Huntingdon, a corner of Cambridgeshire that is forever chavland. This town, regails itself in its history of being Oliver Cromwells home town and if you listen carefully as the bottles fly in the market square on a Friday night you can hear the sound of his bones creak as he spins in his grave.
This was once a nice place, a mid-sized market town that 40 years ago had London’s overspill deposited up the A1 and into the concentration camped housing estate known as the Oxmoor. This estate now nestles into the side of the town like a cancer, sucking the life right out of the area. It’s one of those ghettos that councils stuck up to justify quoto’s without realising that 30 years down the line, the pedestrian flyover would be used like a Baghdad sniper hole to launch bricks down on cars and buses. That quaint path with nice hedging would be the perfect piss and/or vomit point on the way back from the Lord Protector pub.
On a Saturday afternoon as I walk through the town centre I play a game of spot the Oxmoron just to calm myself that the inbreeding has held true in the town and the genes are not diluting too much to the surrounding population. There they are, cheap tracksuits dodging into Argos. The guy with the pit-bull and bad skin going into Peacocks with his fat tattooed missus. The fog of smoke around the exit to Sainsbury’s as the Oxmoor lifers thank f**k they don’t have to suffer anymore clean air that they struggle through when doing the half hour shopping without a cancer stick. I smile at the shop security guard as he tries to hold back the sea of theft with a two-way radio and a dodgy uniform.
This town has been absolutely f*****g ruined by the disease of Chavdom. Friday and Saturday nights are a no go area in the town, the streets ring with the sound of ‘fukkin ell u wanka” and the laugh of underage slags wanting a bit of chav cock. An order by the police to stop groups congregating in the market square hasn’t worked, maybe a 20 foot high wall around the Oxmoor estate would.