Crewe – A sceptic spot six inches up the arsehole of England
According to the tourist board, Crewe is a beautiful historic town set in the southern lowlands of Cheshire, with a rich heritage in the rail industry, an association that continues until today. That’s the bullshit. If you want the reality, visit the place. Or rather, dont. Not unless you are sick of life, or have a morbid desire to see God’s humour at his worst; for if he created the world in six days and rested on the Sabbath, then he awoke with a hangover Monday morning and in a fit of foul temper created Crewe.
It’s a septic spot six inches up the arsehole of England, and its association with the railway is a few declining carriage building companies, and too much rail traffic. As for beautiful, it’s the sort of beauty to be found after a particularly nasty car accident.
I don’t claim that Crewe invented Chavs, but it certainly had them before anyone else. I’ve worked her for four years, and the first impression I had of the town’s youth were a bunch of unkempt, foul mouthed, short haired rodents, all identically dressed in baseball caps, sports tops and trackie bottoms, tucked into a white sock. Yes, just the one – it is possible to lower an already appalling standard. I had just moved from Basingstoke, (and spent some time in Chatham before then) and there were no Chavs then.
England should count itself lucky. Unlike urban areas such as Bournemouth, which seamlessly blends into the adjoining towns of Poole and Chrsichurch, Crewe town has definite boundaries. Whether by chance or foresight, Crewe is encompassed by green fields and rail lines, which effectively isolate the festering dung heap from the rest of the world.
The down side, much like isolated rural communities, is the considerable in-breeding that arises from a restricted breeding pool, which in turn leads to a somewhat shallow gene pool. Shallow? Its so shallow it would have problems dampening a liquorice rizla paper. All Crewe-born males share the same look; short cropped hair, a rotund florid face, sagging belly, and arms akimbo as though carrying jerry cans of water. They don’t talk much, either. Given a few more generations, we will understand the missing link, as Crewe-man regresses from the the Neanderthal age to Cro-Magnon Man.
Crewe-chav is younger version, differing only in the belly (it is apparent only on the mature male of the species) and the dress; pound stretchers and Wilkos don’t stock jeans. They can be found inhabiting the town center on a Saturday, roaming in small packs around the dilapidated town center and the indoor market. Once a week, there is a forced migration to the Law Courts; for Thursday is Kiddie Court day. If everyone gets 15 minutes of stardom, these wannabe “ganstas” are getting repeat fees. Same day, same faces, same offences. The same tired litany of rat faced scum in fake-fashion clothing and “bling-bling” accessories; accompanied by half-pissed school-age girls resplendent in micro skirt and halter top and the inevitable “Croydon-facelift” hair style. The mating calls of “Becka…. Becka yer slag, Gissa shag”. The type-like aggression displayed to any unfamiliar male face that might compete for female attention- “watchalookingatknobhead” (though anyone who fancied chatting up one of these tarts is either desperate or needs their f*****g head examined. I don’t care to speculate on what diseases they have, but I’m bloody sure you cant shots for it, or if medical science has even encountered it before). The obligatory stolen mobile, and phone calls to non-existent mates “biggin up” their latest criminal exploit. You can always discern between those calls that are real, and those that are not; the real conversations are prefixed with “can ya call me back, I aint got no fuckin credit have I”. The car-fixation, taking some scrap-heap reject and spending the last of their dole money or the contents of their parents’ (singular) meter money on adding a ridiculous exhaust and/or the brashest audio head unit stocked in Argos.
I’d take you on a guided tour, but to be frank there is nothing worth seeing. Read the other articles on this site, and substitute “Crewe” for name of that town/estate. Consider this; at this point in time, house prices in the UK are at an all time high, and Crewe makes the national news for having the most affordable house prices in the UK. It doesn’t take the brains of an archbishop to work out why. If house prices are low, its’ because there is no demand to live there! A friend looked outside her window one day, and witnessed a man dragging himself along the street, leaving a trail of blood from a leg that was almost severed at the thigh. Apparently that was the outcome of a drugs dispute. No ambulance, no police follow up. Says it all.
If are unfortunate enough to find yourself in Crewe on a Friday or Saturday night and not a member of the Extreme Sports Club, then console yourself that God hates you. Once you’ve dealt with that, take a stroll to the “Nanni Road”.
There are some nice pubs (The Lion, typical “local”, rough and ready, but refreshingly Chav free. It isnt “bling” enough for them. And they know they’d get a kicking for venturing inside). But rodentus juvenus can be found in The Barrel. Pausing only long enough to change the school skirt and top for an even shorter skirt and more revealing top, chav girl makes this her first (of three) stops for the night. If, for whatever perverse reason, you fancy pulling a bit of jail bait, its easy. Just revise this years GCSE syllabus and you can help with the homework afterwards. The one and only time I ever ventured in there I recognized every face, from dropping my teenage stepdaughter off at school.
From The Barrel, venture into Clancy’s ‘nightpub’. By 10pm it’s packed tit to tit, with Chav girl on the dance floor and Chav boy watching from the edge. Or, if they can’t get in here, venture into the town center – devoid of nightlife except for the one solitary club. And it’s the most godawful s******e I have ever had the bad misfortune to be in. Dress code is non-existent, “clean” is optional. A mixed clientele of mutton dressed as lamb, and lamb aspiring to be mutton. Ask for a whole pint in here, or any drink that costs over £3, and you’ll immediately marked as rich. Which means very female (I use the term loosely) develops a sudden interest in you (the small talk is limited to “gonna buy me a drink then… wanna take me home”) whilst every male wants to mug you. Hint; do not take a wallet in here. Put notes and coins in separate pockets, and under no circumstances produce a £20 unless you have a death wish. Fights are frequent, and stabbings the norm. Merseyside Police use this spot as a operational testing ground for recruits on the riot control course.
But back to our darling chavs. Like most northerners, Kev and Tracy go their separate ways at the start of the night, meeting up later in the evening. That’s the plan. The reality is that Kev inevitably kicks off and is carted off by local plod. Tracey shrugs and meets up with some other Kev for her third stop off – one her back somewhere – and tries to remember if she took her pill or not. Probably not, given that Crewe has the highest school-girl pregnancy rate in Britain, and a single-mother population higher than any other area in the UK. The STD rate is bloody high, with Chlamydia a prevalent disease. I guess ‘condom’ is too big a word for them.
The local council is spending several million [trying] to improve the image of the town. There is a cheaper alternative; former Soviet nuclear munitions are available on the black market. Drop the bomb and carry on. Either that, or win the eternal gratitude (and votes) of the decent majority by declaring Chavs as vermin and therefore legalizing the hunting and extermination of this vile sub-class. 25% council tax rebate for every 50 Burberry caps.