Ah, Ipswich…… a large thriving town but just a stone’s throw from pretty rural countryside and quaint little market villages. Okay, it’s lumbered with a stupid name, but we can live with that. What we can’t live with are the C***s who have invaded every corner, and especially MY corner of Ipswich.
I live in Whitton, one of many council estates in Ipswich which all look the damn same, except for the graffitti – plastered round the shops where I have the misfortune to work are tributes to “Da So Whitton Crew”, obviously a name invented by someone of extremely limited mental capacity who’s listened to far too much American gangster rappers and wannabe American Gangsta Rappers (you know the sort, the ones that would like to have been born in the Bronx but were actually born in Islington and went to public school).
You can’t miss the C***s in Whitton. The preferred habitat of these almost nocturnal creatures is the rows of shops scattered throughout the estate. Immune to cold weather, snow or rain you can see them hanging about on the corner and near the phone boxes in large herds, wearing tracksuits and check fabric in Dysentery Beige. Females of the species sport painful-looking hairdos where every single strand is pulled back to form a tail, beaten cruelly into submission by an entire Economy size can of aerosol hairspray from Superdrug’s own-brand range and the latest in Shockwaves silly-putty.
Males of the species have developed the curious habit, possibly a display of “manliness” designed to attract the female, of wearing many heavy items of gold jewellery and tracksuit bottoms tucked into socks. Female mating displays involve squeezing into the tightest possible clothes, forcing the fatty layer of stomach and buttocks up and over the waistband. Due to apparent cold-weather immunity, the tops worn by these females appear to have been designed for six-year-olds so that any male in the vicinity can immediately see what is on offer.
Mating of the C**v species takes place throughout the year, and breeding is easy, females have the first litter of young at around 14 years of age. Offspring are immediately acclimatised to the habitat by the mother – bringing the infant C**v in an Argos pram each night to the meeting place, with a bottle of White Lightning tucked under the blankets.
Observers assume the ears of infant C***s are poorly developed as screeching, shouting swear words, loud music and breaking glass appear to have little effect on the infant.
Reactions to this fairly new member of the rodent family can be extreme. Hysterical laughter is often the reaction when faced with the mode of transportation employed by C***s. Old, economical cars such as Forn Orions or Fiestas are modified with spoilers a whale would be proud of, lowered suspension, halogen headlights to irritate the hell out of other road users, cherry-bombs to announce their arrival in the most obnoxious manner possible and blue lights for the underside of the car in the vain hope that someone would think they have NOS installed (for further reference, see Fast and the Furious available on DVD or VHS)
Since many C***s do not manage to get past Year One of high school, mathematical sensibility is totally beyond their grasp – they would simply not understand the logical statement “You could have bought a decent car for the money you spent making that one look really stupid”.
Evidence also points to the C**v having an exceedingly poor grasp on the English language. Communication between them generally consists of grunts, limited to “Uh, Wot, Yuh, Yer, Yeh and Nar” , and swear words “Fook”, “Fookin'”, “Twat” etc. A typical example of a C**v sentence construct would be “Wot yer lookin’ at yer fookin’ twat?”.
Temperament tends to be aggressive when in a herd, but very weak when confronted away from the pack. Their bark is worse than their bite, a display of “well ‘ard” behaviour such as a threat to “twock yer one” or “I’ll bottle yer” is likely to be withdrawn as soon as the C**v sees that you may “twock” them back (blood from a broken nose ha proved to be hard to wash out of white tracksuits, or clean off white stillettoes).
Fascinating to study they may be, but there is a very sobering thought that must be considered when dealing with C***s as a species. They are breeding the next generation of people in Britain. The very thought is guaranteed to strike terror into the heart of an ordinary human being.
A proposal currently making it’s way through official Government channels and six hundred miles of red tape may solve the problem of C***s simply and easily. The beauty and simplicity of this proposal to limit the population of C***s in once-Great Britain has gained popularity due to it’s twofold effect of reducing the number of breeding C***s and appeasing the opponents of the ban on hunting foxes, as well as allowing the town-dwelling residents of this country to join in a sport previously only enjoyed by rich country folk.
Quite simply, C***s should be hunted with packs of hounds to the death every weekend.