I feel compelled to nominate Whitnash as an absolute c**v ghetto. Growing up there I battled them in vain for years before finally escaping into ‘town’ (Leamington Spa…it used to be okay, honest) having realised there were just too many of them and that even as i reached my mid-teens my c**v peers were already gearing up to spawn The Next Generation. I’m shocked Whitnash hasn’t been mentioned. Its strangely warrenlike collection of roads, avenues, crescents, ascents and god knows what else, though it encompasses but a mile or so, holds more c***s than a pus-soaked plaster contains germs. Number one hotspot for the disaffected youth of Whitnash was for a time outside Just-Ian’s hairdressers on Coppice Road. Now however, it appears to have returned to its rightful seat at Acre Close, which boasts a park and a selection of shops including a chippie. Truly it is the Camelot of c***s. It was here that as a spiky teen my face was slapped for ‘looking funny’ at a c******e, replete with scrunchied Shaz fountain hairdo and orange foundation, but she had woolly gloves on so the experience was really quite comedy. Of course in those days we called ’em townies, barries or kevs. The c**v phenomenon I had faintly hoped would make them realise their foolishness and mend their ways but with their usual lack of irony (see Ali G) they’ve taken it as vindication and now on the streets of Whitnash the c***s walk proudly, bling glinting in the suburban sun. The red brick houses conceal barries galore waiting to spill out into white cars that light up the road beneath them and head into town. The younger carless c***s are reduced to hangiing round Acre Close (from which they now spill) spitting and writing things in black marker pens on anything that stays still. Other popular haunts include The Hodcarrier (check out the main room for c**v monkey behaviour) and ‘Washy’ – Washbourne Park. There are more England flags in Whitnash than in anywhere else at all times, and white sportswear is the popular street look, excepting the few forlorn goths that straggle nervously down Heathcote Road. Whitnash is like a c**v state these days. It’s like David lynch drunk on Bacardi Breezers bought from Dillons and smoking Lambert and Butler, with a soundtrack of vacuous Euro bilge. They may as well hoist aloft a Burburry flag over Whitnash Green (the tiny triangle of grass next to the Plough and Harrow, remember?) and rename the place Chavnash.