iLiveHere
Username Remember Me?
Password
Register

Archive for the ‘Oxfordshire’ Category

Bicester: chavopolis, UK

This article has: 5 Comments

BICESTER: A Townplanner’s Recipe for Accelerated Construction of a Chavopolis

Take one tiny Oxfordshire market town full of yokel inbreds and build a forlorn 1960s shopping precinct adjacent to a “traditional high street.” Add six characterless, featureless estates (hard to spot behind the satellite dishes and, from early October to January, the flashing neon Santas and sleighs) and fill with whitetrash, employed by local prisons and armed services. Leave to spawn- usually takes 3 minutes.

Improve “connections” by rail and motorway and stir in two appalling secondary schools and a woodbuilt “faux Scandinavian” retail outlet, misnamed Bicester Village. Fold in hundreds of trolley wallys, sales and marketing scum and a smattering of corpulent, f**kwit security staff. Decorate with ring-road , sprinkled with over-alloyed Renault 5s, Novas, Saxos and Puntos, complete with glittering neons and the dull thud of “my subs is badder than yours” competitions. The final touch is to threaten to house thousands of asylum-seekers within spitting distance (1500 metres for Bicester man) of the town. Leave ten minutes and wait for “Take –these-darky-wop-terrorist-f**kers-out-of-my –cesspit” placards to rise.

Bicester Customs

Each evening local scum will emerge from the estates and swarm towards the village to buy bargain brands. They return grinning, festooned in “designerware” (Burberry, Helly Hansen and TKMuck) ready for 10 pints, followed by a fight with a non-Caucasian.

Bicester Chavs can be seen prowling the high street, humming Sean Paul and Fifty Cent tunes with baseball hats akimbo and vomit-flecked pastel shirts. After two or three circuits, they will find a bus shelter to trash or car door to scratch with 5 carat bling.

Chavettes, recognised by shoals of acne and lollops of fat, sagging wherever gravity will allow, enjoy races. Once the thrill of trying to have sex at a younger age than their mothers (13/14) fades, they try to outdo their peers by being first to “miss their period”- until they realise that too many of them haven’t reached puberty. When Dwayne or Charmaine arrive, they start to half-heartedly apply the RSPCA A dog is for Life not Just for Christmas slogan to their situation. Unfortunately their boyfriends reverse it and leave to take their SATS exams.

Bicester Sights

Burger King and Little Chef on the ring road.

Community College situated ,appropriately, between Police Station and Magistrates Court. Modern building, peopled by chavscum, mismanaged by an octogenarian turkey, oblivious to reality. Cooper School slightly friendlier but equally dense yobs led by generally harmless teachers: the bland leading the blind.

Railway bridge.

Bicester dialect

Hello – c**t!
See you- f**k off!
Nice to see you- What the f**k are you staring at? Wanna make sumfing of it?

Emmington

This article has: 3 Comments

Emmington!… THE PLACE TO BE!

Emmington used to be a nice country lane until the dreaded Lots-of-money man moved in with his big ridiculously expensive modern house moved there! Its completely out of place and people around find the noise of his HELLICOPTER! Very disturbing… The people living opposite his house at Manor Farm find him extremely annoying!… There they are with their mini zoo of chickens, cockerels, ducks, & cats…. And there he is with his out of place blooming mansion!… The people at Manor Farm have a extremely humungous pond for the ducks & their many chicken houses but what really annoys them is that if Mr Perfect across the road sees a lovely little chicken on his precious land then he WILL shoot it! Selfish fool!
Off the subject of Mr Perfect its also found annoying to the lovely people at Manor Farm when random people just walk into their garden and set up a picnic. The result of this rudeness sometimes is that 15 year old anti Chav Angel and her friend end up having the last word! E.g. “Excuse me! GET OFF MY LAND! PISS OFF!” That got rid of them!
Quite funnily you also see horses riding up there little road “Emmington Only” and you think.. Wow that suit’s the scene then to notice they’ve got their hair slapped back wearing new Chav obsession Burberry… Also you’ll find their texting…
You have 20 walk about 3 miles to the closest shop Spar in Chinnor which is also A “Chav town” not that Emmington can be classed as a town though… If you do ever find yourself in Emmington drop in at Manor Farm for a picnic…

Bicester- Chavopolis

This article has: No Comments

BICESTER: A Townplanner’s Recipe for Accelerated Construction of a Chavopolis

Take one tiny Oxfordshire market town full of yokel inbreds and build a forlorn 1960s shopping precinct adjacent to a “traditional high street.” Add six characterless, featureless estates (hard to spot behind the satellite dishes and, from early October to January, the flashing neon Santas and sleighs) and fill with whitetrash, employed by local prisons and armed services. Leave to spawn- usually takes 3 minutes.

Improve “connections” by rail and motorway and stir in two appalling secondary schools and a woodbuilt “faux Scandinavian” retail outlet, misnamed Bicester Village. Fold in hundreds of trolley wallys, sales and marketing scum and a smattering of corpulent, f**kwit security staff. Decorate with ring-road , sprinkled with over-alloyed Renault 5s, Novas, Saxos and Puntos, complete with glittering neons and the dull thud of “my subs is badder than yours” competitions. The final touch is to threaten to house thousands of asylum-seekers within spitting distance (1500 metres for Bicester man) of the town. Leave ten minutes and wait for “Take –these-darky-wop-terrorist-f**kers-out-of-my –cesspit” placards to rise.

Bicester Customs

Each evening local scum will emerge from the estates and swarm towards the village to buy bargain brands. They return grinning, festooned in “designerware” (Burberry, Helly Hansen and TKMuck) ready for 10 pints, followed by a fight with a non-Caucasian.

Bicester Chavs can be seen prowling the high street, humming Sean Paul and Fifty Cent tunes with baseball hats akimbo and vomit-flecked pastel shirts. After two or three circuits, they will find a bus shelter to trash or car door to scratch with 5 carat bling.

Chavettes, recognised by shoals of acne and lollops of fat, sagging wherever gravity will allow, enjoy races. Once the thrill of trying to have sex at a younger age than their mothers (13/14) fades, they try to outdo their peers by being first to “miss their period”- until they realise that too many of them haven’t reached puberty. When Dwayne or Charmaine arrive, they start to half-heartedly apply the RSPCA A dog is for Life not Just for Christmas slogan to their situation. Unfortunately their boyfriends reverse it and leave to take their SATS exams.

Bicester Sights

Burger King and Little Chef on the ring road.

Community College situated ,appropriately, between Police Station and Magistrates Court. Modern building, peopled by chavscum, mismanaged by an octogenarian turkey, oblivious to reality. Cooper School slightly friendlier but equally dense yobs led by generally harmless teachers: the bland leading the blind.

Railway bridge.

Bicester dialect

Hello – c**t!
See you- f**k off!
Nice to see you- What the f**k are you staring at? Wanna make sumfing of it?

witney- oxfordshire

This article has: 6 Comments

EXCUSE ME i just wanna get at the fact that witney is NOT a chav town and who eva wrote that betta watch out yea ok fair enough witney does have chavs- just like evry town and witney mums are NOT slags and they dont race around welsh way car park, dey PARK their!!!!!! you lot p*ss me off big time slaggin us chavs off when who eva is writin da sh*t are just boring, jumped up d*ck heads . and that ‘bench’ ur on about outside adams u obviosly dont no nuttin so get ur facts straight 1st b4 u even start writin dat sorta sh*t!!!

Abingdon

This article has: 41 Comments

Abingdon – metaphorically like Oxford’s aggressive, ugly little brother that no one goes near, primarily for the fear that he will hurl abuse upon sight, steal your handbag, or even better, stab you. The reason no one does come here is because you are likely to have abuse hurled at you on sight, have you’re handbag stolen, or be stabbed. Those who have seen the Lord of the Rings trilogy will remember the presence of two of the evil Sauron’s outposts, Isengard and The Black Gates in Mordor. Like so with Abingdon, there are two outposts from which chavs pour, seemingly in their thousands. They are ‘Saxton Road’ and ‘The Peachcroft Estate’. Saxton Road in the south of the town and Peachcroft estate in the north – they rule the town with violence, aggression and general naughtiness. Interestingly, the chavs from these hives of filth are very different; I have spent the last few years observing them and can now reveal my results.

Saxton Road – inhabitants are termed ‘sakkies’ (sack-ies) and have been here since the dawn of time, way before those in Peachcroft, and are respectively bigger, stronger and older than their northern counterparts. These pleasant people inhabit a long road of council houses with a pub situated midway down. This establishment (the Saxton Arms – how original) has rarely been seen from the inside by the general public, as everyone is far too scared to go near it. When not stalking their home ground, the sakkies have been known to venture as far as Oxford, where they meet with their council house comrades from the Blackbird Leyes estate, who are, frankly, f**king terrifying.
Otherwise they can be found in McDonalds or the town centre, where they smoke, eat food and hit anyone dressed predominantly in black or with baggy trousers on. Usually seen in smaller groups of 2-3, the presence of a machete or gun in the trousers usually making up for the smaller numbers. I myself recently had an alarming run in with a group of these creatures. Myself and four friends had visited the Off license and had two carrier bags of alcohol…walking back to the park, we were taken completely by surprise by what appeared to be a stealth pincer movement attack conducted by two chavs on bikes. The bags were stolen simultaneously; needless to say we were taken completely unawares. This breed has reached a certain level of intelligence I feel to pose a threat, whereby they plan co-ordinated attacks. Also interesting to see the use of the bike as more than a mobile spitting platform.

N.B this breed has become scarcer of late, with a definite drop in numbers. I have been told this is because they are all in prison. Figures.

Peachcroft Estate – ‘Peachies’ This lot from the north of Abingdon are generally smaller, younger and move in large packs of anything from 4 upwards. However there are lots of them. I’ve suggested pest control, but the council is hesitant. This area is a newer estate and as a result can seem less grotty as houses are mostly respectable detached buildings. However, their chav inhabitants are equally dangerous. They never leave the surrounding area, as they have immediate access to a pub, Budgens, and a s**tty basketball court , as well as the Childs playground which they all sit in, like a large group of primates hanging off branches. 100% seriously, the pub has banned anyone from wearing Burberry clothing on the premises. It’s a step, but it’s not enough. Incidentally, the startling appearance of their tracksuits suggests some kind of deal has been cut with Daz.

The exception to the above is when, every Friday, all those who aren’t a) OD’ing in a curb b) in the back of a police car make the epic journey across town to the Nags head, where they lager themselves into a frenzy then beat each others heads in. As the Nags head is a nice pub, if you ignore the clientele, I often make my way down there. Exposure to this environment has lead to skin as thick as an elephant, and reflexes to rival a Jedi. The council has also refused the lease of council lightsabers for chav control purpose.

The only notable haunt of both species is Albert Park, a lovely open area where I grew up, running around, playing football, chatting with friends and being chased and beaten to a pulp. Past 6pm in the summer, this area is a no – go unless with a group of 20+. It was here that I was given my charming nickname of ‘f**king prick’ by which I am now known to these people by. Coming from a 5 foot, ginger kid with a squeaky voice, proudly astride his mothers bike; the only thing that stopped an appropriate response from me was the presence of a guy who looked like Mr. T’s white brother and a guy I could have sworn I saw on crime watch recently.

In conclusion: Never come here. ever.