Is Doncaster a C**v town?
Let’s look at the evidence (bearing in mind that Doncaster town centre can be walked through, end to end, in a matter of minutes).
There’s a KFC, a Burger King and a McDonalds (there used to be 2 very briefly). The Argos has superstore status and is situated in the Frenchgate shopping centre, just around the corner from GAME and downstairs from Wilkinsons – of which there are two.
The fact that the town has two Wilko’s within spitting distance [the term, in this case, is meant literally to any upstanding Donny c**v] speaks volumes. Wilko’s is, after all, one huge fragmented council estate in its own right.
I often look forward to dropping in to buy bin liners for work and maybe some cheap hair-gel, just so I can stand behind a rugby scrum of C***s, Chavettes and their numerous dirty, snot nosed, lttle oxygen thieving, wastes of human flesh, bastard street urchins they refer to as children. Or to give them their full names Jay-Jake, Reece, Brooklyn, Paige, Manhattan and Delroy.
If you’re lucky you will only hear these names screamed once every 30 seconds or so – more often than not inbetween the occasional leg slap.
Why C***s & Chavettes give their [or her, if it’s ‘Uncle Baz’ rather than ‘Dad’] spawn the kind of names that MFI would give their new range of kitchen cabinets is beyond anyones guess.
Whilst waiting in said Wilko’s queue, why not pass the time counting mums tatoo’s? Small of back – check: Shoulder blade – check x 2: Upper Arm – check x 2: Tits – can’t see from behind but based on the law of averages, cheeeeeeck.
After all – her chavvy clothing is so common place, leggings, trackies, manky crop top, Argos bling etc it won’t even register with the average c**v hater/spotter.
If I ever enter Wilko’s, pick up a basket and fill it with a dozen items, I will have entered to world of C**v so much I may as well settle down with a girl called Chaneece (and children), glue my fringe to my forehead, drive a barried-up fiesta Mk II, tilt my cap to 30 degrees, zip up my Henri LLoyd jacket and speak in such a nasally, indolent manner that it appears to be a physical effort to utter even a basic sentence – usually starting in, “se’ mate, I say mate, yer er couldn’t lend us….a er..”
If you have met the Donny chavster, you will know what I mean.
You will also know that they will reside in one of the towns less-than-salubrious outlaying villages, i.e anywhere to the north of St. Georges Bridge. [F.Y.I St. Georges Bridge was built to replace ,for cars at least, the old North Bridge because of congestion. The congestion however, was not created because the old bridge was too small, but because pretty much upon this bridge is situated a Halford’s, and the queue of piss-poor Saxo’s entering and exiting the car park caused a constant bottle-neck.] Over to the north of Doncaster you will see a phalanx of cheap terraced housing. This is no bad thing in itself (and I don’t want to come across a snob or anything), what i do take objection to is the s**m which lies within. Why did the little C******e not think before spawning 4 times in between the ages of 17 and 20? Why does her front lawn lie decorated with an upturned plastic childrens tricycle covered in months worth of dirt/s**t in some kind of chavvy parody of a garden gnome? Why, other than the T-Mobile cycling team, is she the only person to wear a bright pink nylon shell gillette zipped up to the top? Why does she think that anyone who utters the words, “fancy a shag, like, love?” is a smooth talking bastard? Why does she think her 2 year old children can be left to wander her estate as far as a raduis of 3 miles from her home unsupervised and attired only in a soiled nappy and a pair of jelly-bean shoes? Why are the odds of her getting a job about the same as Stevie Wonder performing a 9-dart finish in the PDA World Darts Championship Final? Why does she struggle to find money for kids clothes/food, but manages to pay for 40 L&B a day and numerous scratchcards? Why are mini-Kievs & beans considered gourmet cooking? Why is the only things that can drag her away from daytime TV copies of Heat magazine and TV quick?
The list is endless. Maybe the real answer is, ‘If you have to ask you’ll never know!’