Sometimes life can be difficult. Consider the position of a chav inhabitant of Spalding, Lincolnshire. The town is essentially stuck at about 1953. It’s still a sleepy market town with social clubs, a civic (legitimised busybodies) society, Sainsbury’s, a flower festival, riverside walks and tearooms. In short, the chav is up against it. Those vast armies of chavs in nearby Peterborough (Pronounced ‘pee tar bra va’), Boston (Pronounced ‘Bust on’), and Wisbech (Pronounced ‘P***y Central’) have it easy in comparison.
Despite these fearsome obstacles to the continuation of the lifestyle, the Spalding chav still clings to the land of his birth for three principle reasons :
1) Geest (a giant firm that processes most of the bananas in the UK) provides a variety of employment opportunities to fit in with the chav lifestyle of late nights. In addition the proximity to vast quantities of bananas is somehow strangely comforting for them.
2) A morbid fear of anything further than three miles from the McDonald’s drive through on the A16. This fear has a long history. In ancient times there is evidence of a war between the peoples of Spalding and Crowland (all of 10 miles away)
3) Family ties are still very strong (After we get married, can I still call you sis ?)
The Spalding chav thus has to concentrate on the chavisation of the town. Ambition is virtually unheard of amongst chavs, and this gives us a clue to the odd breed that is the Splading chav – they just somehow fail to even achieve full chavdom.
For example the average chav will bedeck their wardrobe with various items Burberry or at least good fakes. The Spalding chav contents himself instead with a two-pound baseball cap from the discount shop ‘Scooby do’s’ clearly labelled ‘ BURBARRY’.
Another celebrated example is the occasion when a group of young chavs stole a car of a Friday evening. So far, so good, a ram-raid was planned, and chav-stardom beckoned. Then the whole effect was ruined by the choice of store – Poundstretcher, not even an attempt at Thresher, Halfords or Ernest Jones.
On the plus side, the town centre pubs can cater for the local chavs. The Bass house and the Black horse will serve just about anybody. Local legend has it that the ‘Punchbowl’ (was ever a pub more aptly named) operates a system that is the reverse of a ride restriction test on a theme park ride. Namely anybody whose eyes reach above the level of the bar will be served. Allegedly.
One word of warning – the Spalding Flower parade attracts up to a quarter of a million people during the May day weekend. At this time the Spalding Chav takes every opportunity to try and prove to the world what a dim-witted, in-breed, web-footed moron he or she is – and proud of it to. Becoming a proper chav would be move up the social hierarchy.