the door shuts and she's peckish.
A human baby? Oh my god,
the responsibility of a human life?
I'd watch it sleep. You know?
We said how weak and vulnerable they are.
Oh, my god! You perfect little thing.
Oh, you flesh of my flesh.
Now, go to sleep in your expensive cot, like that.
Night, night. Sleep tight.
Don't let the bedbugs...
Dead.
Yeah.
Just...
Why? Why is it dead?
It's just fucking dead, look!
Fuck's sake!
Fucking hell.
What the... What a fucking waste of time that was!
Fuck's sake.
Embarrassing. "Jane?"
-"What?" -"Come here."
-"I'm in the shower." -"Come here."
"What?"
"Fucking dead already.
I didn't... Just fucking...
Fucking hell, Jane.
You call that a baby? That is..."
If Jane was out, I'd have to text her, wouldn't I?
What could you...
"Baby's dead."
She'd come back. "What the fuck?"
I'd go, "Yep...
Forget the Pampers. LOL."
But even if it made it through the terrifying cot years,
and it was a toddler running around
head height to my antique tables, with their sharp edges.
I'd have to pad them so it didn't run into it, cave its head in and die.