Like Catford, but not as upmarket
Well, where do I start. Peckham, once the home of department stores and Victorian villas. Now a desolation of Barrat Houses, high rise blocks and dog s**t. Outside the obligitory McDonalds you can buy all the crack that your average slack jawed Chav would want.
Rye Lane is a merciless succesion of Pound Shops, Mark One, Primark and pawn shops. As we pass the pawn shop shall we linger and investigate the contents of the luxuriant display? Better not, we’ll be mugged!
As you head north along Rye Lane, let’s follow the huge arsed chavette, clad in skin tight leggings, puffa jacket and pink Reabok trainers. Her hair is pulled into a gelled ponytail so tight she is wearing a permanent grin. The reason it is pulled back so tight is so that you can see the five pairs of tasteful HR Samuel 9ct gold plated earings that dangle from each lobe. The hair will not cover the matching “MUM” necklace that the fifteen year old is wearing, it is an essential accessory. Hanging off her right hand is a two year old toddler that screams with every step it is dragged. This is also an essential accessory. Every five yards the chavette will stop, slap the chavling hard accros it’s arse and shout “farking arry up yew littl kaaaant!”
I moved from Peckham when I was young. I went to Baghdad. It was quieter.