Affectionately known as the “ Arsehole of Derbyshire! Ironville really personifies the chav image. For as long as I remember this tiny village has been as rough as a bag of hammers, with a teenage population that clearly shows that the majority of inhabitants in the mid to late eighties had no TV sets.
As a result of this over breeding, there are now so many youngsters with nothing to do except set each other alight and get out of their tiny minds on Taboo, that a cull is the only reasonable solution I can come to, to save this village from eternal wrongness. I can imagine that the level of incest in this village is much higher than the national average, as nowadays the children play “ I spy with my middle eye” on long journeys, rather than opting for the original version.
Although Derbyshire is famed for it’s dales, the only Dales you will see here are the Rockport sporting kind, with faces full of acne and a gold sovereign adorning every digit. The girls are manlier here than in most areas, which leads me to question the purity of the water, I personally believe that testosterone is a likely addition, possibly to render the moose-pigs infertile…I can only hope.
As per usual, upturned collars are the norm, for the chavs, generally teamed with brand new Reebok classics and Adidas bottoms. As ever, big-brand names adorning every inch of the surface area of their bodies is what they strive for. Comically angled caps, perched atop a spiky fringe complete the look. For the slightly older chav, around the age of 24, the sporting of an electronic tag around an ankle or wrist really gives that “man around town” appeal.
In general, the older members of the community, I’m talking about the 34-year-old grandparents, tend to use the medium of tattoos to express their sentiments. The popular LOVE/HATE combo is all the rage with both men and women, with a swallow on the neck reserved for the chav overlords. Coupled with the self-styled tattoos they acquired whilst detained at Her Majesty’s pleasure, the overall look is something the average chav strives for.
The summer months provide a great reason for Ironville chav and chavettes to peel off the clothing and give other chavs a semi-on at the sight of their bare flesh. When the temperature soars from March onwards, tattooed temptresses with gigantic bosoms and three kids in tow can be seen walking through the village, in bikini tops chuffing on Superkings. Men, aiming for the David Peckham look, with pirate earrings and mobile phones draped around their necks on cords, also like to go for the “less is more” approach, with t-shirts off at the first sign of sun, exposing their ghostly white bodies and raging psoriasis.
As ever, the council houses attract the chavs and chavwagons like moths to a candle. The row of terraced houses, with numerous G reg tarted-up Fiestas, and rows of thongs outside on the washing lines, show what this ex mining village has transformed into. In 1997 there was an outbreak of meningitis in Ironville, because the little chav bastards had been skiving off school to sniff meths and toss bricks at cars on the day of the immunisations at our school. Needless to say, the people who actually caught this disease were the unfortunate normal people who had not yet had chance to be immunised, at their school as the catchment area meant they went to a different school. If only Harold Shipman had been employed to do the meningitis jabs at our school, Ironville might look very different today. I still hold my breath as I travel through Ironville, as I am quite certain that meningitis spores are still airbourne. Then again, the chavs wouldn’t mind if they did contract it, after all it’d be just another way to mimick Vicky Beckham if they did, even though it is a bit extreme!