Written by Anonymous.

Crawley is an outcrop of the Surrey Chavtowns inserted unceremoniously up the backside of West Sussex. A “new town” (ie London dross dump), the highest concentration of chav abodes are in Broadfield and Bewbush, marked by the ancient fag-burned, urine (and god knows what else) stained sofas and leatherette armchairs (not to mention rusty clapped out washing machines) littering the front gardens (long since devoid of grass and now used by the canine inhabitant, probably called Tyson, and possibly by the resident Kev or Trace as a latrine). The hard-faced muvvas (hair pulled back into an over-gelled pony-tail) prance up the road, fag in mouff, pushing little Tyrone or Chantelle in their buggies up to get the giro, swearing every time their little charges (who at most are only 15 years younger than themselves) dare to open their mouths. Sometimes they have one of each colour! Bless!
Of an evening it’s off to Ikon Diva or Brannigans, to line the pockets of the local drug dealers and for Kev and Trace to indulge in the local mating ritual – “Jew wanna?” “Yeah,lets fuhk.” Before heading off to the alleys (or just the bonnets of the cars in the car park) to pursue the magic of procreation. If Trace is being particularly careful she’ll pull out of her handbag a mega-pack of condoms and select one for Kev (which she’ll apply orally) and leave dangling (after) from an appropriate vantage point (the car aerial?) for all to witness their 5 seconds of passion. Trace will be sporting her loveliest kit – usually with skin tight top and three-quarter skin tight trouser bottoms, not meeting at the mid-riff so that the tasteful belly-button piercing (you know, the one that matches the nose-stud) is visible between the rolls of McDonalds enhanced fat wobbling over her waistband. Kevs, the slack-jawed, vacant-eyed knuckle-draggers will have tanked up for the evening and be ready to impress Trace will their bravado – shouting “Wachoo lookin at?” at anything on two legs which their drug/alcohol addled sight perceives as a threatening male, just itching to steal their chosen Trace away from them.
Their chosen shopping venue is County Mall – chav-central on a Saturday, where scared shoppers from the more genteel outlying areas of that part of Sussex scurry past the mobile-wielding, Burberry-enclosed chavs and chavettes on their way to the relative safety of Debenhams. The food hall is particularly chav-infested, with eagle-eyed Kevs trying to impress their Trace-of-the-moment with the fact that they can see superman painted in the sky-scene adorning the ceiling (yes, it’s true) while they linger over their burgers and cokes before hunting out the dealers at the bus station.
An adventurous chav or chavette will venture up the chav-corridor (A23) to “Rediw” (Redhill, chavs being congenitally unable to pronounce a solitary H in the middle of a word or a double-L), the nearest similarly infested chav-town for a night out, and of course beating up the local chavs who have the bad taste to live in Rediw rather than Crawley. They will then return to Crawley for a spot of TWOC’ing or to drive their customized vehicles (complete with blue-light under the car and/or lights on the caps of the air-valves on their wheels) around the town. Then it’s off to get their latest fix from the car park by the cinema. God Crawley really is the butt-end of Sussex. I HATE IT!



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