This pit of Southern England boasts only the most tenuous of links with London, in so far as it is on the London Underground network, even if it be the penultimate stop on the Metropolitan Line. A characteristic which alone automatically pigeon holes this place as the faceless suburbia and prime industrial scale Chav manufacturing site that it is. Chavs in general lack the cognitive ability to devise any useful programs of action in their pitifully wasted lives. This fact, inevitably augmented by the area in which they inhabit, was never more so proved than with the case of Croxley Green. There is simply nothing to do, except perhaps enjoy the splendours of the community green or children’s play areas, both ideal for smashing bottles, intimidating old people, and teenaged bunk ups – ultimately leading to the pitter patter of feet from the new generation of unplanned Chavs and Chavettes. The station is a particular favourite in the Chav hangout repertoire, where bitter commuters are habitually offered volleys of abuse as part of their daily routine. The Parish Council car park provides excellent arson practice facilities on any vehicles left there overnight by the unsuspecting or unknowledgeable. Avoid this place like the plague. You will leave with a combination of emotional and physical scarring. Or worse, you might never leave.
Personal case study in action: Returning from Central London a couple of jars down, Xxxxx realised the good fortune of having cycled to Croxley Green, his nearest tube stop, thus avoiding the need for motorised inebriation and its inevitable consequences. It was however the unwelcoming prospect of a perilously lightless cycling bid home that so awaited the tired Xxxxxx Jnr as he alighted the tube at Croxley station at midnight. But oh no, that window of opportunity had been taken from him by (sweeping generalisation) some Rxxxxx F-ing Chav c**t! Having whisked Rxxx’s bike which also house his cycling attire, he was left penniless and bike less, with one remaining prospect (which he opted to take), a 6 mile bag laden run home, which he decided to undertake in his underpants (this was likely due to the drunk logic that he couldn’t achieve the task whilst trouserially impaired).