I can’t claim to know Chavwich well, having only spent one night there ever, but how this festering boil on Essex’s wobbly backside has escaped getting onto this site already escapes me entirely.
Formerly a significant Channel port and minor holiday resort, Harwich has now been left for dead. It has a passable beach but can you get any decent fish there? Can you buggery. I suffered a dire battered cod straight out of a packet at a dive of a cafe that was about the only open place on Saturday lunchtime bar some well dodgy pubs I wouldn’t take my wife and kids in. It still had the posters up from the 70s (Knickerbocker Glory – still the height of sophistication you know).
But I digress. What of the chavs of Harwich, I hear you ask? F**k me, what a scruffy bunch. I have never seen such a load of divvy, hairy-chested pasty-faced beery lardarses. And the men were even worse…
I was in town on a business jolly so my family and I got to stay at the smartest hotel in town. (Not a wide open competition to be honest, but very nice it was). Inevitably, perhaps, we shared the place with the chavviest wedding you have ever seen.
The happy couple, Barry and Jodie – complete with Amber, Nikki, Sharlay, Nan Doris and 40 others of the kind that originally prompted Essex jokes crowded the place out, all standing around smoking and generally looking as rough as a badger’s arse after a bad curry.
Sadly I can’t report on the nightlife – I was out of town and my wife didn’t dare go out. Next day we went to Flatford, made famous by Constable’s The Hay Wain and loads of other paintings. Beautiful place, but ruined by the fat-arse big-‘oop wearing chavettes going out for their annual day of culture.
Essex – everything you heard is true. And I’m typing this from my office in Nedhill, the only place I can think of that rivals it, watching the rain piss down outside. I could go on, but the urge to go and slash my wrists is starting to overpower me…