When considering the chaviest town in Britain one name is whispered with reverence above all others. Littlehampton! Or L.A. as it is known (your average chavster cannot pronounce an H if his/her life depended on it) the scum-infested town compliments the scum-infested river nicely. There are some nicer parts of the town but the main concentration of chavs lives in the Greenfield’s / highfields area known as HMP Wick to most or Beirut to the Postal service.
Littlehampton can best be described by an analogy, place 20 sick cows in a field, feed them on chicken curry, prunes and Guinness for 6 weeks, remove cows and sprinkle field liberally with burnt out cars. See?
Chavs can be seen migrating in their herds through the verdant pastures of the pedestrian shopping precinct, where some lager/ white lightning drinking will sustain them on there travel or ‘big’ them up for some petty shop lifting, while on the way to the amusement park or to shelters along the seafront. For the more philosophically bent chavs an excellent time can be had by watching the drug boats come in and the dead dogs float down the river and wondering “ so, wot’s life all ‘bout d’yer fink?”
Excellent chav spotting opportunities can also be found at the house of soul pub, formerly known as the cow (pronounced, in the most disgusting southern accent as, ‘caaaaaau’), it has to be heard to be believed, or, alternatively the Tower Club where outside at 2 am the cries of “oi Darlin! ‘ook yer frupnies aaauuut!!!” or “F*** off you C***” signal the end of the nights festivities as the chavs knuckle their way home interspersed with staggering, fighting and marking their territory by the cunning use of vomit.
Burberry, of course, is in evidence with other chavs who are unlucky? enough to own such apparel coo and meow at each other. Vanish as a stain remover is also present as it has been used to wash the chunder from their clothes of the night before, (it is also drunk in it’s liquid form).
Several clan groups can be seen wandering the streets on the lookout to fight with other clans about such monumental issues as “wot your Trace sed ‘bout our Kev in the pub” but only the experienced watcher can spot one clan group from another as they are usually made up of inbred’s. (Count how many fingers they have on their gloves). If the BBC should read this and want to send a Natural history camera crew, please don’t send David Attenborough, this is more a job for Kate Adie.
The roads of L.A. can also be a trap for the unwary as Chav-mobils will race down 100 yard long streets trying to spin their wheels and reach 60 mph before the road ends with music blasting out in the ‘747 landing’ decibel range.
You may, after reading this, wish to out of horrid fascination, visit this chav Mecca but don’t. The death toll is comparable to a bad day in Basra. If you do wish to risk life and limb, stay in the car, roll the windows up and keep above 20 mph or the little bastards will have your wheels off using their trolley jacks decorated with Burberry tartan.
A proposed urban clearance program has been suggested to clear this chav menace but exploding bullets and flamethrowers are believed to be out-lawed by the Geneva Convention and the Hiroshima solution will just create more FLK’s (funny looking kids) than we already have. Still, during this bonfire time of year (the exploding fireworks lend that Beirut authenticity to the place) we can always hope one conflagration gets out of hand…