Ali G’s hood! An absolute dump of a place. Walking around the High Street will make you want to get a prescription for Prozac.

All the under age ***** hang out near Thershers to buy smokes and durries. Anywhere in the High Street is a male **** hangout, especially near the phone box where “they try” to hook up a few birds, hey.

The **** (the absolute lower class of *****) spend their time at Grassy knoll doing you know what.

The ***** also loiter around the cop shop to sign in for bail. The cops know each of the ***** on a first name basis.

The ***** and bogans (who smoke Winfield Blues rock up in their moccasins and flannellette shirts) sink booze at the Litten Tree in High Street. It’s the best place to see a free fight or three.

It won’t take long to encourage yourself to dig out of this hole.

Of all the towns laying claim to ****-appeal, the miserable peri-urban sprawl of Staines, this architectural blot on the Middlesex landscape, sits head and shoulders above the rest. It is the absolute apex of **** residential aspiration, crammed as it is from end to end with tattooed, burberry-clad knuckle-draggers… the slack-jawed, insolent, gum-chewing and witless sort of pond life that should, by rights, be floating in a bottle of formalin in some medical museum for future anthropologists to learn from, rather than cruising the streets and the local bus station as they do (the *****, that is, not the anthropologists), cheap jeans around their knees priapically exposing lurid tartan boxer shorts that house the revolting generative equipment required to oblige the local Sharons and Tracys with a **** sprog to further their chances of a council flat and up their benefits a nudge.

Other than the few almost-respectable pubs and isolated, unbearably cutesy-poo little three-hundred-year-old villagey houses that cling to the banks of the lazy and autumn-swollen Thames, and which are the last link between Staines’ forgotten respectability and the final downward rung on the slippery ladder to chavdom, there is no justification for the place to exist, and it should be napalmed at once as the only way to rid it of the creeping burberry plague. We can’t take a chance.

For my sins, I’m a journalist – and a friend of mine, a gentle, decent and honourable man – drives a bus. This bus travels through the back-streets of Staines’s appalling slum satellite, Stanwell – which borders Heathrow airport, and which has secured an enviable place in **** history by being the first town to have a police curfew imposed on the nomadic, marauding bands of ***** and to have its buses regularly withdrawn by the bus companies, thanks to the intervention of the local chavdom.

Buses are regularly stoned (no, not that kind of stoned – you know what I mean); they have had wheelnuts fired through their windows from high-powered catapults, with drivers and passengers being injured – and have had their way blocked by drooling little bling-bedecked, burberry-clad, sovved-up chavlets on bicycles, who open the engine flap at the back, knowing that there they will find the emergency switch that cuts the motor, which they do.

What follows – opening the emergency door at the back, for example, in an effort to get the driver to leave his seat so that they can have it away with his cash tray – has the potential to go disastrously wrong. Several soptty, runty examples of local chavhood have already been given ASBOs, and blissfully disregard them daily.

What ****** and his mates seem to lose sight of – if, indeed, they have the capacity for thought at all – is that if a bus driver is injured and the bus crashes, or if old Doris three rows from the back has her gentle old grey head punctured by one of their missiles, or has a heart attack and dies of fright, we are suddenly talking murder, ****** lad – and we are suddenly in the big league, which is a very, very uncomfortable spot for little would-be hard men.

Someone – probably a policeman – wrote brilliantly on this site recently of ******’s adventures in the heavily soundproofed custody suite of the local nick after it all went horribly wrong one glorious alcopop-fuelled Friday night, and he did something naughty that invited the attention of the local constabulary.

The eleventh commandment – and certainly the only one known to ****** and his ******, brave-in-large-numbers-but-not-so-brave-otherwise little chums – is ‘Thou shalt not, whatever you do, get ******’ caught.’

And, of course, normally they arrange things so that they don’t. But it’s a numbers game, and the law of averages says that – one day – ******’s planning will go wrong, and he will be in the wrong place at the wrong time.

An old-style basement interview with an enraged, 18-stone, magenta sergeant bearing a grudge and some of his more persuasive pals down the local nick, while an innocent bus driver – a gentle family man – or helpless old Doris lies dead next door, under a sheet that’s been pulled up all the way, is not an experience that ****** is likely to enjoy very much. Furthermore, all the other bus drivers, and old Doris’s son quietly doing time in Belmarsh, and soon out for good behaviour, will be very annoyed indeed.

It is, however certainly one that ****** will remember – and during which he will have ample chance to explore every possible meaning of the word ‘pain’ – the very same pain that he and his bovine cohorts so happily inflict on others in these dangerous and infinitely childish games.

There is real hate, though, in the face of ****** and his odious crew; you can see it simmering there. American television and the so-called gangster ‘culture’ have a lot to answer for.

And the vacant, sniffling little 14-year-old ********* – small girls, barely through puberty, who talk through their noses and who are already pushing their own burberry prams down to the Social Security office with their frightening mothers – are, in a way, more savagely frightening in the intensity of their hate than bewildered, testosterone-fuelled, crotch-grabbing little Gazza pulling handbrake turns in his Saxo in McDonald’s car park on a Friday night.

Staines is the spiritual home of Ali G and it really does seem that the locals have taken to this role model with pride. Unfortunately, they have overlooked the fact that he was laughing AT *****, not with them. Staines is the loser in this equation. The town planners have been fighting a losing battle with the **** population of this hell hole since the 1980s. Fruitless throwing of money at a problem that cant be solved (unless you’re buying an assault rifle and lots of bullets) include:
Re-arranging the entire towns road layout to stop the streetracing that went on on a nightly basis.
Unfortunatly they seemed to think that putting traffic lights at every junction is a good idea. So now instead of one big race, we have 20 or so races from each set of lights, every time they turn green.
another pointless “Social engineering” experiments is:
Pedestrianising the High Street.
Not only has this tuned it into a repository for every thug, low life and ******* to congregate after dark, but it has also tuned it into an assault course for people with an IQ higher than 85 to negotiate. In a similar vein to “Run the Gauntlet” the object is to see if you can make it from one end to the other without having a beer bottle thrown at you or abuse hurled in your direction. Extra points can be gained if you manage to use a cash machine without being set upon. Not surprisingly there are few winners in this contest. Mostly due to:
Pubs and clubs within the area.
Herein lies the problem. Despite numerous “initiatives” to stop them (Banned from one, banned from all, yellow and red card systems, saturating the streets with police) The local publicans spend friday and saturday nights rubbing their hands with glee as every **** worth his salt dons his best burberry and stone island and descends en masse to drink till drunkeness (definite), violence (probable), police intervention (likely) and death (we can only hope) sets in. Kicking out time at the Litten Tree is noted for the way the police dont even need to be called anymore. Regular as clockwork a riot van parks opposite at 10.55 every saturday night and waits for the violence to unfold before wading in with a complete lack of enthusiasm. Probably because they know they will be there in exactly 7 days time, doing exactly the same thing. The Toad is a similarly **** ******** pit, with doormen and extortionate bar prices doing little to dampen the ****’s enthusiasm for alcoholic oblivion and violence to themselves, the surrounding street furniture and anyone who has the misfortune to be there at the wrong time.
The George, while not as plush or contemporary as the Toad, makes up in substance for what it lacks in style. Cheaper bar prices usually mean the drunker, louder and more obnoxious ***** are usually fresh from this place.
As for the Blue Anchor, just over the road from The George, well that place used to be a meeting place for the local Hells Angel biker gang till it was “Cleaned up” and turned into another prefab – identikit **** hutch. Interestingly, while the ‘Angels were in residence, doormen were not required. Now its just another **** haunt, they are a regular sight outside.
The events that occur when all of these places chuck out at the same time is diffiuclt to put into words. However as a professional writer, I will have a go. If you can imagine a similar setup to the helicoper attack scene in Apocalypse Now, with the ***** playing the Gooks and the police, doormen and taxi drivers playing the part of the Americans then you’ll get an idea of what goes on. Replace Wagner’s “Ride of the Valkyries” with some wanky 2-step garage tune or similar urban RnB “Riddems” and you’ll be closer. Replace the climactic napalming of the offending village with a combination of kebabs, vomit, broken glass, violence and a smattering of recreational drugs and you’ll have an idea of what happens in Staines on a Saturday night.
Finally, the survivors of the previous 3 hours’ events all move as one to the crowning **** in the central Staines area. Cheekees nightclub used to be called The Exchange, but the owners decided a name change would improve its image when a generous amount of explosives and a detonator would do the job better. I have it on good authority that most of the taxi drivers that go down there after dark are armed for self protection and with good reason. Quite apart from the shocking concept of actually having to PAY to get in, the sight that greets you once you’re inside is simultaneously shocking, funny and deeply depressing all in one.
Spikey haired rudeboys all compete for the same ***** scrags that are there week in, week out. Before long the inevitable drunken fighters square up. Security are funny in that they stand between the prospective fighters, not calming either party down, but waiting for the first punch to be thrown before they can wade in themselves. The dancefloor sway in unison on a bed of broken glass to a DJ playing a set consisting of a complete lack of any good music. The familiar, yet ***** “UKG” or “Urban” sounds dominate the playlists with anything which isnt “Bling” or “Street” (or good if you want to use a term which is easier to understand) being completely overlooked.
Before long, shortly after they have emptied their wallets at the bar for test tubes of toxic alcoholic gunk, the inevitable pairing off of the ***** and ********* occurs with the romantic locations of blatent and obivious sexual congress including behind the bins at the back of the club, on the top floor of the multistory, on the banks of the nearby river thames and in the doorway of the Argos round the corner. The only good thing about this is the lack of used contraceptives that are scattered around the area after this occurs every weekend. The only bad thing is the lack of used contraceptives means a whole new generation of ***** are being created. The setup is a self perpetuating cycle with the system creating the ***** it needs to survive. The only courses of action that can stop it is mass chemical serilisation of eveyone enetering the town centre wearing Burberry after 10.30pm on a saturday night. Either that or the detonation of a small nuclear device to completely wipe the town from the map. Can I see a showing of hands for the latter? Carried unanimous!

I can’t believe Staines isn’t already listed!

The ‘home’ of Ali ‘G’ and subsequently ‘The Staines Massive’ – because the inhabitants of this place, so named because it is A DIRTY MARK ON THE FACE OF THE EARTH, actually think he’s for real. Yes, honestly.
I have seen graffiti proclaiming the territory of “ThE staIns mASiv” – the only strength of the local high school being ‘sports’ (for which read ‘thuggery’) not language, or indeed anything that doesn’t involve running a bit fast (useful from ‘leggin’ it’ from the local plod for one’s most recent act of mindless antisocial behaviour) and/or full body contact.

The centre of Staines is, naturally, the local shopping centre, where young ***** congrate to amble from shop to shop, marvelling at the utter ***** on offer and declaring, at the top of their muck-common voices and around their perma-visible chewing gum, “‘S WEEEELL GUD, INNIT?”. Frankly, no, it’s generally not.

The height of fashion here, is tucking one’s tracksuit bottoms into one’s football socks, or, for girls, pulling back one’s hair so tight it appears to be receeding and slicked with axl grease. There is no tolerance for the small clique of local Rock Kids, who are routinely bellowed at as “FU’K’N GRUNGERS! GUNNA **** Y’SELF LIKE THAT BLOKE FROM THAT BAND? ***’N FREAKS!” truly should be.

The local jewellers are invariably shunned in favour of the local Argos, where all know ***** kit themselves out in sub-standard 9ct Gold tat.

The most beautifully ironic thing about about Staines – which I gleefully left at the first opportunity – is that the local Posh (confined to a row of houses along the stagnant swap passing as a river) actually want to change the name to ‘Staines-on-Thames’ in a bid to smarten up its image.

Until such time as the local ***** are rounded up and forced to eat themselves to death on their own pseudo-designer sports wear, or garrotted with their own clown necklaces (even thrown into said river, weighed down by their earrings), the only name change for which Staines is deserving, would be to the wholly more accurate:

BLOT ON THE FACE OF THE EARTH

Avoid at all costs.