I spent approximately fourteen years living in Grays before I escaped the the equally chavtastic Stirling so I’d hope that I would be somewhat of an expert on possibly the most hideous small town within the British Isles.
My parents, for their sins still live in this pit, and nothing prepares me for the horrors I face everytime I step off the platform at the train station.
The teenaged mother, clad in dirty white tracksuit bottoms complete with suspicious brown stains simultainiously juggling the buggy, the cigarette, and the can of Stella, whilst trading insults and the coarsest of language with her closest friends. You’ve got to admit the girl can multitask.
The unwashed drunken neanderthal lurking outside the jobcentre with the rest of his degenerate tribe, smoking his housing benefit and drinking his dole, craftily issued in yet another Stella can.
The cold dead eyes if the shoppers in the Eastgate centre, like extras in a George Romero film.
The English speaking world is aware that there are two Ts in the word better, but in Grays they pronounce neither of them.
They even gave the town the perfect name. Grays is grey. It’s buildings, it’s people, it’s future. It’s only the chavs that give it colour and interest. And only interesting in the way it’s kind of interesting to pick out the carrots in vomit.