Well where does one begin
chavs have destroyed Dartford which was once a culterally rich thriving market town, now it’s a boarded up dump…
Dartford chavs only seem to have a few hang-out spots which tend to be:
Mcdonalds only because they cant afford burger king or kfc, and the Wimpy is too expensive for these neanderthals
litten tree, great pub if you like places which have a vast amount of vomit on their doors or little pricks who want to start trouble with you because you look different
Dartford park, when the fair appears they congregate… when the show is on they congregate.. f**k when anything happens they are there… it was awesome and hillarious one night though when me and my old buddy xen were there enjoying a band during the festival and these two coked up chavs started giving us s**t, two mins later we had about 40 grungers watching our backs 😀
the priory centre, on a thursday or a saturday they seem to appear, sniffing the air for a cheap and fake burbbery hat, which they persist to tell you is real
well thats all for now, but more will come
When I first visited this site, I was amazed and shocked to see that Dartford had not been included in Chav towns.
Dartford is the epitome of all things chav.
To witness the chavs in their natural environment, it would be a good idea to pop down Dartford on a Tuesday morning (When they collect their Giro). The place is over run with greasy haired ikes and brassy women with clown pendants around their necks, shouting at their off spring (typical names include Tyler and Chelsea) to get back in their prams.
Dartford night life is a site for sore eyes.
The local bikes and rude boys are out in full force, typical conversation may include (AAAlright blood!- Er, no you aint black!) For girls, typical attire may include a packet of twenty sovereign cigarettes or ‘Sovs’ cheap fur gilet, bleached blonde hair with extentions, mock diamond earings (yuk!) and a short denim skirt two sizes to small.
For lads, it’s a Burberry jumper, a ridiculous mullet straightened with irons (Purleeese!) and hoop earings in both ears.
These irksome creatures also think that because they think they look cool they have the god given right to pinch your bum as you walk past them in the litten tree (Chav hang out in the evening) Little tip, just ignore them…. a very respectable friend of mine politely declined one of these chav advances and was called a ‘Stuck up c**t!’
If you thought Feltham was bad then visit Dartford in Kent.
When i visited there a few times i felt i had to have the security locks on in my car.
From what i saw it was one of the most run down places i have ever been too.
Most shops were boarded up, the usual chav take aways like chip shops and burger bars are making a roaring trade though.
Plenty of council eatates and even the private housing looked council.
Spotted too many chavs to mention, fat mothers and push chairs and tattoed skin heads.
Blue water is an experience, chav city in one place.
If you want something nice to eat then dont bother,just burgers,chips and a tacky looking Amoy chinese-awful,crap cheap italian aswell.
Plenty of chav sport shops to choose from,nail bars for the chavettes, saw a few boy racers being pulled over by the Kent police which made my day.
If i lived there i would not go out at night, but heh i would never move there as i would rather slit my wrists than die slowly by making residence in Dartford.
Can’t believe that no-one has mentioned Dartford yet. I had the misfortune to work there for a year. Before I visited the town, I imagined it was a quaint Kent market town with interesting architecture. In fact it’s like a grim Northern industrial town that has been re-assembled brick-by-brick in the south-east of England. The only culture is the bacteria dressed in Burberry that hang round the high street every evening. It’s almost unbelievable that this town is only 10 miles from London and yet the townsfolk (who are almost entirely all Chavs) have about as much worldliness as the inhabitants of an Albanian village. I stopped working in Dartford 4 years ago and I have never been back since. I hope to God I never have to.
I am a pervert of the lowest order. Despite being professional, successful man I find myself drawn toward ‘Chavette’ girls. My wife, a beautiful articulate creature who has never worn trainers or Burberry check in her life, would murder me if she knew my longings.
I embrace our trips to the Market on Saturday with gusto. We visit to buy cheap veg for our smoothies. I can hardly contain myself to be surrounded by the pre-maturely (cigarette aged) hollow eyed 20 year old femaless of fifteen stone screeching at there snot covered six and four year old kids to stop playing with dogshit whilst their thirty five year old mother with the face of a toothless medievel peasant looks on with her lambert and Butler hanging out her gob.
I envy the men folk. The freedom to speak without the use of their lips or tongues. I often make an excuses to wander into Argos where I flick through catalogues whilst taking furtive photos of the beauties by the Elizabeth Anne counter on my phone. I torture myself constantly. I still feel the pain when one of my favourites was killed in a tragic accident. She had the most magificent collection of hooped earings but was silly enough to walk past a scrap metal yard where the magnet, attracted to her gold plated adornments, ripped her head clean off.
One day, when I am bold enough, I shall light a match in the local Matalan where the naked flame will erase all the beatiful nylon clothing rendering them naked. Only then will I be able to see them in their naked, dimpled, tatooed glory..