Written by Anonymous Visitor and posted in United Kingdom, West Midlands, West Midlands

I moved here two years ago (yes, I actually purchased a property in Walsall!). I’ll be honest, it was purely because it was cheaper than Birmingham and I’d momentarily lost control of my senses. Can’t wait to move out. My house is wonderful though. I only wish I could say the same for my one set of next door neighbours. Get this – old age pensioner chavs. She looks like a gargoyle and he wears shorts, socks and sandles and has the face of whispering death. They spend all their free time up the Legion and no doubt have never been any further than a week’s caravaning on the Welsh borders. At first I was shocked by the sheer vast numbers of 14 year old chav mothers. Funny how quickly you accept it is the norm in Walsall. I think there must be a day centre for them somewhere near Tesco (what a smelly dump) since that it where they tend to congregate. Or perhaps the shoplifting is easier in there. Their small hard faces are plastered in thick makeup and their hair is styled in the usual topknot or high ponytail. An abundance of cheap Lizzie Duke gold jewellery complements the look. They all look so old too as they stuff yet another fag into their mean mouths. No consideration for their bastard child(ren) either as they blow a fug of smoke all over them. No matter. Chav offspring will be smoking weed by the time it is five. As for the fathers of these chav offspring, they will split their time between Brinsford YOI, McDonalds, the local park and the Crown Wharf retail park where they can browse at leisure in JJB and JD under the watchful gaze of the security guy. In terms of ugliness, you can get no uglier than a born and bred of the lineage of scum that is found in Walsall. I actually took my friends who were visiting me from Cornwall to Walsall town centre since they would not believe me how ugly most of the residents were. I think they are inbreds. Anyway, they apologised for not believing me and suggested it would make for a fascinating documentary. It also made them realise how blessed they were in both the looks department and where they lived. You can always tell who the visitors to Walsall town centre are – they have a hunted look about their eyes as they ask themselves what the f**k made me come here?! Let’s see. Good points about Walsall. Erm, oh yes – the Walsall Illuminations. From September to November all the chavs of Walsall will have visited at least once just to get a glow in the dark piece of tat. I have never been myself and will never go. Don’t much fancy being mugged. If you do ever have the misfortune of finding yourself in Walsall there is only one decent bar and restaurant to go to and that is Arbor Lights. It is the only place I have ever been out in in Walsall in the two years I have lived here as it is 100% chav and p***y free. Not like they could afford it in there anyway. Can’t see them perusing the wine list somehow. It is also a safe distance from the main drag of Walsall so you don’t even have to assault your eyes by walking past the corn beef coloured thick bare legs of the mutton dressed as lamb clientele. Do these woman not have mirrors in their homes? Whatever. It matters not a jot when they are squatting in the nearest doorway or down some piss smelling alley at the end of their top night out (= several Barcadi Breezers, 4 AfterShocks, 2 Baileys, 1 gin & orange, half a bitter shandy, countless snogs and gropes whilst waiting to be served at the bar, three fights in the toilets, doner kebab with extra chilli sauce and a quick shaft behind Morrisons). The future is bright for Walsall (apparently there are 25% more lights at the illuminations this year). Who knows, one day there may even be a Starbucks there and the chavs can congregate and mull over the politics of the day whilst sipping a triple shot skinny wet latte. I must stop this fantasising. What am I thinking? The nearest a chav gets to a decent coffee is a Kenco from the services on the motorway as they drive to see their mate in Feltham. Anyway, enough of my rantings. I must start of thinking of enterprising ways of getting myself out of here. Oh how I go to bed at night and, after managing to fall into slumber (very difficult with the sound of sirens every three mins) dream of my barn conversion in the country …