I’m jealous. I’m not a chav. I wish I could buy into this collective identity but I can’t. I’m not cool enough. And when it comes to where I live, well, they’re ruining it for me. Not only do they buy all the latest gear before I can get my filthy mitts on it (‘von bitch’ tshirts, the new type addidas trousers first popular in the 90s, and my beloved-baseball caps, preferable burberry), but they steal all the cool hang outs. First is was the bus station, and I thought, you know what, I’m gonna let them have that one. Okay, so it’s blatently the eighth wonder of the Isle of Wight, don’t let the tea-towels fool you. It’s about to be pulled down, it was built in the 60s and hasn’t aged well, and if you stand in just the right corner of it, the CCTV cameras can’t see you for long enough to pummel someone. Not that that’s much use to me, but I thought I’d put word out there (in true Anarchist Cookbook fashion). (That last comment was sarcasm just in case anyone was getting worried – we have our own breed of that too on the Diamond Isle). So the bus station, it’s grey, stained, smells like piss, looks like it’s been pissed on, has. But I stand aside as the chavs drag their chavettes past, tipsy at 3pm from drinking too many barcardi breezers under a bridge. I told you, I’m jealous. But the bus station, they can have. What really gets me is Maccy Ds. Now if there ever was an everyman sort of place, it should have been there (i mean Justin Timberlake sings the theme tune, and Ronald McDonald wears red and yellow, not a pink lacoste shirt and checked cap). But now, if I want a Quorn premier burger, I can’t even sit and enjoy that in peace. I can barely break through the crowds standing by the bins outside it, smoking their rollies. Even the police get a look in, regularly chatting to the chavs as they go about their daily business (smoking, drinking, kicking things), but not me. Alas, the chavs have spoken. I’m not one. I’m just some minger, standing in front of maccy Ds, asking chavs to love me/let me in!