Welcome to Watford – never were three words ever arranged with such promissory hypocrisy than the infamous sign denoting one’s fateful arrival on the boundary of Watford. It should read something like Wotfud – fug off! Just as you might read The Hobbit as a prequel to Lord of the Rings, cast your attention to the article on Croxley Green for a wider insight of the associated locality, as the transition from one to the other of these ghastly neighbouring towns is frighteningly undeterminable, almost like the joining of a pair of rather bland Siamese twins. Watford truly signifies everything that is deemed wrong with polite society – it is Chav Central. The level of impoliteness is measurable in the form of the verbal and/or physical abuse you are certain to receive, as well as the mental torture incurred from being in close proximity to these vile parasitic organisms commonly known as Watfordites. The kind of greeting one might expect when daring to venture down the high street on any given weekend evening is synonymous with the reception one might receive from a distressed swarm of disease ridden vermin.
Following the closure of the Chav supply outlets – not surprisingly these equate with the top ten Chav oriented stores highlighted on this site – spotty Wife-Beater fuelled Chavs sporting uniforms comprising loud shirts and caps (housing rigidly lacquered greasy locks of hair) openly bawl and brawl over rotund Chavettes outside the infamous nightclub ‘Destiny’, completely un-phased by the awaiting Police.
Developing the ability to communicate is not high on the Chav ‘to do’ list. Thus, incoherent grunts and a generally heinous misuse of the Queen’s English will be witnessed from both genders of the Chav. Imagine the kind of noise that you might make if trying to talk with an oversized boiled egg in your mouth whilst a massive hard phallus was repetitiously inserted into your eye socket with force. Well done, you have now achieved something close to the conversational skills of a Watford Chav. A series of grunts, pitched low by the male Chav, and squawked at uncomfortably high decibels by the Chavette.
The problem is that you face a no-win situation when in communication with a Watford Chav. Whatever you do is going to be wrong, and further incitement to anger. You need to have studied Linguistics to decipher ‘wot da fug yu lukin a’. Once understood however, it is wrong to give any response, as the end result will be the same in every case. Not to respond is seen as a possible sign of weakness, therefore fighting is imminent. Any verbal retaliation will cause offence to be taken, thus resulting in a fight. In reality there are few responses that will deflate a battle charged Chav trying to impress his gang, so beware! However, remember that a Chav is essentially a coward when not backed up by his ‘posse’.
Open your eyes to find you are in an overflowing cess pit. Its banks have been breached, billowing out a river surge or fetid anal discharge. This is not a dream, it’s a f*****g nightmare! The reality is you are in Watford – don’t give up, get out, now!
When attempting to describe our contempt for the universal Chav, and I say universal because Chavism has somehow infiltrated almost every corner of our society without restraint, it seems we are all reiterating the common theme that to be a Chav truly is without exception the most unimpressive personality reinvention, more pointless even than ‘Thigh Master’. It must be a reinvention because it cannot conceivably be a real ‘way of being’, it has to be a passing phase, right?! A thought for the day: Chavs of the world, why don’t you do us a favour and just die.