Chesham; situated somewhere in the arse end of nowhere, yet strangely within the miserable London commuting belt, represents Buckinghamshire’s puss filled boil of middle class suburbia. Priding itself on housing a diverse and multicultural society, comprising all manner of colours, creeds, religions, shapes and sizes, Chesham is perhaps analogous with a box of McVities misshapes. It could in fact be argued that the bog standard Cheshamite is a Darwinism defying breed all of its own, but which has evolved by some inexplicable means. This being given, it requires only the most creative of minds to cognitively invent an image of the Chesham Chav – the as yet un-breached plateau of cuntishness.
It is a congregation almost solely of lawless Chavs, both white and Asian alike that exists on the cobbled high street – this being the centre of misdemeanours. Those Chavs making all too premature bids for drinking establishments can be found loitering in alleyways with ‘fags’ and horse-manure role ups (which they were convincingly sold as high quality joint material), consuming low-grade-high-sugar-content alcopops with aggressive reverence. It is the aged folk especially that fall foul of these teenaged reprobates (although sadly enough over-aged Chavs act in the same juvenile manner), as well as anyone who provides any kind of positive input into this turgid ecosystem of pond life.
With the generally celebrated closure of the town’s one and thankfully only nightclub, the outpouring of older Chavish inebriates from various dives during the pub closer mass exodus, gives rise to the inevitable street bound spillage of blood from ‘wife-beater’ fuelled arguments. Police line up around the high street (believe me, there is little else to the centre) with armoured vehicles from early evening for a quick whisking away of the Chavishly aggressive. They’re not shy of the common glassing or even the odd knifing incident here, oh no. The glorious park is a particularly favourite spot for such etiquette, where the pudding-brained Chav might gleefully cast their broken bottles in communal areas, much to the pleasure of young children and animals.
Recognition of the Chav population is no difficulty, they display the same universal uniformity; white Nike tracky bottoms, Ben Sherman shirts, Burberry caps at jaunty angles (imperative to the look – jauntiness of angle denotes level in Chav hierarchy). Not to forget the fat young Chavettes, who are soon-to-be Chav baby manufacturing plants, who admiringly and egg on their bright-spark male counterparts, who are almost certainly closely related.
A terrible shame it is, that Chesham provides refuge to these slag heaps of s**t bogey residue, but such is the dual personality of this otherwise serene townscape.