Written by Anonymous. Posted in East Anglia, Norfolk, United Kingdom

So it’s Saturday morning, and there’s things to be done and things to be bought, so it’s into the city centre… Bad news. Dodging piles of vomit and dropped kebabs from the night before you make your way down to the city centre. First stop the Castle Mall. This monstrosity that takes up half the city centre is crawling with juvenile and not so juvenile chav scum. Young lads hang around the entrance way smoking fags and trying to look as intimidating as they can for an 8 stone malnourished idiot, whilst their 23 year old great aunt tells that “facking slut” that is their daughter to stop trying to run off, without actually trying to do anything about it. Get past these and it’s time to put the sunglasses on as you are bombarded by a chavalanche of white polyester and reeboks, both from the clientle and the the ubiquitous allsport, football world and other white good shops. You get the feeling that the reason they banned smoking here wasn’t to safe guard health, they were just sick of putting out Fila fires as stoned and drunk chavs dropped half finished Lambert and Butlers on their delightful trackie tops. At this point you will of course notice that the place looks as though it’s decorated by a thousand very small disco balls, but fear not, it’s just the parrot perch earrings of all the chavettes hanging around the discount jewellery shop and, of course, H Samuels and Argos. Make though this, get what you want, and it’s out into the wider world. On to the market, a delightful mix of stalls, some actually selling nice stuff, like secondhand dub vinyl and fairtrade coffee, but far to many of them selling rip off Ugg boots, yet more man made fibre clothing and ayml nitrates for the preteen chav to start their drug taking career with. It says something when the busiest stalls on the market are the chip stalls, 50p a bag and mind you don’t get your neighbours fag ash all over them. Of course there is also Anglia Square, a mecca for the chav’s where the only things that don’t cost a pound are the stolen DVD players and hooky baccy in Cash Generators, but as this quite out of the way and has nothing of merit to anybody with taste, it’s nothing to be troubled by, as you won’t be going there. After all this you might fancy a night out, but be afraid, be very afraid. There is essentially only one place to be for your average chav, but as it contains about half the city centre pubs it can be hard to avoid. Prince of Wales Road/Riverside contains the gems that are Time (Chart/Dance), Mercy (Chart/Dance) and Liquid (Chart/Dance), as well as Chicago’s and Brannigan’s, where all the chavette’s mothers and grans can be found trying to attach themselves to anything wearing trousers and standing upright, conciousness not required. Meanwhile their microskirted tart daughters are cackling over a barcardi breezer or 12 in Square’s or a 7 pint pitcher of red bull and vodka for 5 quid in Lloyd’s. If you are in this area and not having your liver pounded by cheap shots and your ears pounded by cheap music, then you must be outside, where you will be getting your face pounded by a large group of similarly shirted lads who have decided that as their collective IQ has now reached double figures, you must be starting something, and really “want some, mate”. All the while bored yet stressed police officers look on, desperately hoping that this is all Darwin in action. After picking your jacket off the floor and slipping over in yet another pile of pre pubescent puke you finally wend your way back home to discover your car has been vandalised again and the neighbours are having another all night R-n-B/shout at the tops of their voices party, as finally you pass out hoping it was all a bad dream. And that is Norwich, hick chav central.


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