Malvern is the West Midland’s equivilant of Scarborough, or Kirkby Moorside in Yorksherr, simply because by design it should be cobbled streets, horses and whole families dressed up in their finery off to church of a Sunday, but by default it is stuffed to bursting point with go-faster-striped rat-faced c***s toting a one-stop plastic bag full of 22p-a-can bastard lager and wrigleys ‘chuddy’.
The worrying thing about Malvern is that it is a beautiful place, if you gaze off whimsically at the hills and ignore the fact that you just stepped in freshly-gacked-up mucus. You don’t even notice the c***s until you’ve signed your life/soul away to the building society and are stuck there. From Monday to Friday, the Malvernite scallies restrict themselves to the local leisure centre, throwing rocks at baby ducklings in the nearby pond, target practice for those who peer out arrogantly through a pair of 1.99 ‘shades’ (innit) beneath a baseball cap.
You wouldn’t even know that Malvern had a c**v population larger than a Roman army if you naively went about your ways and ignored the reek of hair-spray-plastered aspiring prostitutes hanging out in a ‘les make babbies!’ fashion, legs akimbo with an arrow pointing ‘shag dis wai!’ outside the toy shop.
The upwardly-sloping main street is too much for the frizzy-haired truants, though, so they never quite get to see the true wonders of the Malvern hills that would thus save them from C**v Fire and Brimstone (‘why’s we gotta walk up they hill fer, we can get cheese ‘n’ onion crisps ‘n’ stella down here can’t we? ey up grandad, let’s nick his car – and his trainers’) – no, in fact, these c***s are no different to those on council estates: the only visions of grandeur and magnificence these c***s harbour are of that day when little Steve finally manages to ask Tracy Barlow if he can ‘give her one’ (‘you say the werd an’ i be up yer quicker than a rat up a drainpipe, innit’)
It’s weekends when the c***s truly come alive. Out of their piss-soaked crypts they stumble, red-eyed and blinking into the sunlight, they pack up for a Day Out, putting little baby Kev in the cool box to ‘keep the beers warm like jar mean’, beating up their spouses – usually Fat Suzie giving Dave a good ol’ slap around the head with the food processor (7.99 from woolies dintcha knows? dey be on offer!) and then they’re off, at a very slow pace, pushing the fiesta all the way into Malvern link, where they stop at the co-op to load up with wotsits, irn bru and “whats dem cheapest fags yers got then? i aint payin’ no more than 3.50, i’ll fight yer for it, outsiiiiide” before back in the car rolling up to the town centre, pausing at the common to load up, rev up, and spit pintsized globlets of spit at the trees (‘ave it!!!!!! aaaaaave it!!! nice one dad!’)
Favourite c**v activities:
1. Duck target-practice (never gets old)
2. Stealing baked beans from somerfield
3. Using obscene language like ‘innit’ in the general direction of an old man, in the vague hope that he may turn on them (‘y’ startin? is yer?’)
4. Testing what qualifies for the term ‘spitting distance’
5. Swapping burberry caps
6. Swapping partners
7. Giving birth to triplets outside the spa…
8. … Then using the library computers to sell said triplets on eBay (‘BOGOF – dat be short for buy one get one free innit, also, buy the complete set and get a free lighter!’)
10. Discussing who shagged who last night at the New Gas Tavern and whether doing it on a slot machine counts or not.
After a hard day doing nothing, these grease-stained floppy-eared bedraggled bunch head home for pizza and chips and stars in their eyes (‘look mam, it’s got Celebriddees in it! who dat?’) before beating the c**v spawn over the head with a lead pipe (‘this’ll be yours one day, son’ – ‘oh, thanks dad’ *thunk*) because every good c**v knows, to mortally wound your own spawn into oblivion means that more of your giro can go on important things, like stella, and not be wasted on useless things like babysitters…
Saturday night is breeding time, and back to the piss-stained mattress out the back of the co-op they go to nest, for some good old-fashioned fornication – not forgetting that stella makes excellent lubrication…