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 Chav-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 Chavs (all called Wayne) enjoyed Stellas, footy, and chavettes with tattoos of butterflys 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 local chavs prattled on about his trip to Germany to watch some of the cup (or just be a hooligan in Nuremberg). “I wuz drivin me Ford Fiester 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 shite?!” His mobile rang at that moment (of course with the obligatory gar-ige ring tone) and he had to stop his conversation. His chavette (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 Tiner?!”
The chavs left to watch more footy and were replaced by 3 tattoed oafs and a slaggy American woman. The chavs 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 chavs laughed and said “yeah we is innit!” The American then yaked loudly on one of the chavs mobiles to some other yank slag 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 Chavs sporting hair shaved in the shape of the Inklan 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 Inklan!” We exited to the train station just as Wayne, Wayne and Tina were explaining to the confused oldster that “‘e should be supportin Inklan”