Portreath is infested with C***s and, like Illogan (see my previous post) has two distinct forms of Cornish Mafia. The adult and the C**v chapters.
The adult chapter of the Cornish Mafia are made up of wannabe politicians and local fishermen. These people meet on a regular basis and discuss vitally important issues like whether or not to ban the local ice cream van because of, “a disturbing amount of litter being blown about the beach and becoming a hazard to sea gulls.” They DO NOT, not ever, or even once, discuss things like drug use or crime in the village. There is an unwritten rule that acknowledging crime and anti social behaviour would be tantamount to admitting that the Cornish are not perfect. No Cornishman would ever admit to such a thing. The Cornish are perfect and don’t need any “outsiders” (“Emmets” as they are known locally) to tell them any different.
Other issues discussed at these quasi-political meetings are how much tourist ripping off can they get away with next summer and who will be the volunteers to drive tractors very slowly down main roads and cause thousands of “Emmets” misery in traffic jams. Previous records include, £6 per ice cream (Summer of 76) and a 5 mile tail back through Camborne achieved by farmer ‘Mad Jack’ on a Massy Ferguson circa 1946.
C**v hang outs include an old fisherman’s shed in the harbour and a derelict caravan in a field near the eastern end of the village. The shed is accessed by removing two loose boards at the rear. Amongst the rotting fish, rotting nets, rotting lobster pots and the over powering smell of unwashed C**v underwear, illicit underage sex and the Cornish pastime of, Butane gas sniffing take place nightly. C***s who overdose and die are rolled into the harbour and the police and the “Portreath Improvements Committee” (The quasi-political group mentioned above) agree together to call such incidents, “Tragic Drownings caused by freak waves coming in from the Atlantic.” This serves to leave the reputation of Portreath as a place where perfect Cornishmen live, intact.
Among the favourite C**v pastimes are:
Bunking off school. (Cornwall prides itself on its low teacher pupil ratio but fails to mention this is because most kids never actually attend school).
Drinking anything that contain alcohol
This includes Horse liniment. Brasso. Certain automobile polishes. The contents of thermometers.
Fatalities and weird births have fallen since they learned not to drink the “silver” ones.
The lugworm is a small brown worm that lives in sand on sea shores and are used by fishermen as bait. This pastime is ONLY indulged in when stoned on Butane. The Butane causes C**v brains to see the lugworm as liquorice laces, a sweat that is popular with C***s everywhere.
Illicit sex with anything warm
A pulse is not necessary so tourists should view hot pasties with suspicion.
This is a popular sport with local C***s. They take the view that the oppressive state (which is, “up there in that London place where all them damn ‘Emmets’ live, me dear.”) Oppresses them (“just ’cause we’me Cornish me ansome”) and is therefore fair game. The fact that BT provide telephone boxes for their safety and convenience has not yet dawned on them.
This is considered a vital area of cultural necessity as it keeps the Cornish blood pure and free from “Emmet” pollution. The fact that it produces two headed babies and an increased share of village idiots is thought to be a small price to pay.
This past time is a favourite amongst Portreath C***s. It has two primary purposes. The first is to prove bravery to local Chavettes. The second is to prove stupidity levels to the world in general. This cements the fact that Cornish lineage and marriage practise is a family tradition. In this activity, C***s ascend a high cliff and leap into three feet of water. Those who survive are cheered on by other C***s to do it again. Those who die are pronounced dead by local air-sea rescue teams and the press are informed that, “Them giant Atlantic rollers have claimed another victim.”
A sub species of C**v live in caves and old Volkswagen vans and exist on the dole. This sub species are looked upon with awe by land lubbing C***s and are known as “Surfer C***s.”
Surfer C***s eat raw sewage (Helpfully pumped out to sea for them by the local council) and because of this, they are considered to be a valuable resource by the local green activist. They dress in Neoprene wet suits that stink of stale sweat and urine and are often seen bleaching their hair to look cool to local Chavettes easily impressed by household bleach applications. Surfer C***s are militant and should be approached with caution. Local fishermen consider bombing them with lead weights during casting practise, a fine sport. “If them damn fish wont bite then catch a surfer.” Is a local axiom.