We’ve all heard of road rage – it comes as standard these days. Someone cuts you up – you give them the finger. Someone in a white BMW doesn’t indicate – you give them the finger. Some old dear going at 40mph on the motorway – you let that go, they’ll probably make it to their own wake at that rate. Since 2013 it’s all been about Pram Rage for me. Vein-popping, face-reddening Pram Rage.

Pram Rage – the creeping issue

Pre-parenthood, there were things that I just didn’t notice. Things that would now have me almost drooling with rage. Now I’d be wide-eyed with passive aggressiveness as I tut my way through crowds of inconsiderate bastards.

That ignorance was their saving grace at first, but I’ve lost empathy now. In my mind people are instantly aware of what they’re doing and they’re doing it on purpose. It’s as if certain people want to punish you for procreating. Damn virgins.

Allow me to list the main four offenders here. In no particular order – because they’re all equally likely to have me shaking my head in some kind of full-body-Tourettes episode.

The pavement parkers

Seriously, SCREW these people! I’m talking about the cars that mount the kerb and give little or no space for people passing by. There are three types of people that are going to struggle here: the obese, those in wheelchairs and those with prams. I’m a little from column A and a little from column C.

In this situation, the car takes least priority for me. I could take the pram on a detour around the road side of the car, but I’m not a dickhead. I could struggle through and shower Evelyn with insects and bits of leaves and plant-matter from a hedge, or I could just show the car the courtesy it’s shown me. Fuck that car.

Look at this for an extreme example:

car parked badly

The supermarket wankers

Believe it or not, these are almost always elderly people. I’ll be standing there with the pram next to me, innocently checking the date on the shit bread Kate makes me buy. Some absolute idiot will violate the unspoken pram-personal-space rule, grab the pram and wheel it away so they can get to what’s behind it.

I’ve never had this happen without shouting “EXCUSE ME?!”. More often than not this results in one of those overly British conversations:


Them: “Sorry”

Me: “OK, but please just ask…”

Them: “Sorry”

Me: “Right…I’m sorry for shouting”

Them: “Sorry”

Me: “Sorry”

I love awkward situations as much as the next weirdo, but these can get a bit much.

Possibly worse than the pram-movers are the people that will lean over the pram to get what they want. I mean, Jesus Christ Betty I know you really want that short-dated buttered salmon for your cat but do you really have to Christen my baby with the thawing juices?! Also, I think you’ve got one of your tits stuck in the pram wheels…you’d best remove it before I wheel it off.

The pram invaders

Again, these are mostly elderly folk. I’ve written before about how I hated people touching Evelyn’s face as a baby, but people in this category don’t quite go that far. Still, it’s enough to trigger me.

I’ll be strolling along, minding my own business, probably wondering whether I went a bit far kicking that car’s wing mirror off or shouting in Betty’s face in Tesco. Some overly happy habitual smiler will stand in front of the pram like a jolly Tiananmen Square rendition and start making horrible screeching cooing noises.

Before I can duck and cover at the sound of her Spitfire impression she’s manoeuvred around the pram like a gazelle and already has her head stuck right in there as though the pram’s giving birth to her breeched.

I don’t get any interaction here, it’s just a matter of waiting for this to end. If I try and push the pram she matches my speed with surprising accuracy. There’s nothing that can be done. It’s my own fault for not scaring her off with “DON’T EVEN FUCKING THINK ABOUT IT LADY” from 20 feet away.

The lazy lift passengers

Oh. My. God. These people are the worst type of people. In short, they’re the people that populate lifts for just one floor, preventing you from travelling the four floors you need with your pram. If I were to describe the average one, it would be as follows:

They’re wearing shorts, it doesn’t matter what time of year it is, they’re wearing shorts. They have a polo-neck on that still has Tuesday’s pub lunch down the front of it. Today is Friday. The polo-neck is invariably a faded shade of blue, possibly green at the armpits where the yellow has mixed with the blue. They have a flesh apron protruding from the bottom of said polo-neck and their socks are pulled up as far as they can go.

At no point do they use their nose when breathing, which is great because it means we get treated to the sight of every stage of them chewing one of their 5 sausage rolls. They never travel alone.

That’s all I have to say on these, David Attenborough should do the rest.

Pram rage is real

I just know the one time I try and make a stand against all four of these people will be the day I knock the pram into someone not moving out of the way, only they’ll be blind.

Or I’ll kick the pram invader in the arse in a final stand against pram invaders, and it’ll be my mum turning up to surprise us.

Or I’ll shout and kick in a fit of rage at that van that’s parked right on the kerb. Only it’ll turn out to be a private ambulance removing a recently deceased from a house.

I hope Evelyn is old enough to walk everywhere before any of these things happen!