Do ***** emerge from the sea and then infest the poor sod’s inland? We seem to have the same problem as Southampton, but being a smaller town, Chaville exposes itself in a clearer light.

Exactly the same features, habits and even locations within the town are populated by these brainless scrotes and their ******* – innit? Precinct, McD’s, council footpaths with illegal motorised hair dryers. The green ears and fingers from the false gold creases me. Whats with these ******** bloaters in leggings? Don’t they have mirrors – or friends?

And where do they get the money for the mainly illegal extra bright lights under the vintage cars, I presume they are there to make running repairs at any time, day or night! They speed along the sea front and screech tyres in the car parks. I have a renewed respect for the Police in Hastings – they are confiscating illegal cars and crushing them. The trouble is the ***** are back down the scrap yard and starting another project – do we look bovvered?

There have always been plebs, but this Chavism has taken it all to a higher plain – Lord hear us, Lord graciously hear us.

Penchant for Burberry, Elizabeth Duke and Mackie D’s? Mum on disability, Step-Dad on the dole? Brother in Youth Offenders and little Sister knocked up? Wanna **** up grannies, scare little kids, vandalise bus shelters, intimidate shop staff, laugh at teenagers suitably expressing themselves through alternative fashions and advanced music tastes?

If so, we need YOU, the urban animal referred to as ‘****’, to take part in the terrifying social experiment that is Hastings. Situated by the sea, Hastings is the perfect domicile for work-shy, drug addicted, ‘trackie’ wearing ********** of all ages…. and it is to be feared.

A visitor’s first encounter with the ‘****’ will undoubtedly be on the train. Just after you pass either Bexhill or Battle the atmosphere on the train begins to change. Gone are the suit-clad commuters with their rustling papers and worn out faces, and lo, the train is inundated with **** beings dressed in white, garishly attired with huge ‘gold’ items, invariably wearing baseball caps, possibly drunk, generally thick and always loud. Naturally they fear they will be recognised for the low-lying, uneducated **** they are, so they retaliate in the only way they know how, by advertising the fact. If you escape onto the platform without your sexuality being called into question, you are one of the hallowed few.

Take a trip down Havelock road past the Wetherspoons and you will see that an older generation of the **** resides there. Most notably you can identify this establishment by the blood on the steps and the generally unintelligible shouting from inside – should you venture in you will undoubtedly be engaged in a drunken conversation re. f*****g hippies/asylum seekers/students etc.. nod and agree.

Walking through the town centre you will encounter the youths of this phenomenon, smoking ‘lights’, mimicking the John Wayne swagger and spitting to impress their spotty, greasy-haired over made up ‘*******’. You will feel an overwhelmingly violent desire to attack – refrain, the mums are just inside the pub waiting to defend their innocent little babies and will think nothing of accusing you of perversion and paedophilia should they see you.

Finally, it is best to stay locked up your hotel room at night – those that venture out risk their sanity and their property.

Walking along a typical pavement, you see the evidence of the beasts they call the ‘****’. along the avenues and sidewalks of Hastings we find the evidence of a serious **** habitat. littered around are empty packs of “Mayfair Tens Mate”, maybe, even “Sov-wins” (Sovereign Cigarettes to normal people)…we are clearly dealing with many sorts of *****.

in probably the chaviest town in the United Kingdom, your entrance by train is a sombre one. once you have clamoured through the urine soaked carriages where ***** have left their territorial marks; you find yourself greeted by a pack of wild ***** as you walk along the newly refurbished platforms of the station. here, these ***** gather in groups like hyenas, all of them laughing and staring in sincere astonishment that not everybody wears cheap, tacky shellsuits. walking past a group of wild *****, one is continually bombarded with highlu pitched squeals of “fweek”, “oi bruv-can i av’ a faaaag?” or even “oi pwick…innit” when you graciously decline the offer of giving this bone-idle beast a fruit of your hard labor.

upon leaving the station, at every bus stop, every crevis and every shop front, you are deluged by these rabid monstrous apparitions…haunting, taunting and annoying you without reprise. everywhere, the evidence of the ***** remains…’tags’ left by young male ***** are to be seen on most bus stops, and again, empty packs of “Mayfair tens” and “Sov-wins” collect in the gutters and along the sides of the pavement.

on the way back to your humble abode, you may find that you fancy something like say, a few beers-or maybe some snacks for your friends when you have them round. you walk into the most chavved supermarket known to any man, woman or child…ever. this is…Safeways on the Queens Road. walking into the supermarket, one gets that waft of the **** smell…usually “Burberry Brut/Weekend” or one of the other cheap aftershaves like “****” (which although numbered, come in colours so that the hapless average **** who is usually dumber than several planks of wood can distinguish between the ‘sweet’ one and the ‘rufffff’ one…innit). one finds themselves surrounded by *****. here, instincts take over. you check that you’ve got your wallet or phone still on you as you get to the end of every aisle. you see these hideous beasts with mad eyes looking around nervously for a moment to ****** anything. to a ****, stealing something has somewhat of a kudos symbol. i have witnessed ***** knicking cartons of milk, which, i am sure you’ll agree; makes you very cool. so, you make your way to the alcohol aisle where you spot a group of young ***** looking around anxiously-hoping they’ll get served. they approach you and muffle out in their animal voices something like “ere’, bruv-you couldn’t buy us this cider/vodka*…we’ll give ya like fifty ‘p’ mate”…once your roaring laughter stops and you realise they’re being serious, you kindly tell them to swing from the highest tree-only to be deluged by a barrage of ‘insults’ questioning your sexuality mainly-or somekind of comment about ‘your mum’. even the shop assisstants are *****. the girls dripping in cheap 9c gold argos jewellry, the guys have got some stupid hairstyle-and/or have hilarious bum-fluff which they grow so it makes them look old enough to buy alcohol.

of course, i have abated the nightlife so far. i shall ellucidate further the diabolical situation that hastings is in…when night falls, *****-older ***** come out from under their rocks. you can spot older ***** by several pointers. the women are wearing ‘*******’ clothes, have common and high pitched wails for voices. the guys have highly gelled hair, smell of cheap aftershave and cigarettes, usually have one really pointless earing and wear really bad shirts generally purchased from the local ‘officers club’…classy. they ‘collect’ initially in pubs like Yates and Wetherspoons-however, generally at this point these ***** are strangely bearable and quite courteous. it is like cindarella or the gremlins…past ten O’Clock these seemingly bearable ***** turn into grusome, common and really annoying super-*****. of course, they do not go to the crypt (the local decent club)…they all filter off down to the ****’s paradise of a nightclub: ‘Waves’…one pub to avoid at all costs if ***** are of a particular disgust to you is the ‘Havelock’…here is where right-wing racist patriots and their slapped-up tramps of girlfriends go for a not-so-quiet drink. these ***** are seemingly more ignorant than normal ***** (if that is at all possible), and can be identified by their insistence to wear an England football shirt-and their ear-shattering loud and common voices.

Hastings is in dire straits. the **** *********** is so severe that it threatens the very fabric of Hastings’ society. year upon year, these animals breed further and further. the places where to collect grow more and more. their common voices get louder and louder. their eye-sore clothing and penis-extending cars become more and more prominent. the angles of their caps only get nearer and nearer to 90 degrees. their cheap and tacky clothing makes its way into shops where normal people buy their clothes. every town is witnessing this type of ***********…but none more-so than poor Hastings.

I really cannot believe that there is no entry for this fair borough on the site already. You ask where the ***** hang out. They are literally everywhere.

The only explanation I can think of is that the town has been completely taken over and that there are only about five of us non-***** in deep cover. Of course we are being regenerated. In Hastings this means putting up buildings and we already have a massively expensive new railway station. Getting off the train last night I was greeted by the sight of 4 ***** who conformed to every stereotype you could ever think of. If it was not for the fact that they were plainly too dim to know what irony meant, I would have supposed that was the explanation. They took over the new station within a day of opening. They never actually go anywhere as their horizons are far too limited.

Go into a pub in this town wearing a collar and tie and looking as if you have been working and in the better ones you will get the full “American Werewolf in London” treatment. In the rougher ones you probably not survive. A colleague who grew up in Handsworth, Birmingham said it was the most scary place she had ever had a night out.

Go out shopping at the weekend and it is bad enough with the usual four generations of educational sub-normality spread across the aisle or pavement in front of you. On a weekday it is even worse. It is truly scary. Every person you see seems to be symptomatic of some major social problem and they are all breeding like rabbits, despite the fact that in many cases the huge ******* female bellies look as if they would serve as an effective barrier method of contraception.

A final note. I saw that the dry cleaners had closed today. Is this symptomatic of the march of chavdom? Probably, after all shell suits don’t need the service and that is what the vast majority of the population from 2 to 102. Chavdom knows no generational boundaries here and they do not grow out of it.

Original Submission by Lorcan

Funnily enought, I was home from uni for a few weeks and was (for some unearthly reason) actually looking forward to a few days by the sea……..
Then I parked up, took a quick look in the rear view and what do I see, but 2 ***** in matching white trackies (a bit scouse me thinks?), pristine white trainers, peaked burbury caps (fake, chequered) and each with one trouser leg tucked into their socks

“awwwww mate….Kwalaeeeeeee…….got da fiddy album dan St Andrews market”

“faaaaaaaaaaaaaaaak dat mate, jus get Kev ta do ya a copieeee”

For anyone who lives there, or has the misfortune to get lost in this veritible paradise, you may have noticed the older ***** tend to gather on the benches in the shopping centre, about 30 ****** ****** with room temperature IQ’s, sitting around smoking their ‘bean’ and staring out the goths who also congregate there

The younger ***** tend to gather anywhere (particularly outside McDonalds), but you can be sure that if they are under 18 (visibly so), then they will sit around on whatever is available and pass around a blue WKD or white lightning between about 10 of them and make insulting gestures to people passing by

Ah, evenings in Hastings, the time when the Hastings **** can crack out that lovely new chequered shirt from topman and the new reebok classics to impress the scantilly clad ******** of his desire.
The ***** will usually start off in ‘spoons’ or ‘Yates’s” before bowling it down to ‘Waves’ for a night of drum’n’bass, r’n’b and speed garage – the club had to change its name from the G-spot to Waves because of repeated ‘bottling’ incidents in the male toliets, thus losing the proprieter their license.
In fact, Waves is such a **** magnet that the police don’t bother spreading out on a Fri/Sat night, they just park up outside the entrance here.

Before I forget, I should really mention the delightful arcades on the seafront, this area really is just downright nasty. Imagine row upon row of garish establishments that light up at night like a gay carnival and you are on the right track.
They also offer fruit machines outside of the ‘over 18’s only section’ for the young **** gambler (getting them hooked young I guess)

Not to mentioned the new breed of boy racers who are not yet old enough to drive and so insist on speeding it around on their 25cc mopeds at about 11pm (It sounds like an army of angry lawnmowers)