A multitude of Chavs from across the social spectrum. A study of the Chav capital of the south east.
Guildford, Surrey. Nestling in the heart of the commuter belt of middle class england, approx. 30 miles south-west of London. This quiet, historic market town provides sanctuary from the hustle and bustle of daily life in the Capital. Unfortunately it also provides refuge for the nastiest of Chavs and that most rare species: the ‘Rich Chav’
I was unfortunate enough to spend 2 years at college in this cess-pool of interbreeding, during which I could only dream of one thing: the A3 to London. If you look just below the surface, Guildford is quite a strange town in that there is a huge social divide between the ultra rich people living to the south and east of the town, and the ultra scum that inhabit the Park Barn and Bellfields estates to the north. They may be worlds apart socially but they certainly like to act the same.
The town basically acted like a a retirement village for the squaddies of Aldershot and beyond. These socially retarded violence junkies would often take a trip down to Guildford whilst on leave to drink, fight the locals and try and shag the women. Upon their discharge, they would think, “Where can I live which is isolated enough to keep the gene pool small, yet has enough pubs to ensure a good cross-section of the public get the kicking they deserve?”, and they would settle on Guildford. At this point they were split into two clear groups: the officers who could read and write and the privates who could drink and fight. Despite one group settling into a comfortable retirement in the large, sprawling houses that populate the outlying areas and another being crammed into the horrific sink estates to the north, they would always enjoy meeting up again on a weekend in town to knock each others teeth out.
Weekdays in Guildford can be fairly quiet, lulling you into a false sense of security. The odd comment hurled from a passing ‘hot hatch’, maybe the laughable sight of a mal-nurished 18 year old pikey and his fair maiden (13) skipping school. However, once the weekend rolls around its off to town for a gallon of Stella and a nice big fight at chuck out time on Bridge Street.
Ah Bridge Street. Situated in the heart of the town and crossing the river Wey, Bridge Street offers a multitude of entertainment establishments for the discerning Chav, including Weatherspoons, Yates, Edwards and Bar Med. It’s here that the scum of society like to mingle, have a few drinks, try their hardest to pull a she – Chav and if that fails, beat the crap out of each other. After which they all descend on one of the town’s fine after-hours drinking establishments, such as the big purple abortion Bojanglez, or the Drink, where celebrity racist Cheryl Tweedy confirmed her status as Queen Chav by battering a toilet attendant for the hell of it. Allegedly.
No synopsis of “Giwlfud” would be complete without mentioning the infamous Guildford Drag. On the first Sunday of every month, Chavs from all over the south-east of England gather in their delightfully customised cars to roar around a circuit of the town centre and end up in the car park at Burger King to try and burn off each others tyres.
The Guildfordian Chav is broadly identifiable by the mass of fake gold from Argos. More than any other regional variation, these Chavs like to confirm their status as the most affluent in the country by doubling their body weight in “sovvies”. Age is also unimportant. Even the casual Chav spotter can clearly identify between the 7 year old I spotted wandering through the station swigging a can of “Beater”, smoking a fag, and the 40 something scumbag who attacked me at 1.30 on a Monday afternoon on the high street for looking in his direction. Possibly a father and son team?
In conclusion, Guildford: the world would be greatly improved by it’s complete and utter non-existance.