Written by Anonymous Visitor and posted in South East

Allow me to enlighten you regarding the rural Kentish village of Teynham which lies somewhere on the A2. So pointless a place is this, that it is necessary to use Sittingborne, it’s equally pointless, yet larger and marginally more vile neighbouring town, as a point of reference. Merely a stone’s throw from one another these vermin-ridden cesspits exist in a kind of putrescent harmony. Having acquired first hand experience of the mental torture delivered within this fetid catchment area notable for it’s abundance of G**o-types, I feel it only right to disseminate my misery amongst you good people, so as to effectively prepare you for the ordeal, should you be unfortunate enough to visit.

My brother and I where reduced from proud artists to gibbering morons a recent Sunday afternoon when our musical duo had been invited to entertain the public house goers of The Swan, Teynham afternoon. Arriving late for our appearance in somewhat inclement weather we were confronted by our audience; comprising a collection of misshapen old inebriates, chavs and tasty (in the f*****g hard sense) looking farmhands, mainly male, but with a few effeminately challenged exceptions. This lot, most of which must have been born in a bean tin, evidently possessed a marked lack of any cultural/musical appreciation. The landlord, masquerading under the guise of an aged child, appeared to be several figures shy of the national average I.Q. An undeniable lackwit bumpkin of the first order – you know, the sort that perpetually envisions the stage destined comedian with himself as a real self-confessed crowd pleaser, yet remains oblivious to the fact that he is just a stupid c**t.

As we soldiered on receiving occasional glances of indifference and/or contempt, a classic chav – robed in tracky bottoms and England Airtex top – entered the fine establishment accompanied by his entourage of grotesquely obese chavettes. One of which I must let off as I assumed her to be incubating a developing chav baby beneath her hill of flesh, the other was plainly just f*****g fat.

We whored ourselves for the agonising duration of approximately three hours for this collection of low lifes, some of whom’s flabbying jowels could occasionally be witnessed flapping as they groaned along to the more familiar tunes. One particular highlight was the emergence of a grey skinned soak and his scotch-purpled nose, with his mid song request for ‘Wild Rover’ – a classic and appropriate inebriate’s rant about spending all one’s money on whisky and beer, and generally being a lot of a waster.

In an effort to replenish our shot pride it seemed only right to get a kebab from Sittingborne high street. Now, any kebab connoisseur will concur that the absence of a falafel option is surely indicative of a Mickey Mouse kebab house. However, of the three establishments visited, not only was falafel off the menu, but two didn’t even seem to know what it was. With cleaver in hand and staring blankly back at me, my request fell on cloth ears. I guess the thought of non-processed-meat-based fast food wouldn’t register in the typical Chavland. A gathered throng of queuing delinquents were awaited by the obnoxiously driven chav chariots lined up outside. Yes you guessed it, massive exhausts, full body kits, those silly blue lights within the wheel hub – basically the works, on piddly little underpowered Novas etc. Frankly, this gave me the mother-f*****g hump and no mistake.

It was time to make an escape and get back to the normality of our North London roots where adequate foodstuffs are prevalent. However, always one for a bargain my eagle eye caught a curry house window sign offering Sunday buffet for the very reasonable price of £4.95! Cannot complain, well yes you can. From the minute we entered I realised our mistake, but it was too late to turn back. Confronted by tureens of largely meatless slop and tired salad questionably hygienic dishes we tucked in. It was no surprise to learn that the sparsely distributed ‘meat’ products present within the dishes were bang on cusp of being physically edible. More precisely, at a stage just prior inducing involuntary reversal of the peristaltic process i.e. projectile vomiting.

For the duration of the meal we contemplated the merits of partaking in a curry run. However, unfortunately during the planning stages of the escape three return bids were made for plate refills in order to overt suspicion. This somewhat rendered the athletic requirements of the get away a literal impossibility.

All in all, this was not an experience to be repeated.