It seems to me, dearly beloved, that the ‘chav’ is perceived as being an exclusively English phenomenon. Not so. Until such time as I can persuade my bishop that they be chemically castrated, they are regrettably alive and well even this far north of the border. Having said that, it’s so very cold up here that their miserably shrivelled neep and tatties quite probably aren’t up to the job in any case.
However, that notwithstanding, it would appear that there is some sort of ‘chav factory’ somewhere where they are assembled by knuckle dragging specimens of humanity only one step up the food chain from themselves. Baseball cap? Check. Bottle of Buckfast? Check. Tracky bottoms? Check. Blade? Check. Of course, I use the term ‘chav’ very loosely here, as a catch all term for any wee scrotum of vicious pre pubescent knobless spuff balls who haven’t even done it with their equally savage female counterparts and probably won’t ever get the opportunity so to do, albeit a decidedly dubious privilege though that may be.
My children, I used to spread my seed amogst the good burghers of Market Rasen in Lincolnshire and was regularly reminded by their own graffiti of the ‘Market Rasen posse.’ Sad, really. Particularly as I carry a .357 Magnum under my cassock at all times in case of any unpleasantness with the aforesaid market town bloods, ‘chillin’ out with moi homies, moi lovely.’ A more fearsome coterie of straw chewing wurzels on crack I simply cannot imagine.
Until some years later I migrated north to Aberdeenshire, that is. Goodness gracious me, is all I can say. My word, but yes. A more debased degradation of human society one would be hard pressed – as was the good Dr Livingstone – to find. Indeed, I see my role here as a missionary for civilisation; that is, until last week when one of the natives took it upon himself to ‘pop a cap’ in my ‘big ol’ white ass, ken.’ Of course, I laughed it off at the time and invited the dear little chap into my vestry for tea and crumpets on the condition that he desist forthwith from referring to me as ‘Ken.’ ‘Big Man’ would be just the ticket. ‘Aye, man, whatever.’
Oh yes, my brethren, ‘chavs’ are people too, I reflected warmly, as I was taken off the intensive care ward and the boys in blue recovered from the fellow’s crack den the church silverware with which he appeared to have inadvertently burdened himself. Bless.
Go in peace. And if you’re a chav – or, as they say up here, a ned – then preferably as far away as possible.