Brent Cross. I went there in the midst of having Penumonia – I’m not proud of this; I was bored shitless. I was a coughing, pasty, heaving wreck. Suffice to say I fitted in quite well and even looked one of the more upstanding visitors that day.
For those that don’t know, Brent Cross is a smeared turd of JJB-Mall-type-shops and warehouses ground into the cracks between the various motorway junctions and flyovers of West London. The main flora of the area seems to be sun faded crisp packets. In other words, a perfect sinkhole for attracting Ne’er-do-wells in Dawn of the Dead fashion.
I have some Chav pedigree myself originating from Staines and living in Hatfield for three years, but never have I come across such a bunch of sallow, insipid and depressing beings. Let me introduce you to some the local denizens. 11 year old B&H smoker in a denim micro-skirt screeching about getting fucked. Scrape back tracky trash mother *punching* her push-chair bound toddler in the stomach in an effort to get him to STOP CRYING… kids eh, what can you do? Any number of white sock tucked in, cap wearing baggy terry towling scrotes looking to chaw their next pair of reebok classics. Disinterested, gum chewing, cross armed saturday girls in dirty and litter strewn shops – no, as you were – that is just the merchandise being kicked around the floor.
I can’t remember precisely where these characters were hanging out. Partially because I was ill and partially because they were hanging from every railing, stairway, bin, seat and bog in the place. A leering, spitting and of course cider fuelled batch of reptiles; ever seen Gremlins, now you know where Joe Dante the director got his inspiration from.
By the time I had queued 45 minutes to get out of the assortment of ‘Pimp my ride’ Corsas and Novas car park I felt much better. Despite the fact I was going home to Aylesbury.