I was born and raised in Plymouth during the 80’s. Up until about 8 years old my childhood was an innocent one, making new friends, riding my bike, playing football, the usual things you’d expect of any normal upbringing. Interestingly things in Plymouth never stay innocent for long, it’s almost ironic that ‘Freedom Fields’ hospital the place where so many normal children from my generation were born is disbandoned, a desolate wasteland, but haven to anyone looking for a quick fix, or waiting to jump out and knife an innocent bystander on the notoriously dangerous Greenbank Road.
Anyway back to the point I was 8 years old playing with my neighbours down the park when suddenly our cricket ball was picked up by a scruffy looking older teenager and his comrades. They threw our ball into the nettles, stole our bikes and then the female members insisted on pulling our hair and punching us black and blue. That was my first experience of the Swilly Gang a highly dangerous and professional c**v organisation in Plymouth. The park was a place where I could play freely was now property of these C**v Swillies.
It doesn’t stop there, as a teenager I had grown used to making a quick exit at the fear of ten on two warfare. C***s never fight fairly. Sacrificing the park me and my friends found some local woods to hang out in. Unfortunately as the c**v culture demands, these Swillies acquired noisey mopeds. Slow but bloody noisy. They used them in the woods. You only had to be spotted by one of them and then they would pursue you on these noisy machines. The sound was horrific and menacing. We had to leave the woods.
School wasn’t any better. I went to John Kitto. It didn’t just house all the Swilly C***s but also every C**v in Whitley, Crownhill, West Park, Pennycross, etc. Even teachers got punched there.
So you could say I’ve been educated in the way of C**v. I’ve been a victim of ‘Chavism’. ‘Chavism’ was the bastard that spawned within the cesspool that is Plymouth.
In Plymouth C***s are rife. They breed like rabbits, with no regard for birth control. Every c**v is related in some special way. This makes it easier for the c**v to vent his/her frustration. “Ere you bin callin me cousan a…” The truth of the matter is every c**v has several hundred cousins in the Plymouth area, you are bound to know at least one. So what can you say? It’s best to exit ASAP before your spat on, jumped on, bricked and kicked.
As you know bonfire night has just passed. I remember as I was unfortunate enough to live close to Swilly in my youth, the huge Bonfire that would mount up near the estate in North Prospect. Every year without fail the c***s would light it days earlier. Throwing in petrol, lighters, fireworks and lynx (their preferred deodrant – but only if they got it BOGOF @ Superdrugs). Then they’d get all serious and start swearing, cussing and throwing bottles when the firemen and police arrived to rid the public of a potential hazard. C**v’s to my knowledge love to endanger other people.
C***s drive at stupidly high speeds. And yes you’ve heard it and no it’s no rumour. Every c**v in Plymouth will at some point have had a Nova. It is as Maslow states in his hierarchy of needs – the point of ‘self actualisation’ to drive a Nova with a bucket exhaust, an odd blue door to compliment the red spray, with a goodman’s tape player which can play 90 minutes of trebly helter skelter it is like an eternal orgasm for the C**v.
If you want to see the Chavmobiles at their finest in Plymouth then go to Devil’s point if you dare. Here C***s speed into the car park with their Maccy D’s – eat it, throw it on the floor (hence the overwhelming problem with rat infestiation at Devil’s point). Then play their tribal music top whack, rev their engines, stand over the engine pretending to know what they’re doing (at night time too when it’s too dark to see) then speed off driving with one hand on the wheel and the other fondling their missus.
One thing though that I have learnt about the c**v is that they have a weakness. It is to catch them unaware and alone. A c**v without his older brother, uncle or pitbull is most often defenceless. They won’t suss, they won’t open their big janner mouths, they’ll shuffle pass you without batting an eyelid. But in numbers and with alcohol the same c**v is a lethal weapon – intent on destruction and violence. You see in Plymouth anything goes. Chavism is about adaptation they are like the borg. The innocent bystander fights with his fists the c**v uses bottles, metal bars, coshes, his mates, bricks! A c**v fights better with burberry so always expect to see checks.
I’m not sure about the UK as a whole but certainly in Plymouth the c***s favourite season is summer. This is because during the hot days C***s don’t have to wear anything above the waist. And seeing how every male c**v works for his Uncle either as a builder, bricky, window cleaner (or should I say window shopping), listening to Plymouth Sound on their crummy radio the c***s are able to expose their bodies to the sun’s damaging rays in order to acquire the most prolific tan. A c**v won’t use sun cream and will do as much cowboy work as possible in order that they can turn a dark muddy reddish brown colour not too dissimilar to the old tramps who sit on the Hoe drinking all day.
If you look really carefully you might even notice the ‘extreme’ c***s walking around town topless in the bleak months of October – November. Yes they will boast their cheap tans, their scrawny malnourished bodies and the awful tattoo they have inscribed around their belly button proclaiming proudly “Made in Swilly”
I realise I’ve been blabbering on for ages now, but ‘chavism’ for most normal people in Plymouth is a daily experience. C***s are everywhere in particular they are infesting Plymouth’s bus service. They don’t just cut you up in their Novas but also the younger c***s congregate at the back seats of Plymouth’s citybus service. Watch out for the number 35, 61, infact any bus service can easily fall victim to these. Its on the buses that you can hear them shouting out jannerisms, looking out the windows for their mates, “ere its em me cuzun”. You’ll hear extreme common swearing, stories of their latest conquests, who their “gona do in” etc. Dare you look behind you either – you’ll be received with the timeless “ere wot ya looking at!” Then suffer endless spit balls in your direction (Maccy D straws used as peashooters with their snot and flem as ammo). You’ll feel pepsi bottles full of urine hit the back of your head and when you turn around the confront the problem you’ll notice all the c***s staring at you in silence until the gobby one says “Ya got a’ problemz” The best thing to do is just get off the bus at the next stop and walk to your destination.
It’s the same if they are on their own, when using public transport the c**v always has his headphones in. Listening to his unstructured beats at the most ridiculous volume. Everyone on the bus has to put up with it and the c**v justs sits there motionless whilst doing an incredible amount of damage to his own ears. Hence the reason why when they are together they have to shout and make loud grunts in order to clearly hear each other.
Perhaps an historical day for the c**v was the recent re-opening of tinside pool. A c**v hotspot. They love to wade in the saltwater of tinside, cool and refreshing but also fairly discreet for the c**v when he/she urinates in the shallow end. Yes that’s right don’t let your baby learn to swim at tinside. Also it is here that the c**v will nick your towel, your underwear, your shoes, anything that will fit them. There are a generation of Plymouth c***s who will nick anything. C***s love to use tinside as a drinking parlour. “Stellas” is the champagne of c**v beverages and is often used to kick start a mates birthday party, but in Plymouth it is “White Lightin” that is the most common choice. It’s cheap, tastes of chemicals and is just over the 5% marker. Any qualified c**v would recommend it.
To be honest I better stop, there is more but I it would just go on and on. My advice to you is visit Plymouth for a week if you want to take the crash course in Chavism. Other than that don’t bother. Look out soon for ChavWars. My own personal account of dangerous encounters with Plymouth’s hardest C***s.