Gloucester is undoubtedly one of the chavviest places I’ve ever had to live. For anyone thinking of visiting, I’ve compiled a list of c**v locations and habits, to help you prepare and maybe avoid the worst bits.
You can find c***s anywhere and everywhere in Gloucester, although they seem to avoid some of the historic buildings (they don’t waste time sightseeing when they could be shoplifting). Just walking around the town centre will sooner or later lead to an encounter with one of these antisocial organisms. They will either shout abuse (from a safe distance) or hassle you for “money for a phone call”. Since all that most c***s are capable of doing with a phone box is urinating in it or smashing it, this is presumably c**v-ese for “I ran out of money for lager/cigs/drugs, so I want yours”.
However, some areas are slightly more c**v-infested than others. Here’s a quick guide to the places that are best avoided:
The bus station. Always a favourite of younger c***s. The chavlings don’t actually go anywhere, because they deem the possible destinations even more boring than sitting around in a cold, malodorous bus station smoking and trying to buy White Lightning from the late-night grocer/offie. Slightly older c***s can cash their benefit cheques at the “Money Shop”, spend it on Fosters, and then piss all over the floor in the nearby public lavatory.
Innteraction, a club that looks like it’s been expensively done up to match the c**v definition of ‘classy’. Surrounded most nights by a crowd of staggering, drooling c***s and screeching chavettes.
The 24-hour ASDA just across the road from Innteraction. It’s a c**v haven at the best of times, but late evenings will give you the chance to meet the drunken c***s who stumble (or get thrown) out of Innteraction and go in search of more cheap lager and people at whom they can yell incoherent taunts in c**v-ese.
The old swimming pool that’s been converted into a nightclub. The only time I’ve been in there, there was no actual beer available at the bar, just alcopops and one type of lager – Stella Artois, one of the canonical c**v drinks and the only known beverage that tastes better after you’ve pissed it out again.
The enormous Wilko that sells c**v toiletries such as Burberry aftershave (chavtershave?) – which is locked in a cabinet due to the objection c***s have to paying for stuff.
Cash Converters, and the other similar shop (name forgotten) right across the road. These are presumably where the c***s go to offload the tat they nick from other c***s, or to get some quick lager money by flogging off the kids’ Xbox.
All of Eastgate Street. One half of the road is made up almost entirely of dingy bars and kebab shops (in approximately a one-to-one ratio). It is infested with c***s all day long, due to the Argos superstore and easy availability of fried chicken, but evening brings them out in huge annoying swarms. Like gnats, except that gnats can walk without spitting after every five paces.
The standard chavmobile, consisting of a clapped-out Escort covered with bits of plastic to make it look like a rally car (from a long way away, to someone who doesn’t know what a rally car looks like), is as popular as ever. There is a ratio of two sets of alloy wheels to every three chavmobiles, because, at any given time, one of the c***s will have had his wheels nicked by one of the other two. The back end of the chavmobile must have a spoiler that resembles a microlight aircraft, and there must never be more than five millimetres of clearance between the road and the cheap plastic bodywork.
There’s even a c**v motorbike somewhere in town. It’s a pathetically underpowered, tatty rustbucket, but instead of actually getting it fixed, the owner has chosen to spend his money on putting blue lights underneath.
Ordinary suburbanites place garden gnomes and decorative planters around their well-tended front gardens. Gloucester c***s will instead decorate their concreted-over front gardens with broken kitchen appliances and old mattresses, to provide an optimal environment for growing rust and fungus. The aforementioned Ford Escort with a glued-on spoiler the size of a hang-glider will be parked at the roadside for other c***s to masturbate over, so the never-used driveway will be blocked with a rotting chipboard TV stand or an abandoned bath.
So there you have it. Don’t say you weren’t warned.