Ahh – York. Arrive at the wonderful Victorian train station, walk up towards the Minster through the beautiful streets and many snug little pubs, and you feel as though you’re in heaven… but wait! The place is teaming with evil gangs of rat-faced charvers! You wonder if its only you who can see them, spitting and snarling and destroying everything that they cannot steal, lurking in the back alleys and parks to pounce on or torment the tourists and students, tease old and disabled people, and when they feel brave, rob them in broad daylight. They are all Burberry Clad with tracksuits and prison white trainers, and a large cross-bred fighting dog is de rigeur.
York is surrounded by a ring of shite – huge post war council estates which are true no-go areas for the buses and the police, and real s**t ridden ghettos. Small, sunken-eyed undernourished feral little charver boys with cracked-cornered mouths hunch over spliffs and drink lager in every green space. With often less than 50 words in their vocabulary, they speak out of one nostril and have permanently knitted brows. Heroin and Crack cocaine are rife . Car crime, burglary, drug dealing and mindless violence are the norm. A feeling of menace pervades these chav estates, and like in many other English towns, that menace has moved into the city where hooded rat boys move in gangs robbing, destroying and committing acts of random violence against ordinary people going about their business. Now that all the new blocks of “luxury” housing developments going up all over York city centre are required to have a charver quota, (“pepper-potting” is the term, I believe) nowhere in the city is safe from these beasts. Gangs of little chav boys, out wandering the streets in the small hours of the morning wielding baseball bats or carrying airguns, will often offer to rape me as I am walking back to where I live after work.
Many well-off middle class people in York don’t come into contact with this underbelly of society. This is rather unfortunate since they are often the people who make the decisions in society. When out in their Chelsea Tractors picking up Tarquin or Tamara from the private school in the city centre, they never seem to notice the tribes of deadly tracksuit warriors and assorted skag heads on every corner. Maybe they will take notice when their houses are burgled or they receive a random bottle in the face on the way back from the shop to buy a bag of sugar. The sad thing is that so much of our taxes are spent supporting the chav underclass, perpetuating it, and paying for it to breed. Drug Action Teams, Youth Offending Teams, Health Action Zones, etc etc – brought in by this government to try and tackle chav drug addiction, chav crime and the dreadful health of the charver underclass. Its all a waste of time: money will not solve the problem. These chav youths are not just in need of a bit more money, or another “initiative”. They are poor in body, mind and spirit: poor in education, outlook and morals. Having never been loved as children, they cannot sympathise or empathise with another living thing. All they know is drugs to get them out of their heads, a gang to replace their pathetic excuse for a family, and violence as their only form of expression.
To anyone who can, I would say, get out of this country. The spawn of these children will be totally feral and violent. The mutant hate-filled subtards of the next generation (ie twelve years time) will be upon us before we know it. Its evolution in reverse and we’re all going to pay for it.