Where do the Chavs hangout here?Like everywhere?
OK; in truth Shoeburyness is not a TOWN, per se, it’s an extension of Southend-on-Sea.
If Essex is the bum of the UK, then Southend, is the arsehole.
And Shoeburyness is, well, the turds!
Southend took a monumental decision 30 years ago, that since Shoeburyness was a sort of backwater and a garrison area (Horeshoe Barracks), then the amazingly bright idea, was to fill Shoeburyness with all the social housing!
So, one now has what are best described as Wall-to Wall Scrotes, or Chavs!
Baseball caps, often worn back to front, are de riguer.
The shambling Neanderthol gait critical.
Copious spitting (a Chav item I see omitted, thus far!) essential.
It goes without saying, of course, that the local ChavSpeak is composed of few adverbs and adjectives other than “F*****g!”, “F**k!”, and other variegated choice epithets of Anglo-Saxon origin.
The preferred transport of Shoeburyness Chavs is the old Escort and if not an XR3 i (convertible) then an old dog of an Escort, tricked-up, with the baffleless exhaust, spoiler and “Allies”, is good.
These must be driven, always, at max RPM and speed. Insurance? Wassat? MOT? Wassat?
The local sport, for which Shoeburyness, with the aid of an EU Social Fund Grant, a Lottery Heritage Grant and ten zillions of Central Government funding, is training “Dysfunctional” yoof, for, is Fosters Beer Can Throwing.
An attempt only counts:
1. In a public place:
2. If the thrower is rat-arsed;
3. If the target is an innocent passing vehicle or user of the public footpath (N.B. They MUST also be in work and NOT claiming benefits – i.e. they must pay for the damage, themselves, out of hard-earned post-tax income, otherwise that throw doesn’t count).
4. If the thrower is under the legal age for drinking.
Points for style are gained, copiously, if the thrower projectile vomits his/her recently consumed meal. McDonalds, “Injuns” & “Chinkies” gain extra points, since their colour mix is liable to achieve Tracey Emin’s admiration.
What is so hilarious about all this, is that the old Horeshoe Barracks, much of which is listed, dating back to the early 1800s, is now an up-market housing development, being feverishly bought-up, by Post-Yuppy Wannabees.
Whom in their right mind, would pay hundreds of thousands for a DesRes, surrounded by Chavs, Scrotes and Dickheads?
Perhaps Shoeburyness and its quaint Cahv attractions, are best illustrated by the following true story. (I swear it’s true: I was there, waiting in line to post an important business letter!).
In Shoeburyness Sub-Post Office, in George Street, near the Garrison, they have a large black fibreglass replica of a Lab. Guide Dog, which has a slot to collect money for the RNIB.
This PO is also a honey pot for Family Allowance and “Social” collectors.
So, In front of me, is this overweight epitome of feminine pulchritude, dressed in the normal track suit, with the jogger bottoms (which are like over-sized BabyGrows) hovering about three inches above her bloated ankles. The leg skin showing is veiny and white and flaking skin. Nice. Her Reeboks ( White & Pink, of course) are dirty.No socks, of course. She enjoys more body piercing than one of Henry the 8ths torture victims, who has just been pulled out of the Iron Maiden!
Her two kids are prowling around the shop: the girl is fiddle-arsing about with the greeting cards and the boy, who is circa 4, but already has his number 2 haircut, earrings, the denims bomber jacket and jeans with turnups, well, he is kicking s**t, with HIS Reeboks, out of the innate Guide Dog.
Mum turns round from collecting her “Social” and says:
” Sebastian! Leave that fuckin’ dog arlone!”
Turns round further and shouts, “Chantelle! If you done leave them fuckin’ car’s arlone, I’m gonner f*****g kill yer!”
Sums it all up for me!