well .. what can we say about millbrook .. its a delightful place especially with the 14 year old pregnant girls don the corner shop asking for fags and booze for the babys of course .. nah wnt be too harsh … but if totton and lordshill are chavs then what the f**k does that make you .. you walk around with your greasy hair slicked back into a ponytail so bloody high you look like youve got some sort of donkeys dick glued onto it .. and your earring big thick gold things and no not the real gold .. im talking bout that asda – george shit that turns your skin green ..  i guess thats bad karma from stealing it even though its only like £1.50 but you need that for your bus fair to “rep up ” other places cos u think your well badman aint that right and dont get me started on the big groups of chavvy lads with their tracksuits .. their big dogs on a lead .. called spike and butch with the spiky collars their like f**king little jack russells .. why the f**k would we be scared of them or youu .. those hoodys are so big you look like a f**king penguin or summit with the flat caps sticking out underneath them .. and not being funny have you shit yourself cos your trousers are so low your shits weighing them down .. but i wopnt turn nasty all i know is any place that has a mcdonalds , a casino , a pub and a corner shop and a church and nursry next to eachother cnat be good at all !!! im off much love

I have now completed a year working in the Dunstable area and any day now I am expecting the Queen to summon me for my knighthood. Dunstable has to be one of the worst towns in the country. It has more taxi drivers than people, I swear I was asked if I needed a taxi (although pronounced “Taxi boss?”) while I was in my car. The town is obviously designed as an ode to Logan’s run and people have as much pride in their houses as Naomi Campbell would do for genital herpes.

I have often said that predictive text on a mobile phone has a sixth sense, as in my ex was called Ang and it would try to replace this with nag. Well try Dunstable and it will change it to Dump table. It knows. It is not that it is the most deprived area, nor the ugliest; it is that no one cares, no one works and no one has any interest in other people. It is like a cell that has just been infected by the Luton virus and does not bother to take the antibiotics.

The worst thing about this place has to be the lack of class. Class to someone from Dunstable is something that you ditched when at school. When it comes to fashion, the last time the clothes worn by the locals were seen was in an Adam Ant video.  People comment at Christmas at the house covered in neon signs requesting “Santa please stop here” with phrases like “Doesn’t that look nice” . No it doesn’t, it looks cheap, it looks chavvy, and basically it looks shit.

Everyone in Dumptable has a limp which can only come from many years of previous generations introducing their siblings as their partners. All the teenagers are in tracksuits and as for Dunstable College; I’m personally convinced that this is where you go when you are turned down by Borstel.

In short, why anyone would choose to live here is beyond my comprehension. There are some nice hills and open areas which leads me to request that the British army forget Salisbury and start the maneuvers right here. Some of the larger guns should be able to target Luton as the icing on the cake.

Sandy may be far smaller than it’s chavvy neighbour Biggleswade, with none of the essential shops for your average chav (New Look, poundstretcher), but that doesn’t stop the place from bursting at the seams with the number of chavs – just like their tracksuit bottoms.

Teen mums bulldozing flocks of kids with pushchairs, describing the latest bust-up with their man of the week at max volume and with every swearword faithfully reproduced. I had to walk past one the other day and was blinded by the sunlight glinting off her many sovereign rings. Perhaps each father gave her a “sry i noked u up” present.

Wrecked “hot” hatchbacks appear at night seemingly propelled down the high street by the blast of shit music from both open front windows and that weird blue light underneath. Maybe Shaz is down there getting yet another topup on her “glow in the dark” tan.

The main industry in the town centre seems to be nail bars, with a pub and a Budgens for all those luxury items, like soap, toothpaste and a comb.
Hair salons probably get an easy ride here, as the females of the species all adopt the council face-lift pony tail.

What a great place for a compact nuke test-firing.

Like any man, I make mistakes. Driven by the yearning of my loins, I like to put my dick in things – indeed potentially a troublesome occupation – but is not variety the spice of life? However, these mistakes tend to be made as a result of selected actions based on irrationality or ill informed choice. Hence, something that I am solemnly grateful for is that I, as a whole, am not a mistake. I was not conceived through, and hence born a mistake, and my life has purpose – or so I like to believe. In light of this, it seems unfathomable that an entire person can in fact be a living mistake. I refer not just an individual, oh no, but an entire people – The Chav.

Cast aside the mutually agreeable notion of symbiosis and think of a parasite unrelentingly sucking the life marrow from its host. Yet what if there is no host, merely a concentration of scavengers? Could one ever be expected to inwardly digest the concept of a collection of such parasitic beings achieving sustained existence en mass?

Unbelievably this environment has been created within a small pocket of English Hertfordshire. Luton is perhaps the most dreadful place into which I have ever had the displeasure to venture. Ok, to be fair to Chavs they cannot be held solely responsible for imposing such detriment to polite society in this no-go zone populated by all manner of freaks and ner’dowells, but they certainly contribute enormously.

The hair on the back of your neck stands rigidly on end and you are in a state of utmost fear, this is indicative of the experience one might incur whilst negotiating Luton high street after hours. Not only is one at risk of injury or death heartily levied by Chavs, urchins and bums (possibly one and the same thing), there exists the added discomfiture imposed by the various terror factions whom are free to operate at will.

Enter Yates’ Wine Lodge to witness a sea of eyes, few of them free from at least one fist-induced blackening, boring into your defenceless soul. Racks of tooth-lightened jaw lines with concrete set grimaces gurn menacingly at you as they ineffectively sieve the impurities from slop-tray Stella jars. Horrid horrid horrid! Have you ever seen such a bunch?! Could all this be due to a community-wide hormonal imbalance, or something in the water perhaps? I don’t know, but one thing I do know is you should avoid visiting this place – especially during the festive season, as you will undoubtedly be relieved of your money as well as your presents in exchange for a beating, if you are even lucky enough to get a chance to buy them first, that is.

If there can be said to be an abundance of a ‘worst’ kind of chav in one particular place, Luton is no exception, you will find their plague to be prevalent here, conjuring the rhetoric question; Chav, what is the point of YOU?