Selsey, a forgotten backwater town at the end of the line (literally) nestling on the English Channel.
A hellhole of no prospects, poor education, no economy, filled with feral burberry-clad losers of all ages, either outside the convenience stores and off-licences (under 18) or in one of the “locals only” pubs (see The Slaughtered Lamb in American Werewolf in London), or down “the camp”, a revolting king-size caravan/trailer park (the largest in Europe, doncha know) in one of the bars or the arcades.
In deepest West Sussex, around the snobby city of Chichester, there are many smaller towns, and if you can’t afford to live in “Chi”, you live in Bognor. If you can’t afford Bognor, you live in Barnham, if you can’t afford Barnham, then it’s one of the Bersteds, after that it’s Yapton, and so on, and at the end of this socio-economic line is Selsey, a once thriving tourist town, now home to some of the grimmest excuses for people I’ve ever seen (and I’ve lived in some rough areas, Croydon – where I witnessed a murder outside the big station there, Streatham Hill, West Reading, Eastleigh).
Selsey is a dead end town. How anyone can say Chichester is a chav town is unbelievable when this cesspool is less than nine miles away amazes me.
A local post office was run by a wonderfully friendly Bangladeshi couple (Selsey is a shocking 99.5% white, so diversity is still unknown there), until they were driven out by the local thugs smashing their windows and daubing NF all over their property.
Walking through the high street of an evening will bring an encounter with the bling-toting crew cut teenage gang, guaranteed to at least hurl volleys of abuse at you, or on a good day, they’ll throw stones at you.
Elizabeth Duke is too good for these latchkey dropkicks, they shop at the indoor market or the infamous summer Monday market. Maybe you’d prefer Southern England’s premier fencing events, the car boot sales in the summer. Stolen mobiles a go go.
Outside the One Stop on the high street parade, these betracksuited youths gather in alarming numbers, “steam” their way in and out occasionally, knowing that the police are about an hour away, and the old biddies behind the counter are powerless to do anything about it. Once they’ve charged up on WKD or somesuch alcopop they’ll roam the streets in groups looking for something to smash up (bus shelters an old fave, but shop windows are fair game, churches too).
Down at the massive West Sands caravan complex, the locals gather in the Embassy (an old style “entertainment” venue) starting fights with visiting chav families. An old friend used to work as physical security at the complex, and was never short of work, either massive 20 person brawls (often over local teen sluts being “eyed up” by holidaymakers) or a caravan break in rate approaching 10%.
This town is doomed.