I last visited this town 10 years ago, quite a nice quaint backwater sort of place.
Last week was a different story. I would say that the Chavs were in such abbundance that surely other chav watchers in towns around the UK noticed a slight reduction of numbers in their town. THEY WERE ALL HERE. Wandering around in their familygroups of slackjawed, dog wealding, Burberry wearing idiots with skin conditions that eating meat with animals faces pictured on it can only give you. Blocking up the pavements as they gazed in amazement at the plastic tat on sale everywhere munching on foot long hotdogs. I even overheard one group saying how they would like to give it all up back home and come and run a Waltzer ride just like the one the p****s were running by the beach.
Driving north from Barmouth the sheer scale of Chav encroachment is breathtaking. Whilst stuck behind a chav-a-van being towed by a 1982 sierra estate, you can observe miles and miles of Chav Camps and caravan parks as far as the eye can see. The main road littered with those single storied concrete n brick pubs that only chavs would hang out in whilst drinking pints of weak Skol lager. A visit to Shell Island further north is to look into the very jaws of hell itself. After driving past hordes of chav families trying to catch crabs off the causeway at low tide, you drive into a tented chav wasteland, the sound of frying fills the air, Human excrement is piled up under every bush. The beach is crowded with Chavs drinking cider and Skol, by fires of burning plastic rubbish, listening to that boody awful ‘The Streets’ song over and over.
What was it that George Orwell said?