Ilfracombe/Minehead/South Molton/Much of North Devon,
I am a firm believer that small coastal resort towns (see the Torquay entry) and provincial Market Towns can often provide some of the richest veins of chavdom to be found in the kingdom. When you consider the characteristics of small towns such as these, the reasoning becomes clear: low, often seasonal employment, a generally low level of culture, shockingly low levels of education, and almost hilariously low prospects for incumbent inhabitants (male=selling ice cream, female=selling ice cream or getting pregnant and on to the housing list). There is a marked absence of a certain low cunning that c**v inhabitants of large cities may admittedly possess. This in turn gives the country c**v an even more remarkably low ability to think for itself, and a correspondingly strong ‘herding’ instinct (could alternatively be the proximity of all those sheep).
Bear in mind that these provincial c***s are very much the poor ‘country-mouse’ cousins of their immeasurably richer town-dwelling brethren, so there is a marked absence of ‘class’ gear such as Burberry. The kind of disposable income that allows town mouse c**v to piss it up the wall in places like Croydon is much rarer, and the country mouse c**v is definitely more likely to be found loitering in a bus shelter lugging from a bottle of ‘Wild N White’. However, what these rat-faced little f*****s lack in fiscal clout they more than make up for in their ability to turn brief eye contact into a grevious insult to their person.
Therefore if you visit Ilfracombe, South Molton or Minehead, instead of the quaint Edwardian resort town and picturesque market town with a large selection of antique shops and tea rooms that you might expect, you will instead be faced with large flocks of bored, drug-addled TWOCers in JJB sports gear and cheap jewelry. In Ilfracombe the c***s (mostly scousers as far as I can tell – don’t ask me why. I have no idea) favour the sea-front, especially the ‘Sunspot’ amusement arcade, where they can be seen spitting, smoking, swearing and dealing in the plentiful supply of cheap drugs that has slowly been wrecking this once beautiful town over the last ten years. One of the saddest aspects of Ilfracombe are the old couples who lived through the war shuffling along the sea front next to the theatre. You can see it in their eyes: the disappointment and disbelief at what has happened to their country…like Denethor armouring up to face the hordes of half-c**v half-orc Uruk-Hai in the Two Towers (I am surely not the only one who noticed how c**v-like the orcs were) they are aking themselves ”How did it come to this?”…..it is a very good question, and one we should all be asking ourselves.
In South Molton the c***s apparently live on the town-square, where they are engaged either in primitive mating rituals (abusing passers-by in a thick west country burr with language so profane it would make Bernard Manning look at this feet) or driving repeatedly around the square in their awful prickwagons. The c**v problem here has gotten so unmanageable that the local pubs have all agreed to ban certain core-troublemakers from entry. However, plenty make it into the pubs, and the place to go to see these fokkers in their natural environment oscillates between the Kings Arms and The Tiverton Inn (depending on which is more ‘fashionable’ according to the local arbiters of taste at the time.) Stay away.
However it is perhaps Minehead that represents the ‘ne plus ultra’ of chavdom in North Devon – not only does it have a sizeable native population of dole-scrounging kev-s***s, housing list sluts and addled junkies, but it is unfortunately host to a very large Butlins, holiday destination choice for the REAL s*****g. The kind of end-of-the-line s**m that are drawn to this hell-hole ‘resort’ can scarcely be imagined, and must be witnessed. The most glaring feature of these c***s-on-holiday is that NONE OF THEM IS HAVING FUN. The parents of these little domestic disasters are busy drinking themselves into the ground whilst simultaneously fending off screaming demands for more money from their vile rat children. The baseball capped c**v-larvae want this money so they can feed it desperately into an arcade machine, probably one that assaults their already daytime-TV scrambled senses with such a torrent of violent colours and sounds as to render what small part of their minds remains useless. Oh Maggie what have we done to England? Meanwhile one of the most beautiful regions of England (Exmoor) sits scarcely a mile distant. It might as well be on f*****g Mars for all the interest the c***s show in it. Mind you, it is probably just as well – the thought of c***s running amok over the beautiful countryside, s******g, pissing, swearing and littering the place up does not appeal. However, it has just occurred to me that there is a solution to both the Exmoor-stag-hunting-right-or-wrong debate and the local c**v problem. Why not set the hounds on them?
p.s. My advice to those set upon by market town c***s is the following (this advice applies if you are a normal, healthy young male of average build in his mid-twenties). If the c**v-to-you ratio is two-to-one or under, and they do not possess knives (or pitch-forks), do not worry as you are quite safe. They may appear threatening, but just remember; their shocking diet of Burgers, Fanta and Lambert & Butler has left them weak and feeble. They may be clad head-to-foot in ‘sports’ gear nicked from JJBs, but it is a fair bet that the only exercise they have had in the recent past has been a drunken fumble behind Chicago Rock Cafe in Barnstaple (formerly Bees nightspot – DO NOT GO HERE) consisting of 28 thrusts of increasing vigour between the legs of a close relative. Additionally, cruising around market-town squares again-and-again-and-again in their shitty ‘tricked-up’ cars has completely ruined their sense of balance, and you will find they go down quite easily once punched in the neck.