I decided to take a short day trip outside of London and determined that a nice day could be spent exploring the town of Arundel with its historic castle and wild foul sanctuary. Little did I know, but this sleepy hamlet is prime C**v territory!
Since the castle (and its grounds) was closed on Saturday, I immediately felt like a big twat for dragging my mates down to Arundel. After walking about for a while, we decided to eat a quick lunch at one of Arundel’s fine locals. Immediately I entered the C**v-zone. I should have known better, from the loud “Oi Wayne, ‘av youse seen tha knockas on Jordan!” that this was going to be ‘a roit propa local. Inside the pub C***s (all called Wayne) enjoyed Stellas, footy, and chavettes with tattoos of butterflies on their lower back. Outside, four, rail-thin Scallys worked on their sunburn while donning Asda Burberry knock-offs.
One bloke in particular caught our attention. The seeming leader of the locals prattled on about his trip to Germany to watch some of the cup (or just be a hooligan in Nuremberg). “I wuz drivin me Corsa fru ‘Ollan an’ does Frenchies was tryin ta stop me from gettin propa pissed in me ride!” he said. “Den deys wuz tellin me dat I was some bloke called Geoff, can yous beleaf dat s***e?!” His mobile rang at that moment (of course with the obligatory grime ring tone) and he had to stop his conversation. His c******e (with nose ring, tattoo and FUPA (fat upper pubic area) hanging over her too-tight jeans, moaned “Wayne, oo is callin’ youse? Is it dat bitch Tina?!”
The c***s left to watch more footy and were replaced by 3 tattoed oafs and a slaggy American woman. The c***s guzzled stella and cider (what else!) and the American screamed about the Isle of Wight festival where she had had every orifice stuffed six ways from Sunday by a troop of Aussies. “Oh my God, it was AMAZING!” she screamed, “I love English accents, you all sound SOOOOO smart!” The c***s laughed and said “yeah we is innit!” The American then yaked loudly on one of their mobiles to some other yank about Newcastle and “isn’t it like, right near London!?”
We took our leave at this point and walked back toward the train station. Icecream sounded good at this point and we walked into a small shop filled to the brim with C***s sporting hair shaved in the shape of the In-ker-lan flag, they looked the business, innit.
Tired with their icecreams, the Geezas left to roam the streets and harass a pensioner from Germany who made the mistake of ‘talkin’ foreign ‘ere in In-ker-lan!” We exited to the train station just as Wayne, Wayne and Tina were explaining to the confused oldster that “‘e should be supportin’ In-ker-lan”.