While there are many places on the outskirts of the town that seem to have escaped the fake-designer fallout that blankets the city centre, it must be remembered that these are properly reffered to as “towns other than Barnsley”.
My own partner hails from the town and marked herself out as something special by fleeing the place and making a new home in Sheffield as soon as the opportunity presented itself. Others were not so lucky and still suffer to this day.
Formerly a traditional little collection of buldings upon a hill that was used as a landmark by the Luftwaffe during WW2 to bomb the s**t out of the other communities in the area that produced something useful to the war effort and thus unscathed by the airborne bombardment, Barnsley city centre was nonetheless demolished wholsesale by the city council after the war and replaced with a soulless and bleak concrete wasteland.
It is in this environment that the Chavs come out to play.
On a typical night out one can bear witness to the fact that these sportswear-clad louts are animals by the fact that they roam from one pub to another in packs, never staying for more than one alcopop before knuckling off in the direction of the next. One can only presume that they never stay to savour the company and conversation of their companions due to the fact that they have to find new innocent bystanders to accuse of staring at their barely hominid partners or groups of men wearing anything but knock-off sportswear whom they can accuse of being “poofs”.
Someone somewhere is trying very hard to improve the city centre’s image, but sadly this seems to be wasted on the massed Chavs. There are nice modern bars, which the Chavs are dettered by, but when they flock to the pub called “Livingstone’s” complete with its jungle decor and tribal masks upon the walls, that they are without a clue as to the significance as the bouncers drag their innert form outside and toss them into the gutter.
Perhaps the most amusing experience I have ever had in a Barnsley pub whilst ordering a round in the faux-Irish tavern. Like most it had famous literary quotes painted on the beams below the ceiling in an attempt to look smart. My eyes fell upon: “There’s no such thing as a free lunch” – Anon. I pointed out to the barman that those words belonged to Mark Twain, in response to which he shrugged and shuffled off.
Perhaps that reaction best sums up the worst of Barnsley city centre and its resident Chavs: Dunno, dun’t f***in care neither.