If ever evidence is required to prove that the social fabric of this once great nation of ours is decaying, then a journey to Seacroft bus station (on the outskirts of Leeds) is all that is required.
Regularly i sit, head in book, surrounded by a plethora of chavs and chavettes. I feel out of place, after all I am wearing a shirt and tie; and there isn’t a single ounce of nylon-polyster or gold plated, zircon encrusted, jewlery on my person. What would Tolstoy make of these raggerty little urchins that infest our bus stands, I wonder?
As several 14 year old chavettes come and sit down in the vacinity I wonder to myself is this a young mothers meeting, or a day trip from the VD clinic. As they chuck their empty sweet rappers on the floor I think to myself, “wow you can balance a parrot on those earings”.
As their male counterparts turn up on the scene, despite feeling slightly intimidated, I admire their ability to construct a sentence devoid of anything other than proffanities. I have made numerous attempts, but can’t quite manage it. This admiration is only matched when dad turns up, complete with dangerous dog (usually pitbull or Rottweiller), who having lived longer has turned swearing into a zen- art-form. Have these people ever read a book? I doubt it.
Mummy / granny chavs (it’s hard to make a clear distinction) can also be found “darn Tesco”. Usually they can be found slapping their badly behaved, and unwashed, baby chav (usually holding a “cig” in one hand).
After writing this I have realised something important: going to Seacroft bus station isn’t done by Chavs with the purpouse of catching a bus, but it is, in fact, a familly day out – wow!