He he, what do I say about Woodhatch then, where do I start?
‘That’s so Woodhatch!’ is the usual cry from the Grammar school kids driving around in Daddy’s BMW desperately trying not to stop at the Woodhatch traffic lights so they don’t get their cars jacked up and the hub caps nicked.
Back in the 8ighties the words ‘Woodhatch Skins’ were found on numerous walls an train stations, the Angel pub and the soveriegn youth club both used for pre-Chaving exercises and numerous ****’youfs milling around the garage on the corner like flies around poo, all add up to the great **** heritage that belongs to Woodhatch, the little hamlet nestling between Reigate and Redhill.
Most of the girls from Woodhatch School back then all had mini-***** before they were 15, unfortunately these ***** that have grown up have spawned other ***** and so the circle of Chavdom continues. If you would like to inspect these creatures, a recommendation would be to have a meal in the Friendly Villa and sure enough a **** will turn up throwing rubbish through the door and shouting general abuse to the happy hard working people inside having dinner who you wouldn’t recognise in the benefit queue or on the Tricia show.
Unfortunately, the ***** wouldn’t usually be able to be spotted wearing fake Burberry caps, nike shell suits with the bottoms zipped up, stripey tshirts and white Reebok Classics trainers as they don’t usually venture far enough to Madhouse.
Woodhatch will always have the **** element, curious why the garage is the place where they will always be, I always feel sorry for the guys who have to look at them every night. I’m glad I live up the road!