Wakefield’s claim to fame is that it is the Rhubarb Capital Of The UK. Seriously. Local chavs are also proud to announce that Wakefield boasts two Mc Donald’s (yes, DOUBLE the job opportunities for most of our school-leavers), a cathedral (that makes it a city, you see, and as good as Manchester or Liverpool or London, you SEE…) and a prison housing some of the most dangerous, sociopathic mass-murderers in the country.
Wakefield’s cultural wilderness is astonishing. The (in)famous “Westgate Run” can be funny to watch on a Friday/Saturday night, so long as you’re at a safe distance and probably behind bullet-proof glass. A mating ground for those whom evolution forgot: apish men with shaven heads drag their knuckles along the floor, lumbering about after women in white stilettos and matching PVC cat suits, who clatter round screaming like banshees. Your Wakefield chav laughs in the face of sparkling conversation or quick wit. Because everyone knows that the way to REALLY impress is to make as much noise as you can. You either talk over-loudly about the Bird You Bedded Last Night, or how many times you’ve claimed the free emergency contraceptive pull from the (sorrowfully over-stretched) NHS clinic. THAT’S how you ooze class (“yer fuckin’ dick’ead”).
Another cultural hotspot is the steps of Wakefield Cathedral on a Saturday afternoon, where you can sit with some children who all wear baggy jeans and pseudo-satanic “hoodies” and do soft drugs and throw bricks and other missiles at harmless street preachers. As everyone knows, chavs and goths hate each other. So keep a safe distance, never return to the lit firework and ENJOY as two fourteen-year-olds pull out chopping knives on each other. As far as dining out goes, when our chav feels like pushing the boat out, there are more filthy, net-curtained tearooms, greasy-windowed kebab shops and two-for-a-fiver old men’s pubs than you could shake a fistful of sovereign rings at. And, of course, two Mc Donald’s “restaurants”.
Wakefield has a theatre. It holds about one hundred people. Pantomimes seem to be on pretty much all year round. That’s where the chavs take T’Kiddies when they have a fit of conscience for having stumbled in blind drunk and screamed blue murder at Daz/Kaz the previous night.
“Argos Corner” is where prostitutes ply their trade, Kirkgate Railway Station is where the chav children congregate to swig cider, rip information posters and payphones off the wall and dare each other to run across the railway line. And, like in any self respecting Chav Mecca, there are various areas where everyone knows it’s not safe to walk after dark. Or in the daylight.
Native chavs deem intelligence a fatal flaw and regard those of us who have managed to escape “Down South” to university as traitors. Wakefield is a hole, overrun by chav scum. All the males sport that horrendous Uniform Male Chav Hairstyle (the hair is cropped all over…then a copious amount of Poundland wet-look hair gel is applied to the frontal portion of their hair. Tiny, stringy, wormy little strings of hair are gelled down to form a fringe effect, which look annoyingly like tassels on elderly people’s soft furnishings. Chav Girls must simply scour Wakey Market on a Saturday morning and find hairdye in the shade of yellow LEAST likely to ever occur naturally, and apply copiously. Avoiding the root area, for full chav effect. And they are ALL in desperate need of some orthodontic help. And they never close their mouths. My favourite thing about Wakefield is Westgate Railway Station –the gateway out of the place.