KentSouth East

Faversham. Or, as it’s become affectionately known, Chaversham. Home of the ****. Hell to anyone who possesses an IQ above 35.

Here, the main industries are beer brewing, and fish and chip shops. Both of these treats make up a bulky part of the average ****’s evening. The town centre becomes unapproachable after 5:30pm, with the last daring shoppers scurrying home quickly, lest they be mugged. While Faversham has a healthy **** population in the town by day, in the evening this increases tenfold, to the sound of “alwight?” and “fancy a fish n chips?” Usually chugging White Lightening, and some still wearing their scruffy shirts from one of the schools nearby, these are the the younger breed of ****… like those scrappy little dogs that their mothers own, they are all bark and no bite. What a bark, though. The indignant shout of one of the youth *****, complaining about the baseball cap which has been whisked off his head by a mischievous friend, has been known to reach 130 decibels.

Faversham town centre belongs to these ***** until 7:30pm, when there is a suddenly a mass exodus home, to catch EastEnders. 90% of their conversations at school tomorrow will be about this show, and to miss it is social suicide. This is a lesson that Danni, now a low-ranking ****, learnt the hard way.

For five minutes, Faversham is safe. And then, with a succession of “I’m goin’ ooot” and the slam of cheap plywood doors, the next wave of **** arrives. These are the ones you don’t want to mess with. To insult one of them is to insult their family, and some of them have mighty big families. They must have at least 3 items of heavy gold jewellery showing, or there is a chance they will be mistaken for an outsider, and jumped upon outside the local Tesco cashpoint. For most of these *****, simply loitering around the pedestrian roundabout with a package of greasy chips [and copious amounts of vinegar] is considered a good night out. ***** also court each other here, with the most popular chat-up line being; “Scuse me, what time do yer legs open?”

A slightly richer breed of **** will crave something more, however, and at 9pm, about 10% of the **** population leap into their modified cars and careen over to “The Biz” nightclub, where they hope to get high off some of the discarded needles usually scattered on the grass outside. The night isn’t considered a success unless at least one fight is started.

Beware Faversham. Beware its grimy streets, and its filthy shops. But most of all, beware the *****. They have made this place their home, and they don’t want any outsiders changing that.

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