Ahh Hockley and Hawkwell are both the same thing quite little peacfull villages with a small population and friendly locals not much really happens to be hounest but there is one major problem and that is the village high street and Hockley train station well start off by telling you all about the village eldon way is a hotspot for chavs as is has a alley and 3 side road escape routes from the so called F.E.D.S and a wall to sit on. Now for the second part of tyhe villiage there is a small bus shelter outside the fryer fish and chip shop and that is where these CHAVS would sit down drink white lighting frosty jacks rarely white lightening and ask bypasses to go in the nearby corner shop to buy them a 20 deck of bnh silver and to top it all of they pester youg children with there parents outside the fish and chip shop waiting for the bus and they quote “do us a chip” and the parents say no go away you ugly skum that is pretty much it for the villiage oh and the same thing happens outside the kebab shop in the villiage high street aswell

now the train station im not sure where to start well ill begin with the fact that that station is the reason for the diease to spread to our town chav missionarys must of came over to the villiage and converted the youths into tracky wearing asbos (the bastards) there is also never any medium involvement in this area of the villiage it is allways a large ammount of CHAVS in that certain area there is never 2 or 3 chavs no as they are well bought up and pamperd like princes in there 2 story homes they need alot of numbers to back there cause so if a fight accurs the large bundle sqad is ready that is really all we have time for now

just remember that these 2 villages hockley and hawkwell are rapidly becomeing new basildon look out ban all rap music and alcohool and drinks from plastic bottles togther we can put a stop to the virus if we just pinch in

What to say about Harlow…a place that new town planners had taken their primordial scalpel to and butchered leaving characterless housing estates and banal shrines of grey concrete that for some reason were supposed to represent progression, prosperity and modernism. For example Terminus House, a huge monstrosity at the epicentre of the town that both astounds and revolts those confronted with it in turns. Even from the leafy suburbs in Hertfordshire, this ugly mass sits on the horizon like a grey benign tumour. With the exception of Old Harlow, each area of the town blends together to form a tapestry of despair and dereliction complete with its own soulless precinct adorned with newsagents that sell warm beer, stale crisps and cottage cheese in milk cartons. One can choose to enjoy a pint of substandard, emasculated reject lager from the continent that wouldnt intoxicate a minor in the dingy, musty Yates pub. Or perhaps a myriad of special offers for cheap nasty shots or alco-pops in Liquid or Jumpin’ Jacks where getting lucky that night would warrant either Chlamydia, Syphilis or your name on the sex offenders register by the next morning. Or mingle with peers half your age, when you’re 18, in the local Wetherspoons only to be thrown out by a lumbering neanderthal with a speech impediment three hours later because you look to old. Then there is the cuisine, while most people would ideally venture to an Italian restaurant for a Calzone and a bottle of wine, those in Harlow are forced to sit around a KFC bargain bucket. I rapidly learnt that my evenings out would be spent elsewhere.

And the there are its inhabitants, by inhabitants I mean the chavs and chavettes that provide the crime statistics. The kind of chavs that labour under the misapprehension that they are ‘gangsta’ but would shit themselves in South Central Los Angeles or Johannesburg. The kind of chavettes that glow like an amber traffic light with a superking resting precariously on their bottom lip pushing screaming quintuplets around in a buggy as they consider what to steal out of Primark when the sale is on. The attire of these people is comical, single coloured tracksuits, any cap worn by any god awful rapper or slicked rigid hairstyles, designer high top trainers and cheap gold purchased from Argos. The male uniform is fairly similar.

The only decent characteristic that Harlow boasted was its college, of which I attended. It stood as a resilient beacon among the woes of the town and by the time the first term ended all the chavs and chavettes that took mechanics and hair and beauty courses to avoid getting a job had long since dropped out due to drug problems, pregnancy or community service orders. Thus leaving the towns best and brightest desperately craving a decent education with a view to eventually flee. Unfortunately in Harlow one cannot have too much of a good thing, by the time I had left, the college was in freefall thanks to an overzealous and dictatorial principle who forced 120 of 180 of the lecturers out of their jobs, taking all what was honourable about the place with them.

And now, even if a nuclear warhead was detonated over the town or if it was the site of a core reactor meltdown, its landscape and assorted mixture of wanton chavs would remain unchanged.

Romford is commonly referred to as ‘slag town’ and i’ve heard that a number of times when people have asked me where im from. The thing is, its hard to dislike Romford – its a slice of fried gold next door to Dagenham and gangster paradise Ilford. But, its notorious for a lot of really embarrassing and stupid things – notably its chav form. Slag Town, and I heard it from a Dagenhamite once, is a haven of orange tinged cockneys. Girls walk around with dodgy make up and highlights with the typically Romford talk ‘me old mucka’ and ‘wa’s goin on son?’. Unlike other outer London Boroughs, Havering is surrounded by cackholes like Basildon and rough Essex-boi areas like Loughton and Debden. Literally everyone in Romford wants to be Danny Dyer and you see flocks of angry young men with comb overs and polo shirts heading towards Liquid and Envy on a Friday night ready to get ‘gattered’ or find a girl and ‘bang her’.

The fact that Romford has so many clubs, three shopping malls and buses coming from the darkest pits of east London means that it attracts more trouble than it already has. A new wave of immigration has meant that slowly the place is becoming Dagenham 2.0 with fried chicken shops opening on every street.

Romford is one of those areas where if you look at someone on the street, you WILL be challenged. The number of times I have been threatened by a yute on a pushbike and a hoody is big big big and it isnt uncommon to see a 14 year old girl with a ponytale and tracksuit top holding a baby in one arm and a fag in the next.

The neighbourhoods vary… Avoid Harold Hill as a new ghetto boi area with a large ethnic community and its neighbour Harold Wood as the chavvy, ford fiesta infested alternative. Both are seriously rough. Gidea Park used to be affluent but with a spout of council flats has become really run-down. Collier Row? If you want to see some geezers on push bikes mug an old man…

Again, Romford isn’t the worst. Its notoriously rough but loveable, especially the accent and the fact that West Ham will unite EVERYONE in the area but don’t think for a moment that its an easy ride, because its Romford Town and your risking an argument or trouble by going there.

Welcome.

Welcome to the countries biggest dead end town, where nobody works, scum of the earth live & kids play on the street until the early hours of the morning. Everybody I see, smokes weed. Everybody I look at is scum. Everything I do is better than the bastards do that live here.

Outside the 3 blocks of high rise flats, early, every morning, loud music blasts out of one of the windows. People shout up to other flats as they cannot afford credit/credit rating is too poor to get a mobile phone. “Got any puff?” says one layabout. But the listener can’t hear as their appalling taste in music is blasting out too loudly.

You’ve also got the maze of council houses, with endless alleyways which most have been blocked off due to the amount of thugs getting away with crime. What a waste of money, by Thurrock Council. They’re good at that though.

The nearest pub is 40 minutes walk away, although, saying that, it is an incredibily nice pub next to the fort & river. I’d imagine it is so nice beacuse the stupid stonehead scum cannot navigate their stupid bodies there.

If the people are not thugs in the town, they’re incredibily obese, with disgusting boils all over their skin, who just sit in their front garden all day, hoping they’ll win on their £1 scratchcard they have bought from “News, Food & Booze.”

15 year olds walk round with beer, cigarettes & tags on their legs. Mothers, Fathers and Grandparents don’t care about their son, wasting their life in this dead end hole.

The only way for this town to get any better is for someone to come and destroy it. Destroy the scum, destroy the staff dogs, destory the BNP headquaters just down the road in Grays, and destroy all of the scum smoking weed and destroy all of the scum living in the housing here.

Ok, there are a couple of decent people living here. You can see from their faces that they hate it just as much as every other decent person does.

The town is crap.

Thurrock Council is crap and

The Police Force is absolutely appalling.

If you want this, please, move to Tilbury Town.

Some people don’t know that they’re born.
How can they possibly class largely middle-class Essex communities such as Billericay and Brentwood as “chav towns,” when the mother of them all, the capital city of Chavdom and South Essex’s own Gotham City lies menacingly just over the horizon? They simply aren’t in the same league.

In a town such as Billericay the good citizens get easily upset by the antics of children and teenagers and by many other things. They think that their town is being invaded by yobs if they see a child go past on a skateboard or somebody wearing a baseball cap, and that it is turning into a mini-ghetto.
They actually love a good reason to protest and to write angry letters to the local rag, their hands shaking in righteous indignation at the latest threat to the peace of their prosperous existence. If they can rabble rouse a group of fellow pensioners to start a protest campaign, then so much the better. Billericay and similar towns are the epitome of middle-class, educated, professional, white England. Amidst their detatched houses and green lawns, the smallest thing upsets the residents. But they forget that just down the road lies a seething mass of chavite humanity which makes their town look like a veritable paradise.

Basildon New Town. Even the name sounds ugly and strangely fitting for such a town. The town that spewed me out into the world 27 years ago. Half a century previously, the area that became Basildon consisted mainly of field, farm and woodland. Then, the powers that were decided to construct a new town, a “city of the future” as an overspill for the London slums. It was supposed to be a classless town, the finest that civilisation could produce, plonked down near the Thames. For the people of the late fifties it must have been an impressive place. Futuristic concrete buildings were thrown up amidst the green fields. Dual carriageways and countless roundabouts were splayed across the landscape. Dwellings that were both ugly and functional were arranged in sprawling council estates and people were re-housed in the growing community.
Basildon was thus born and the rest is history.

So at which point did the Basildon experiment go wrong? It’s hard to say exactly. All I can say is that a tour through the mean streets of the “New” Town will provide you with a sure conviction that something did indeed at some point go wrong. Whether it was the lack of history and sense of belonging that you find in older towns, the abundance of poor quality housing, the low social class of the inhabitants or the soul-destroying lack of spirit that caused Basildon to turn out the way it did, I can’t be sure. One day, sociologists will do a study on it.

The heart of Basildon is the concrete wilderness that is the town centre. For a place that looked so modern and forward looking in the fifties and sixties, it now appears incredibly shabby and dated. The looming buildings, the over-use of concrete, the shady back allies and multistorey car parks. It’s like a small part of inner city America in Essex and feels strangely un-English. In recent years there have been some modest attempts to smarten up the town centre a bit and there were grandiose plans (before the credit cruch) to redevelop much of it into what amounts to a 21st century town. But this seems to have been delayed or cancelled altogether.

Admittedly the shopping facilities of Basildon aren’t that bad, although the complete lack of historical buildings in the town leads to an absence of character, of human warmth. You want to get out as soon as possible and head to some market town or cathedral city where you can feast your eyes on something old. Basildonian people wander through this concrete mass in droves. Many of the older folk are remnants of the Old East End of London and are decent cockney types. But the younger generation are quiet different and it is here that you witness chavs en masse as they parade their bling. I won’t go into the familiar descriptions of chubby girls in pink or baby blue Nikelson garments with massive golden earings, effing and blinding constantly, shouting and swearing at their kappa-clad offspring with names such as Tyler, Brandon, Bailey or Disney. Nor is it nescessary to go into detail when describing Darren or Bradley, their live-in boyfriends, who slouch through town on the way to Pound Land or “Mackie Dees.” Yeah mate. The town is full of such people and they feed off it, just as it feeds off them. This is symbiosis in its mosts basic form.

Whilst on the subject of discount shops, I have never seen a town with so many. Pound Saver, Pound Land, Quid Saver, 99p Store, Tat Land as well as the market. They are all here and are doing a thriving business. There are also many charity shops and those cruddy fly-by-night enterprises that pop up selling Christmas decorations or fireworks and then promptly shut down again. This is the land of plastic, made-in-China, raw consumerism. You buy what the telly adverts on the plasma screen tv tell you to and conform to the sterotypes that Essex dreams are made of. What do you do when you want something to fill your belly? Why, head down to McDonalds or any of the other fast-food joints in this pastiched, false fast-food town, and gorge yourself on grease. Free thinking is subversive in this pleasure seeking world and you must conform and gratify your senses.

One strange thing about Basildon is that the town centre is virtually deserted in the evenings. Apart from a couple of dodgy pubs, a theatre (!) that barely operates, a seedy snooker club and “Colors” gay nightclub, there isn’t any other evening economy in town. No quality restaurants or cultural facilities to be found here. Most of the nightlife is to be found on “Bas Vegas” or to give it its official name, “the Festival Leisure Park.” This is a dream-landscape of pure hedonism situated on the edge of the town. It is the place to come if you want to encounter boy racers doing wheelies in the car park, moody and aggressive bouncers, and mouthy Barbie-doll Essex girls walking around in their underwear on their way to Time and Envy, or whatever it’s now called. Like the town itself, it’s completely and utterly artificial and is a testament to the void in our society and is worth visiting purely for its anthropological interest (and the Chinese restaurant there.)

In the cold light of day, you might consider braving the race track of Basildon’s roads and taking a tour into the chavvy suburbs. It is here that you may encounter some of the ugliest social housing this side of the Bronx, with many identikit flat-roofed, rabbit hutch council houses and Soviet-style flatblocks. The suburbs of Pitsea (home to a massive refuse tip) and Laindon are particularly distressing. These are the breeding grounds for the chav population.

The Basildonian chavs love organised entertainment: Boot sales, steam rallies, Disney World, you name it. They love out of town shopping centres and souped up cars and kebabs and hip-hop. They like to follow the crowd and convince themselves that they enjoy the good life without having to think too much. At least they are honest and not pretencious like the people of some towns. In spite of all this, Basildon isn’t really such an awful place. Amidst the urban decay one can find the odd glimpse of human kindness and the glimmer of hope and this is what you should take with you as you head out onto the A127 leaving the Basildon lights winking at you out in the darkness.