In this report I have attempted to touch on some lesser known facets of the peripheral c**v, as many of the common traits have been well documented by other contributions to this fine site.
There is something about provincial towns that helps to breed a different brand of scally/c**v. In the case of Macclesfield, the diffusion of c**v mannerisms from inner city Manchester (the role-models for this breed) is slightly lost in translation amongst the simple folk of this old silk-town. A collision of cultures abounds where urban Manc-Scally attitude meets the rural sheep-harassing attributes of the Derbyshire foothill towns of Bollington, Leek etc. The result is the Macc-astani. NB Readers should roll their tongue and omit boluses of sputum when pronouncing the Macc prefix, to accurately replicate the locals’ delivery.
This unfortunate specimen can be found grazing on the tundra of the obligatory circa 1960s council estate, which pollute the landscape of this self-appointed “affluent” town. Most aspire to live in “Vicki-flats” the only high-rise offering in the town. Although others make do with the ample choice of sprawling estates (i.e. “territory” where expelling urine & spit in any available alleyway is a birthright, and is used to demarcate ownership) and revel in the opportunity to infiltrate local-schools where the “snobs” from other Cheshire towns are subjected to the “bog-squad” and other delightful common assaults on their person and senses. The minutiae of their favourite haunts have been well documented in many other c**v-town profiles and I would simply make the observation that, put a “discount-shop”, “precinct” or American branded eatery in your town and you deserve everything you get.
It is noteworthy that this is the only town I know where a curfew of 10.30pm has been imposed on entering local hostelries because of the inevitable trouble which ensues when Yates / JD Wetherspoons collide with club Maccastani. However, I would also like to identify another genre of pub which the hardened maccastanis enjoy, I refer of course to the half timber, half concrete 1960s council-estate based pub where the carpark is a festival of litter, syringes, barking dogs, burnt mattresses and in some cases the scene of a “drive-by” at some point in its onerous history. This of course appeals to our subject and will give him/her “da respect” of his/her peers.
Their religion takes the form of the “urban legend: well aard figure” who has usually had a stretch in Strangeways prison and has a very willing queue of disciples awaiting his repatriation into Macclesfield. Followers talk excitedly about the time he “lamped” someone and they went “down like a can of Fantaaaaaa on a hot day”.
Votive offerings to worship said figure take the form of the usual c**v bling-trinkets and ironic displays of ostentation. Any aspiring scally is naked without their Elizabeth Duke / Mr T Summer Collection – to be worn all at once of course. I once heard a group of chavettes remark to a newly initiated member “where’s your gold???” Some days later when the giro was cashed and she had properly assimilated it was remarked that her appearance was “sweeeeet” and must have cost “pure-beads!!!”
An interesting quirk in the Maccastani dress-code is the popularity of “rigger-boots” -those awful tan ankle-high “grafting boots” that are usually popular on the building site. These are generally tucked into ice-white socks that merge into the unnecessarily baggy pantaloons and obligatory urban-sportswear with the “Spliffy” motif being particularly popular at the moment (Stolen from Ivor & Officer’s Club are considered “sound” purveyors of said garments, I’m told).
An amusing trait of the Maccastani is their attempt to affect a Mancunian accent, even though they live approx 20 miles south of the centre, and reside in the north of Cheshire where neighbouring towns, like my own Wilmslow, have produced Standard English Dialect icons like the delightful Katie Derham of ITV News fame. The result is a kind of country-bumpkin scally whose voice sounds like it should be featured in Kevin & Perry. Even when they show an anger response in the street (which usually involves a monkey walk & stripping off to the waist to reveal a pasty malnourished, spot ridden torso) it is difficult to take seriously because of the amusing delivery & content of tirade. My sides nearly split once – no, luckily they were not packing a tool – when a c**v appeared to ask if “I was shutting up shop” before attempting to “knock my lights out” (he failed miserably).
I could continue, but quite frankly this resume of my experiences of this quasi urban/rural c**v enclave is provoking painful memories of my schooling where I spent seven years of my life entering this maggot-ridden cess pit of a town.
Nine years on, the daily decontamination showers are a painful but necessary evil.