Walking along a typical pavement, you see the evidence of the beasts they call the ‘c**v’. along the avenues and sidewalks of Hastings we find the evidence of a serious c**v habitat. littered around are empty packs of “Mayfair Tens Mate”, maybe, even “Sov-wins” (Sovereign Cigarettes to normal people)…we are clearly dealing with many sorts of c***s.
in probably the chaviest town in the United Kingdom, your entrance by train is a sombre one. once you have clamoured through the urine soaked carriages where c***s have left their territorial marks; you find yourself greeted by a pack of wild c***s as you walk along the newly refurbished platforms of the station. here, these c***s gather in groups like hyenas, all of them laughing and staring in sincere astonishment that not everybody wears cheap, tacky shellsuits. walking past a group of wild c***s, one is continually bombarded with highlu pitched squeals of “fweek”, “oi bruv-can i av’ a faaaag?” or even “oi pwick…innit” when you graciously decline the offer of giving this bone-idle beast a fruit of your hard labor.
upon leaving the station, at every bus stop, every crevis and every shop front, you are deluged by these rabid monstrous apparitions…haunting, taunting and annoying you without reprise. everywhere, the evidence of the c***s remains…’tags’ left by young male c***s are to be seen on most bus stops, and again, empty packs of “Mayfair tens” and “Sov-wins” collect in the gutters and along the sides of the pavement.
on the way back to your humble abode, you may find that you fancy something like say, a few beers-or maybe some snacks for your friends when you have them round. you walk into the most chavved supermarket known to any man, woman or child…ever. this is…Safeways on the Queens Road. walking into the supermarket, one gets that waft of the c**v smell…usually “Burberry Brut/Weekend” or one of the other cheap aftershaves like “FCUK” (which although numbered, come in colours so that the hapless average c**v who is usually dumber than several planks of wood can distinguish between the ‘sweet’ one and the ‘rufffff’ one…innit). one finds themselves surrounded by c***s. here, instincts take over. you check that you’ve got your wallet or phone still on you as you get to the end of every aisle. you see these hideous beasts with mad eyes looking around nervously for a moment to snatch anything. to a c**v, stealing something has somewhat of a kudos symbol. i have witnessed c***s knicking cartons of milk, which, i am sure you’ll agree; makes you very cool. so, you make your way to the alcohol aisle where you spot a group of young c***s looking around anxiously-hoping they’ll get served. they approach you and muffle out in their animal voices something like “ere’, bruv-you couldn’t buy us this cider/vodka*…we’ll give ya like fifty ‘p’ mate”…once your roaring laughter stops and you realise they’re being serious, you kindly tell them to swing from the highest tree-only to be deluged by a barrage of ‘insults’ questioning your sexuality mainly-or somekind of comment about ‘your mum’. even the shop assisstants are c***s. the girls dripping in cheap 9c gold argos jewellry, the guys have got some stupid hairstyle-and/or have hilarious bum-fluff which they grow so it makes them look old enough to buy alcohol.
of course, i have abated the nightlife so far. i shall ellucidate further the diabolical situation that hastings is in…when night falls, c***s-older c***s come out from under their rocks. you can spot older c***s by several pointers. the women are wearing ‘slapper’ clothes, have common and high pitched wails for voices. the guys have highly gelled hair, smell of cheap aftershave and cigarettes, usually have one really pointless earing and wear really bad shirts generally purchased from the local ‘officers club’…classy. they ‘collect’ initially in pubs like Yates and Wetherspoons-however, generally at this point these c***s are strangely bearable and quite courteous. it is like cindarella or the gremlins…past ten O’Clock these seemingly bearable c***s turn into grusome, common and really annoying super-c***s. of course, they do not go to the crypt (the local decent club)…they all filter off down to the c**v’s paradise of a nightclub: ‘Waves’…one pub to avoid at all costs if c***s are of a particular disgust to you is the ‘Havelock’…here is where right-wing racist patriots and their slapped-up tramps of girlfriends go for a not-so-quiet drink. these c***s are seemingly more ignorant than normal c***s (if that is at all possible), and can be identified by their insistence to wear an England football shirt-and their ear-shattering loud and common voices.
Hastings is in dire straits. the c**v infestation is so severe that it threatens the very fabric of Hastings’ society. year upon year, these animals breed further and further. the places where to collect grow more and more. their common voices get louder and louder. their eye-sore clothing and penis-extending cars become more and more prominent. the angles of their caps only get nearer and nearer to 90 degrees. their cheap and tacky clothing makes its way into shops where normal people buy their clothes. every town is witnessing this type of infestation…but none more-so than poor Hastings.