High Wycombe – Scourge of the Anti-****

BuckinghamshireSouth East

I know the wonderous High Wycombe (Westside Bruvva of Slough) has had a few entries before this one, but I feel it so deserving of a slandering that I had to contribute to this menagerie that is known as chavtowns.co.uk.

Well, where to start? High Wycombe, I’m sure, used to be a fairly big, prettyish town that the posher people in the surrounding areas of Great Missenden, Amersham and Naphill etc. came to do their shopping in, safe in the knowledge that their address wasn’t pure “High Wycombe” but that they were close enough to it to be able to enjoy its many “facilities” and “amenities”. Bloody hell that was a long sentence. I even fondly remember going across the Rye to the park every day, playing in the safe haven of swings, roundabouts and monkey bars that every child accesses once in a while. However, one day, during my innocent and naive youth heyday I discovered something horrific. I was about seven, and I had found my first used condom lying on the floor near the wooden horse and cart. Not knowing what it was, but knowing it looked utterly filthy, I poked at it with a stick and invited others to have a look. We were all fascinated (“Oooh, is it a big balloon?”) until someone ushered us away from it, hastily explaining that we weren’t to poke around in the rubbish. And that, my friends, was my first experience of **** littering, and therefore the first time I realised that there were people that actually didn’t care about shagging in full view of the public and leaving behind their diseased spendings in a bit of old rubber for kids to pick up and probably catch something from. Mmm, nice.

So, back to the point. Well, Wycombe has increased in size, dirtiness and above all, ********* ™. The old favourite haunts are still there, KFC, McDonalds and Burger King, but ther e are more and more **** eateries and entertainment venues opening every day. Take, for instance, Chicken Cottage, just opened in Frogmoor, next to the rather classier and far nicer L’Artista, one of Wycombe’s only decent eateries. There’s Dennis’ Kebab Shop (we have two of those – Dennis must be laughing as he’s got one right next to Time, possibly the worst nightclub in Bucks), Fast Eddies and the capot di capi, Shipley’s Gaming Centre, just opened where Dolcis used to be.

Shipley’s is everything you expect in a **** Entertainment Warehouse: Naff figurines of clowns holding a bunch of badly painted flowers twinned with delightful “Real Crystal” dodgy cut glass bowls that wouldn’t look too out of place in a tacky seafront caff, beaming their horridness out of the shop front window. A placard on the door bears the legend “Staff Needed: Mature Applicants Welcome”. Well you’d have to be pretty bloody mature to want to work in that place, what with the lack of natural light and the constant plinging of slot machines manned by pimpled morons burning into your olfactory system like an irritating gnat. Shipley’s is an eyesore that, like so many of the dodgy shops opening in Wycombe now, appeals only to that special class of individual who wears their bling bright gold and their McKenzie hoodies more proudly than the winner of the £10 million Lotto Jackpot. Yes, Wycombe “Kevs” and “Shazzas” are on a truely special branch of **** genetics – the women are spectacular examples of femininity, hair scraped back in the facelift style so favoured by Spice Girl Mel C’s debut onto the music scene. Their makeup, possibly shovelled on by a well meaning husband or boyfriend, serves only to highlight the radiance of their McDonald’s diet enhanced skin. The classic light coloured lipstick and black lipliner combo recreated with painstaking attention to detail and extra enchanced cupid’s bow make for some excellent attempts at **** art. Every ****, however, must be accessorised with the ultimate **** appendage: the **** baby. You will often spot the **** baby nestled in its pram, accompanied by several kilo of bling and a very harrassed mother in tow, smoking 30 Richmond at once. It’s a sight to behold, but not for too long, otherwise one may be privy to a “What the **** are you lookin’ at slag?!” and a punch in the eye. Well, you never know!

The Kevs are often in packs of about ten, drinking and smoking and generally smelling the place out. At night they will attend Time, where they will enjoy the lavish attentions of the local Shazzas who are out in force in little stonewash denim pelmets and hideously low cut tops purchased from the Select sale. Of course, the Kevs will be parading their entire jewellery trunk of bling, including delightful Elizabeth Duke sovereign rings and that 2ct gold earring that their Aunty Mavis bought them for special occasions. Woe betide you if you are out in Wycombe at closing time, as the army of ***** looking green with too much Carling will soon litter the pavements, and hobble threateningly close. They may attack you with their vile vomit at any minute, so beware!

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