LondonWest London

Wimbledon may be the home of such bastions of respectability as the All England tennis club and strawberries and cream, but the mushrooming population of chavsters bredding out of control all over saaaaaaaf london has infiltrated even this, the leafiest of London’s suburbs. Wimbledon Village, the old part of town with the boutique shops, tea rooms and restaurants continues to repel the burgeoning tide of fake burberry and teenaged grandparents, largely due to the half mile of hill separating it from the real hub of c**v activity, Wimbledon Station, its neighbour, Centre Court shopping centre and the surrounding heart of the Broadway, running from Morrisons to Greggs, the sunset strip of Wimbledon chavdom. In fact, Wimbledon now boasts two Greggs, 2 MuckDonalds and a Pizza Hut Express, evidencing the growth in the c**v market. The station and Centre Court are the chief hangouts for Wimbledon c**v, owing to the almost stage-like quality of the steps and portico leading into them. It’s almost as though they’re desperately posing for their own RnB video. By the time the evening rush hour is at its peak, these steps will be covered in blinged up, WKD toting c***s, TKMaxx polyester glistening in the evening sun, trackwear pulled dangerously low to reveal as much of their faux calvins as possible, each with a lambert and butler on the go. The chavettes cluster at the bottom of the steps, jockeying for prime position with their monstrous pushchairs. It’s funny how in Wimbledon, even the c***s’ pushchairs are 4X4s. God help any commuter trying to exit the station, or worse, queue for a bus when the c***s are gathering. But perhaps I’m being too harsh. After all, they have all had a hard day loitering up and down the Broadway, shoplifting at Morrisons, hanging out in the Odeon foyer, and of course fuelling themselves every hour or so at the selection of MuckDonalds eateries. Luckily for them, it isn’t too far to yates’, wetherspoons or their favourite place for a special occasion, Po Na Na. This latter establishment takes on a particular nastiness after dark, when the velvet ropes and c**v bouncers come out and the line of oxygen thieves begins forming. Favoured clothing brands are currently van dutch for the chavettes and evisu for their male counterparts, both of which can be purchased at bargain prices just a short tram-ride away at Croydon’s Whitgift centre, or Surrey St market. Entrance criteria are dustbin-lid sized hoops, bling, bling, bling, and bling. At turning out time a particularly special ritual takes place – pretending to shag behind the dumpsters in Kings Road before the police turn up and a glass fight ensues. It’s hard to know what can be done about Wimledon’s invasion, but if something isn’t done soon, then horror of horrors, by this time next year, they might even have made it to [gulp] the Village.

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