I have lived in Woodseats for 18 months (by mistake – the estate agent told us it was ‘up and coming’, bastards). It is completely thronging with chavs, both ‘local’ from the Fraser estate and from such exotic outposts such as Low Edges and Jordanthorpe who come here in droves on the buses, tempted by the bright lights of The Big Tree, Farmfoods, Nettos, Iceland and my personal favourite (dirty) Jack Fultons.
In my first week here I ventured bravely out after 8pm and had only gone about 10 yards when a delightful chav couple staggered over the road towards the ‘Palace’ and fell over on the pavement right in front of me. As he went down he hit his head hard (the burberry cap offering little or no protection) on the window of Bargain Booze and unfortunately attempted to steady himself by grabbing hold of his girlfriend’s boob-tube. The offending garment slid easily down to her waist, revealing her ample charms to the world (lets face it, probably not for the first time).
As I veered around the wreckage and headed hurriedly home they were still writhing on the ground. He, clutching his head and bellowing ‘fookin ‘ell, fookin ‘ell and she cackling witlessly and emitting intermittent porcine grunts.
The only other time I have dared to be out after dark was a trip to the quiz-nite at the Abbey where thronging chavs of all ages struggled with life’s big questions such as : “What is it? It’s a domestic feline animal, 3 letters, rhymes with mat. C’mon surely someone can have a guess at it”. I feel lucky to have got out alive that night.
Other scenes of Woodseats life:
– Overheard outside KFC, father to wailing 3 year old girl “shurrup our Rimini”