Never mind bumfights, for chavfights come to the waterside gardens of sunny Brentford, home of Brentford FC and more burberry caps than are strictly necessary….
Brentford, Middlesex, is a riverside town well known for its Arts Centre, a football team, a number of pubs, a legendary Griffin, and being the former home of the writer Robert Rankin, who recently said he wouldn’t live there now.
On a recent visit I could see why he wouldn’t.
The riverside path was infested by a large group of c***s, both sexes, all clutching lager tins and arguing very loudly about something, the kind of argument that could turn very nasty and you don’t want to be there when it does.
Later on I went into the council estate bit of Brentford and wished I hadn’t. C***s and neds were on every corner: the knockoff sportsgear, the vulgar jewelery, the baseball caps, some even in the Burberry check, and of course the perennial favourite: unhealthy-looking teenage couples snogging frantically in driveways. All this in mid-afternoon, I add.
I pedalled swiftly away to the relative safety of the extremely grotty Brentford High Street. Brentford is supposed to be up and coming – all I can detect is some very ugly new developments along the Kew Bridge Road, the flattening of the Plough pub for yet another development, and a terrible c**v infestation.