It’s been a while since I lived in Telford (I left in 1995 and grateful I am for that) but I would expect that not much has changed. I lived for a while on the Sutton Hill estate (generally considered to be the worst at the time) which had the only Spar (as far as I know) to close at 6.00 in the evening rather than the usual 11.00. The main customers were porcine women in their twenties (who looked like they were in their forties) dressed in an unflattering nightie and slippers combo who swarmed there to exchange their milk tokens for cheap sherry and fags while their saggy-eyed kids survived on a diet of oven chips and frozen own-brand pizza (and no milk).
Initially it was a mystery to me how these women ever got into a position where somebody was prepared to sire them a rat-baby until I realised that there are actually no attractive or unattractive young female Chavs in Telford. Let me explain – at a certain age (let’s say 12), the Telford Chavette learns that the place to be is the shopping centre around which all Telford Charver life revolves. From school chucking-out time until the last bus (or getting out of bed time until the last bus at weekends) the Chavette will mill around in a small gang with her friends, looking at skinny-faced boys wearing press-stud legged tracksuit trousers while surviving on nothing but a diet of Macdonalds slop and stolen lipstick/eyeliner. After a couple of years or so the chavette comes to resemble a small Kappa endorsed hot-air balloon. The fast-food diet causes her head to bloat in such a way that the skin is stretched into a featureless globe (imagine an orange bowling ball with a tiny pig’s nose drawn between the finger-holes and you’ve just about got it – a kind of ‘Burger Botox’ if you will). As all Telford Chavettes look like this each of them has as much chance as any other of securing a rat-faced sire for their brood (and they all succeed).
And ten years on you have the sorry specimen described at the beginning.
Well, it’s a theory anyway.