Built in the shadow of a large chemical factory, the cloud of violently toxic air around Billingham may explain the disproportionate number of chavs in such a small town. They breed in a corner of John Whitehead Park and pop out of little eggs that have a Fila logo on the side. Even the dogs are chavs in Billingham.
There isn’t a lot to keep you amused in Billingham, save nurturing violent tendencies and plopping out broken, scruffy chavfants all year round. Several large estates centered around a slurry-grey broken beer crate of a town centre, opportunities for chavish pursuits are rife – there isn’t anywhere to *get* a job so what’s to distract them from spending your dole in the amusement arcades whilst slurping on Greggs pasties and menacing old ladies. Bless em.
The introduction of Heroin in the early nineties brought with it the evolution of the Chav who had to get out of bed in the morning to feed his habit. Their ghoulish presence around the Town Centre makes a trip to Woolworths an experience akin to waking up as an extra in ‘Zombie Flesh Eaters’. Even their grey little progeny stare fixedly at your wallet whilst rubbing pastie into their tracksuit bottoms.
The chavettes are rarely distinguishable from their male counterparts, sporting the same sportswear, caps and argos ‘gold’. However, more advanced chavthropologists may spot the giveaway Winnie the Pooh tattoo or smaller ‘lady’ knife.
Don’t go to Billingham if you can help it. It may cause such a profound depression that you may never recover.