Flanked by some of the most picturesque countryside on the South Coast, with golden sandy beaches all astride the country’s largest natural harbour, Poole has all of the potential to be a tourist magnet. It simply isn’t.
So what went wrong?
Despite the huge ‘carte blanche’ potential to build something special on this natural ‘gold mine’, the council and town planners have succeeded in defacing as much of the beauty as possible with characterless concrete structures, and in a sick echo of ALL local public lavatories, enormous sprawls of pebble-dashed council housing s**t-holes.
In much the same way as an ugly girl clings to an attractive one in the hope of scoring a date (sometimes referred to as ‘guard dogs’) Poole clings to its more attractive sister Bournemouth, like some parasitic Siamese appendage, in the hope of attracting the unwitting tourist.
The ubiquitous tourist board strap-line of – ‘Poole, it’s a Beautiful Place’ would be better off substituted for – ‘Poole, its not too late to turn back’ , Poole – KEEP DRIVING or perhaps simply ‘Poole, it’s a f*****g s**t-hole.
As with any other urban s**t-hole, the Chavs (or as they are referred to here Cackers, Pikeys, Kyas or Didae Coys) congregate around the centre of Poole like flies around an enormous fiberous & smouldering dog turd. The best place for Chav spotting has to be the centre of Kingland Crescent. It is from here that you can observe the ‘common or garden’ 16 year old cacker grandmas push rusting car-boot death-trap baby buggies around the precinct.
A popular destination for the P***y mum is of course Lizzy Duke’s – a wholly owned subsidiary of Argos, where a veritable delight of giro priced tat jewellery is on offer for purchase. From here the Chav mum can often be seen leaving with an extra hoop of ‘gold-esque’ Creole earrings inserted above the others that are still scabbing over from last weeks purchase. It seems that the more rows of Creoles the Chav sports, the higher their esteem on the estate; perhaps it is indicative of some sort of primitive ranking system, in much the same way that soldiers receive extra stripes for each promotion ?
Of course the male of the species focuses on getting hold of the biggest Sov ring he can possibly fit round his Simian knuckles. In another primitive custom, the teenage Chav’s coming-of-age is celebrated when one of the elders purchases his first Sov ring as a gift. At this stage due to the incomplete bio-development of the subject, the maximum Sov-to-knuckle diameter ratio is 2:1, whereas in fully developed males, the Sov can achieve a 4:1 ratio, acting as a combined knuckle shield and branding implement for leaving a permanent clan mark on any unwitting opponent.
Having left Argos the Chav migration pattern seems to take them through the nearby train gates and into the backward pedestrianised epicentre of Poole. Standing on the train bridge and gazing down at the tide of human excrement below as it flows through Poole is indeed a sight to behold. Obi Wan Kenobi could have easily been describing the scene with the immortal Star Wars line ‘You will rarely find a more wretched hive of scum and villainy’; who knows maybe the scene was shot from the nearby Purbeck hills so he could get into character.
Anyhow, I digress, so what of the type of Chav / Cacker etc that inhabits this delightful slum ? Chav women (I use this term loosely) are either morbidly obese (Your typical McDonalds inhabitant, dimpled pasty stomach meat draped over the top of her ill fitting crushed velour tracky bottoms) or drawn cancerous skeletal hags, who would prefer to smoke their way through twenty Royals rather than indulge in a Big Mac Meal. There is NO in between.
Clothing tends to be cheap, flimsy highly flammable sports gear, with knock-off designer labels from their Chav mates in the pub, or recently Chavved garments from JJB sports or TK-Max. The hair is as ever, drawn back into the mandatory face-lifting pineapple which seems to characterise Chavs on a nationwide scale; maybe this is done more out of practicality than design, as it can hide many days of unwashed grease, and keep the hair out of the way of wayward cigarette dibs, who knows?
The male of the Poole chav species is rarely obese (this trait seems to be exclusively reserved for the female), instead they prefer the ‘belson’ look, with grey-fleshed emaciation and overactive acne being the order of the day. The tat bling and nasty shell suits drape over these skeletal frames to create the profile of a nylon clad grim reaper, yet without the dignity. These repugnant rat-boy infestations prefer the security of hunting unsuspecting citizens in packs similar to their hyena cousins (which are equally repellent) that roam the African plains in search of weak or wounded prey.
Intra-Chav dialogue appears to not only use swearing as punctuation, but as nouns, verbs, vowels and occasionally consonants as well. Another common communications method is where full-stops are replaced with hocking a large loogey onto the pavement before them, followed by wiping the chin with the cuff of the Kappa shell-suit. Unsavoury.
I have forgotten to mention one thing, Poole Chavs are not quite ‘normal’. I have seen many other Chav towns in my travels but never have I seen the backward sub-species of barely human sputum that haunt the streets of Poole. Something has gone horribly wrong. Perhaps a nearby asylum was closed in the Victorian era, and the inhabitants were integrated into the community. Perhaps a rogue 1920’s troupe of carneys decided to continue to in-breed and shared their DNA with the locals. Perhaps these re-habs have been in-breeding with the local council scum ever since… yes that would surely account for it..
Anyhow, I must bring this rant to a close.
If you are ever in the area, and would like to be truly disturbed to your very core, spend an hour by the train-gates viewing the wild-life; I can promise that you won’t be disappointed. I can also promise you that you will be sickened and never, ever, be the same again.