I left Somerset at 18 to go to Reading to uni and have since graduated and returned to pay off my overdraft. In all fairness, Yeovil pales in comparison to Reading which offers chavs from all walks of life – spotty, greasy white ones, skinny rude-boy black ones, even skinnier, greasier asian ones. I don’t think there are any non-white chavs in yeovil to be honest – that would involve widening the gene pool out of the four or five large families who dominate. I encountered a particularly unsavoury group of them this evening whilst walking my dog in the park behind the octagon – about 10 white sportswear-clad 16 year olds each clutching a crate of stella that Kev’s older brother Terry probably bought from Somerfield – and they plopped themselves down on the special area where registry office newlyweds have their photo taken and no doubt proceeded to leave smashed bottles and fag butts everywhere. And on a friday. When do most people get married – saturday.
Those who are old enough to drink often frequent my bar at Le Jardin (that’s right – I actually work there) where they suck up cider and black like it’s the elixir of life. Classier chav birds have a half instead, topped off with copious amounts of sambuca and twenty or so bottles of ridiculously over priced VK blue before moaning that the fag machine’s eaten their money. I’m usually far too polite to point out that it’s switched off.