Just as Bill Oddie
may like to observe his Wood Pecker oscillating in and out of a large hole from
time to
time, I like to view, from a distance at least, the segregated subgroup of desperate humanity that we like to call
Chavs. As if you hadn’t already guessed from my pessimistic drones, I dislike
chavs with an unceasing hatred, but at times I find them utterly hilarious. When I can, I often watch the humble and increasingly prevalent migration of the
Chavs to their local off-licence, where, with a few pence between them, they manage to rustle up about 10 gallons of finest Aldi own-brand cider, and this, with their vastly theatrical habits, beckons giant amounts of predominantly patronising hilarity.
Even funnier than watching a 13 year old chav trying to buy alcohol is watching a 13 year old chav trying to drink it.
Yes, we've all had a couple of under-age beverages, but never to the extent of the Chav. Walking around Peterborough, for instance, at about 3 in the morning, you find yourself confusing the amassed collection of collapsed
Chavs with street furniture. My friend, for example, thought that one young fellow was actually a bench, and sat on him. (What I was doing at Peterborough at 3 AM, I'm not entirely sure).
Finding a group of Chavs is easy; all you have to do is look in a park. Walk around, and you'll know you've found a chav when he pulls a knife on you and asks if you've got any nail varnish so he can get
high off of it. A white tracksuit is a dead give-away, and you can always see them in the dark because of all of the glowing fags that hover about four-feet off the ground. Rest assured, chavs aren’t actually damaging their lungs with these cigarettes, it’s just to make them look really, really
cool. (Detect the
sarcasm there?) Chavettes are easily identified because they
will be wearing a lurid, metallic looking pink Puffa jacket, and
will be wearing hooped earrings, that, I am reliably informed, ‘you could hang a parrot on’. Argos bling is also a dead-cert, however that ‘gold’ chain is in reality off of an old motorbike, and they’ve tinted it using paint bought from the Early Learning Centre.
Listening to a chav conversation, I wonder how many words are actually in a Chav's vocabulary. "Fuck", we can presume, features heavily in it, as well as other hilariously patronising ‘expletives’ like "Cock", "Gay", and "Fuck-me-fuck-the-lot-o-ya!" (that, I am assured by a Chav I had the unluckiness of meeting in Peterborough, is actually a
single word). Other words which Chavs use as much as these smirk inducing creations include "Mum", "Yur'mum", (which they somehow manage to transform into a
single word), and "Innit", which unless you are talking about an old lady's purse, is the least likely place your going to find a male Chav.
Overall then, being a chav watcher is great. Being a Chav, however, isn't.
Its d’ fuckin trufe, innit!
