Mayfield in Scotland is like the seventh circle of Dante’s hell

Living in Mayfield, Scotland

Well, a bit of history is required first, methinks. Mayfield, just south of Dalkeith, nestles between the A68 and the A7 south. It was originally built, in the sixties, as overspill housing for the colliery workers of nearby Newtongrange, as well as to provide the workforce for a small but relatively successful industrial estate.

Sadly, the Thatch came along, and by the mid eighties – with the closure of the Lady Victoria mine – the vast majority of the population became unemployed. Set against a backdrop of Threads and Boys from the Blackstuff on TV, Mayfield was a depressing hole of a town – the shop windows sprouted steel shutters over night; the bookies was held up on a regular basis, and every pub was full of broken men living on their wives wages.

Seeing this dejection and depression, the c***s swooped. It’s not clear where the came from or when exactly they arrived, but arrive they did – by the dozen. Mayfield is a relatively small place. There’s a small cluster of shops nestled in the poetically named “bogwood court”, a community centre, three pubs and a bookies. To the north of the shops lies a public park and all all other sides are surrounded by a council estate. On top of the hill, overlooking the seething cesspit below, lies a rather attractive private estate which provides many of the c***s with “house tax” opportunities.

How grim is your Postcode?

The full range of c**v freakishness is on display in mayfield – let’s run through a few types now.

The wee c**v.
This is really the junior c**v – aged between twelve and fifteen years of age. This repulsive little creature is known to hang around the public park from early evening until the small hours of the morning, getting up to the usual chavly behaviour. Both genders are pretty much indistinguishable – the females dressing in the same nylon sportswear as their spotty male counterparts.

The Filthy c**v
The filthy c**v is a little older – usually up to around 19 years of age. They seem to be composed, the males at least, of elbows and knees – appearing awkward and ungainly – and only really able to communicate in inarticulate grunts. The filthy c***s can usually be found roaring up and down the streets in poorly maintained ford capris, like some postmodern statement on seventies tory policy. Occasionally, the filthy c**v can be found preying on the female wee c***s at the park, when they feel the urge to reproduce. Strangely, there seem to be no female filthy c***s. The females seem to graduate from wee c**v directly to granny c**v.

The granny c**v
The granny c***s are generally aged from around eighteen upwards. The granny c***s are the most overtly aggressive of the various breeds indiginous to this area. Their usual haunt, other than the post office on giro day, is around the school playground at dropping off and picking up time. Their activites at this place are generally focussed around forming small tight groups and victimising humans who portray signs of intelligence or a willingness to work. These c***s, with their considerable bulk behind them, are the quickest to launch into an unprovoked physical attack.

The thug c**v, or Praetorian C**v
It’s not entirely clear where these fit into the c**v heirarchy. My own reasoning would suggest that they are a parallel evolution of the c**v – possibly a leap from wee c**v to thug c**v, bypassing the filthy c**v stage by being detained at her majesty’s pleasure. They seem to be endowed with rudimentary powers of leadership, no doubt holding their serfs in sway with tales of “the Big Hoose”. The thug c**v exhibits many of the traits of the filthy c**v but is possessed of a not inconsiderable degree of animal cunning. This is the c**v who organises the “Tax” trips to the Belway estate, and is the type of c**v most likely to be found climbing in your back window at 2 in the morning. This c**v should never be confronted, due to its tendancy to “chib ye”.

These creatures, from the evidence of my own eyes, live in complete squallor. The houses are filthy inside, half eaten meals lying in plates on a bare floor with several days worth of mould providing the highest IQ level in the building. Surprisingly, all of these depressing hovels are equipped with state of the art plasma TVs and Sky dishes.


  • The front of my f*****g house. For some peculiar reason, wee c***s and filthy c***s love to congregate at the bottom of my garden like some form of ********** reebok wearing pixies. I’m not sure why – I’m miles from the nearest knock off designer outlet, there’s no burberry in our street.
  • Bus stops. For some reason, places where intelligent people will gather to perform some social function attracts c***s like flies to s**t, as if – like the Zombies visiting the mall in George Romero’s “Dawn of the Dead” – they are attracted to dimly remembered acts of normality. All breeds of c***s can be seen haranguing innocent bystanders for having the gall to use a public service.
  • The Golden Field chip shop. The enticing smell of vegetables cooking in lard is close enough to the pheromones emitted by fertile granny c***s to attract wee c***s and filthy c***s by the dozen. These repugnant little pond skimmings, and the leprous harpies which occasionally accompany them, are known to lurk outside the entrance to the chipshop to regale consumers with cries of “gies a chip ya fat ****” and “heh gonnae get ees some **** an that no?”.
  • The public park. The woodstock of mayfield chavdom. This area seems to be the last bastion of interspecies free love. I’m not going to dwell on this point because there’s not really much you can say about thirteen year old girls – even c***s – throwing their lives away in this manner.

Mayfield is a c**v ridden hellhole. By other towns standards, Mayfield is like the seventh circle of Dante’s hell. The c***s currently outnumber normal decent people by a factor of three to one. It’s a sobering thought, but if Mayfield is a microcosm of the future of Britain, I’m moving to Mars.