Every time, every single f*****g time I see one of the cerebrally malnourished delinquents defending their hometown, (which more often than not resembles Hiroshima at 08:20 on 6th August 1945), it is with the English language, literary and literacy skills of some zombie like creature from a 50 year old horror movie.
There are tribes in the Amazon rainforests that are, as yet, undiscovered by man with a better command of the English language.
My mates parrot can string a more coherent sentence together. I probably could after 18 pints (yes in my 20’s I could drink like that although being an old and responsible codger now I probably couldn’t).
There’s nothing like a good debate – and let’s face it, exchanging comments with the average Chav is absolutely nothing like a good debate. Chav’s we’re not talking about fishing here, as in “where’s de bait?” A debate is where two or more people hold a discussion with differing points of view, the objective being to reach an amicable solution or eventually agree to disagree. It is not to make one side feel intellectually sub-normal so they resort to the only thing they know, such as clubbing unconscious the side who can string together words with more than two sllya, sylab, syllba, sounds.
Please feel free to respond to me once you’ve learnt the difference between where, wear, were and we’re; and between to, two and two; and between there, their and they’re. I can take you for language lessons if you want, but if you’re staying for dinner make sure you know which cutlery to use.
When defending your hometown, please do not say articles are a “hole” lot of s**t. A hole in that context is where you live. Or it can be a huge hole in the ground that we all hope that you and your residence fall into – preferably a bottomless one. A hole can also be that sperm bank (called a bank cos it welcomes all custom as long as you leave a deposit) in your chavette where you put your fetid dick complete with ‘galloping knobrot’ to bring forth another lawless, morally vacuumed, granny bashing parasite.
Born and bred in Hull of one Yorkshire/one Geordie parent, schooled on the Norfolk Broads and resided in the south, south-west, Scotland and lived and worked on every continent except Antarctica I have a fairly good handle on accents. The British dialects are brilliant, fascinating and wonderful. Reading the tripe you lot speak is about as much fun as having my eyelids pulled off with pliers.
R.IP. The Queens English
PS. Chav’s, the Queens English means it is spoken properly, not it’s only spoken by poofters.