I’m actually from Watford, so I’m always prepared for a Chav onslaught. Now that I’m working in Peterborough, Watford is almost posh (yes, that’s a deliberate pun as Peterborough FC are known as the Port Out Starboard Home or P.O.S.H.).
Driving into Peterborough in the morning can be a dangerous thing. The local ‘ladies’ cannot distinguish between the colours red and green, so simply push their buggies full of ‘too obese to walk’ children into the road obliviously and then shout at the ‘big shiny monsters on wheels’ as you drive by.
It doesn’t matter – the accent is so thick that it may not even be English. Never make the mistake of asking about the father. It’s almost certain to be the girls own father or brother.
If she’s got a bike or a pair of heelies, it may be her cousin. Maybe.
Pull into the multi storey car park and swerve to avoid the pissheads who slept there last night after falling out of Flares (seriously, it’s a 70’s club) or Chicago Cock café. Someone has actually chalked the word ‘Hotel’ on the entrance to the car park and the drunks take great delight in trying to headbutt the height restriction sign at the entrance. So expect blood.
Park your car and walk through town past the Cathedral and sundry ancient buildings. Expect to be asked five or six times if you have got ‘40p for a phone call’ or the question ‘I need £1.20 for bus fare, can you help with that?’ I have found that the reply ‘I need £120,000.00 for a flat, can you help with that?’ usually sends them running.
The Big Issue sellers are the best dressed of the locals – and the most polite. Stand near one if you are getting really fed up with the beggars. It may cost you a couple of cigarettes, but it’s worth it for the protection.
At night. What are you doing in Peterborough at night? Night starts at 5.30, that’s when the alley between Tesco and The Moon fills up with aggressive piss artists who can’t get into the bars. Within twenty minutes, every bar is full of wanna be ‘Gangstas’. It’s no good explaining that they are white, British and live in the countryside. If they say East L.A., then leave it that way.
O you know someone who isn’t Caucasian? Don’t take them to Peterborough. Outside it may be 2008, but in P’boro city centre, the skinheads (yes, really) think that it’s 1979 in terms of race relations.
There are several large posts with cameras attached displaying a telephone number which leads directly to the Police. The idea is that you stand there in the light and call, at least your kicking will get onto ‘You’ve Been Fucked’ once the video tape gets out.
If you’ve survived until 9.00 you can ‘go clubbing’. Chicago, Liquid etc are all in a row. Stand back and watch as the local tarts totter in already drunk and then fall out again several hours later.
Local blokes looking for a shag don’t bother to go into the clubs at all. They just turn up at closing time and wait. Any Chavette who has had a row with her mates or is one too many for the cab is fair game. If she’s at the point of unconsciousness, so much the better, just do her in the alleyway and leave her there for someone else to have later. This is called ‘recycling’.
If it’s your cousin, so much the better – at least you know her name.
Peterborough is surrounded by miles of open countryside. Perfect for burying the bodies.