Yeovil, Chavtopia ten years later- the final chavter

Living in Yeovil

Roughly ten years ago, I wrote what the local rag called a “scathing review” on Yeovil, Jewel of the **** crown. To my utter bewilderment, this recently resurfaced and was the subject of heated debate. Obviously, it was a very slow news day.

What gave me particular joy was the glee with which lots of people agreed with my view of Yo-****, armpit of Somerset. I was also entranced by the response from the scrawny scrotes, who are now grown up and perpetuating their DNA. *crosses self furiously and prays to the Gods of Primark* Cos, y’know like, you’ve gotta get a flat some way. Never mind working- that’s just eating into Jeremy Kyle viewing hours. Why work when you could be down the Waggy having a pint of White Lightning or ten before your parole appointment?

And do you know what? Dear reader, I LEFT.
Brace yourselves; hold on to your eyebrow rings and tatt sleeves- THERE IS LIFE BEYOND CHAVTOPIA. The world is not actually flat (as they allegedly used to think in the Milford Inn). I did not fall off the edge. I managed to live without the vomit strewn carpet of Chiggy Rock. I survived without the wondrous delights of Poundstretcher. I flourished despite the absence of the stench of dog **** on Stiby Road. I even learnt to deal with not hearing ***** drunkenly copulating like ungainly hamsters on acid in St John’s Churchyard late at night.

How grim is your Postcode?

And then…a strange feeling came over me. (I later found out this was gallstones, but I digress) It seemed to be a call- a desire to return to the place of my youth. The call was strong, and could not be denied. Like a salmon inexplicably drawn to its spawning ground, I returned to Yeovs, clutching my airline ticket with a heart full of hope and the siren call of the Great Lyde loud in my ears. Stumbling from the taxi, jet lagged and weary, I stood triumphantly at the top of Middle Street, breathing in the scent of my hometown. As my lungs filled with the heady scent of BO, petrol, Polish cooking and damp drains, the realisation finally dawned on me…

It’s still ****.

And this, dear readers, is the final chavter in my tale.

Quite frankly, I would rather eat my own pubic hair than live in Chavtopia once more.

Sleep well, friends, and remember- the world doesn’t end at Reckleford.