Babies aren’t cute. Especially when they’re just born.

I hate children, the whiney, moany, throw-up-on-you-at-the-supermarket-y little creatures of the Earth that they are. But I especially hate when parents make me give a toss about them. “COME AND LOOK AT MY CHILD!” they scream, though not always vocally. Nowadays most of it is done with Facebook pictures of their repugnant spawn sporting a bowl of SpaghettiOs they’ve dumped on their head while bearing the caption ‘Wee Cutie! <3’ when actually it looks like the second rising of the Swamp Thing. Or worse, when you’re out drinking with parents and they won’t stop banging on about “how cute Junior was when he pissed himself on the Persian rug” and all you want to do is drown them in their Strawberry Daiquiri.

So there I was, in a hospital maternity ward pretending to be happy. Well, not pretending as such, more being nauseatingly overenthusiastic about a new life in the world. I mean, big woop: I was a new life in the world once and strange, distant friends of my parents didn’t visit me and act overjoyed. They did the normal thing by giving my Mum a kiss and a cuddle and giving my Dad a morbid tap on the shoulder and a grave “it’s all downhill from here” look.

As per tradition, the baby gets thrown around from stranger to stranger like a post-natal pass the parcel and we’re all supposed to coo and aww and hum and gargle gargle. But here’s the inside scoop, sports fans: I think that all newborn babies are ugly and, if I’m being entirely honest, androgynous too. They have the blurred gender lines and aesthetic prettiness of a Goth house party, but twice as moody and with more milky vomit on the expensive upholstery.

Is it wrong to think that all newborn babies look... like the front end of a Porsche? Not because they’re expensive, hard to make and worst acquired when you’re having a midlife crisis, but because they look, well, froggy. They look as if they’re not ready yet; I want to give it back to the pond from whence it came. I feel as if I’m staring at the first incarnation of Aquaman.

That wasn’t the worst bit. Oh no. The worst bit was when I realised that there’s etiquette involved. You have to be nice to these people. The parents are extremely proud of this creation (Hell, who wouldn’t be? I’d be proud if it came from my vagina) and it’s not polite to say that it resembles a tiny, curled-up version of the Hindenburg.

There are also questions that you just don’t ask. Questions like “How was the birth?” Well, friend, it was like squeezing a sack of spuds out of my body, thanks for asking. Or “Did you use gas and air?” Oh no, no, I thought I’d just spend six hours in constant searing pain, fully conscious of the adult male attending to my gootchies. Or the worst question of all, “How do you feel?” Kinda like my nether-region has just done an excellent impression of the Eurotunnel.

No, if you want to survive a visit to the maternity ward with all your sanity and teeth intact follow this handy-dandy guide: The mother always looks radiant; the child always looks angelic; the father must always be made fun of; and, most importantly, both mother and child always look far better than the family in the bed across the room.

And if you’re ever in any doubt – or a man – just keep your mouth shut, in maternity ward as in life.