Sunderland – the chav capital of the world! Don’t worry if you’ve never heard of this fair city, the only reason it ever makes the news is that it’s the only city where the BNP made significant gains and the football holigans are legendary. Frankly you’re not missing much.
Sunderland’s only other claim to fame is that it has the highest rate of teen pregnancies in the Europe – which should tell you something about it’s charver (as they’re called) infestation.
From the ‘Burbury’ knock offs being sold in the Town Center (generally caps and knee-high socks), to the shops full of fake ‘bling’, to the boy-racers who speed round town blaring “X gonna give it ya” with the windows down – even though it’s generally friggin’ freezing nowhere and I mean NOWHERE is safe.

However, the worst sight is the town center on any night. I was dragged round once by my friend and, for a Chav-spotter, the sight was both interesting and revolting. Chavettes spilling out of mini-skirts and boob tubes 2 sizes too small, complete with pointy toe stillettos in white singing Atomic Kitten, to the cider-drinking, roll-up smoking Chavs with bright white tracksuits tucked into their socks. *Shudder*. Both pitiful and horrendous. It’s far worse but, for my own sanity I have blocked the worst memories out. I challenge anyone who thinks they have suffered from Chavs to spend one day in my home town. Then you will truly understand the meaning of both suffering and Chav.

I’d like to tell you about a funny thing that happened to me a few weeks ago. You might not believe it but it’s true. It all began on rainy Saturday morning when I went to the shop for some coca-cola for my lovely angela who was blissfully snoring on my sofa having watched saturday morning telly. As I was walking across the road I noticed a strange husk-like figure dragging itself across the street towards me wearing a burbeery cap, nike (a copy in gateshead I presume) top and some baggie trackie bottoms with obligatory and by now patented chav-white trainers. It was oozing saliva and alcohol from every pore and had it’s arms outstretched to me in a frightening yet curious manner. At first I thought it must be a plague of killer zombies on the loose then I realised that the Saltwell Road Social Club had had one of their now infamous chicken in a basket evenings which had resulted in a lock-in and some unsavoury chav-baiting over their now battered and beaten pool table. I of course freed myself from this frightening situation by running into my local corner shop for some coca-cola and a wooden spoon to fend off my would-be attacker only to discover that it too was full of chavs looking for their saturday morning nicotine and red bull fix along with their copies of saturday sport which wielded the headline FREDDIE STARR ATE MY CHAV. To make matters worse they did not have proper coca-cola and instead I had to make do with gateshead’s own CHAV BRAND which boosts a vague hint of white lightning and meths.
Continue reading “Gateshead” »

And what a stinkin shit-hole it is!

Take your pick from any area, theres a gang of tracksuit clad shitbags waiting in the flanks, ready to cause the decent townsfolk no end of misery.

Thusrday Night is Charver night and what a night it is! Two “Poliss” vans either end of Ocean Road waiting for it all to kick off after the “Criterion” shuts. Cries of “Why you lockin me up for I aint done owt me!” echo the streets as the boys in blue get another tracky clad tosser in the van. Students being done over cause they dont conform to these skip rats fashion standards.

South Shields was a resort once. Now there is only a shitty fair and a few arcades. All the Hotels are now doss houses for these Burberry Bastards. The only “Hotel” left is the Bede Wing at the local Hospital. Any decent area has a sprawling council estate backing on to it. The council estate population cause no end of shit to the decent people. Its a vicious circle.

But having said that. Every town is the same in this country and there is nowt the decent folk can do. These shit smellin, tracksuit wearin fuckholes are intent on ruining peoples lives with their bitterness and hatred.

Washington, I feel, is best described as the metaphorical shit on the metaphorical Rockport boot which is Sunderland. Decades of under development and closure of the local pits and industries (which served to keep the inbred hordes of charver families in confined spaces underground for extended periods of time and thus away from the minority population of respectable people) has led to a plague of Burberry-clad, acne encrusted, apelike, ugly mutants swamping this town’s various districts, the already monstrous council flats of which Washington mainly comprises soiled even more by the ubiquitous presence of a charvette’s XXL sized Sunderland AFC pregnancy wear blowing in the wind whilst hanging out to dry from the scummy verandas of these hovels.

The local youths, spilling endlessly out from the charver production line that is Washington’s laughable comprehensive schools, find endless excitement by congregating in village centres or The Galleries, a 1970s concrete monstrosity claiming to be a shopping mall but in fact is a large creche where Declans and Chantelles take their little ones, the perfect advert for contraception, to keep them occupied amongst the rows of charity shops and budget clothes and bling stores within, whilst mummy and daddy, veterans of the ante-natal clinic at age 14, meet with other like minded individuals outside the McDonald’s to discuss who-shagged-who, obviously hot gossip in this town where charver wife-swapping and subsequent pin-the-tail-on-the-donkey style random inbreeding leads to an urban population where everyone is everyone else’s cousin.

After The Galleries, our charver population proceeds to the aforementioned village centres, home to the Indian shops supplying them, practically intravenously, with their cider and alcopops. Here, should one not wish to forever have an inverted imprint of an SAFC medallion ring a feature of their eyelid, one should avoid at all costs. Whatever appeal they find in such a Charve-moot, littering the ground with burger wrappers, chewing gum, saliva and everything but the third page of every tabloid newspaper currently published, I do not know. There are obviously very important social rituals taking place here, but are, clearly, far too highly-strung and subtle for me to detect their true nature and purpose.

So, I finsish with some words of advice: when you are driving north along the A1 and make that fatal left turn onto the slip-road that delivers you nicely to the outer boundaries of Washington – marked by a signpost that has not yet been repaired since a joyrider crashed into it – yes, once you smell that odour of fast food and shit that hangs about the town like radiation within the Hiroshima gene pool, marking the territory of the Washington Charver like a mangy, mongrel dog marks its territory by pissing against a lamp-post, make sure you are equipped with, at the least, a psychotherapist and an armed bodyguard. Or alternatively, take a weapon of some sort. Kill the charvers with it, if you wish – I will be grateful – or succumb to the hypnotically oppressive and unavoidable Burberry-patterned mentality of Washington, and kill yourself.

Gateshead, home of the Angel of the North, Metro Centre and gateway to Newcastle. It hosts some of the finest run down council estates in the North East and a wealth of Netto and Happy Shoppers. A perfect breeding place for the new generation of Charvas and their Charvettes.
For those interested in serious Chav spotting, the Metro Centre is the place to go, with its wealth of cut price sports shops, Argos and other “discount” stores, it is a Mecca for Chavs on a day out. Easily accessible by bus, and with plenty of parking spaces for the TWOC’d car, it lies only 2 miles outside the town centre.
Weekends (and weekdays after giro cashing/signing on), the younger chavs can be spotted in Metroland arcade, while older chavs prefer to congregate in the carparks or in the nearby Mc Donalds. The Sunday car boot sale at Swallwell, just over the road, provides some excellent opportunities to observe the chav family picking up discount shellsuits, sovereign rings and burberry caps.
Sadly the demise of scrap yards in the area, has meant that parts for Novas and Golfs are in short supply, however, the enterprising chav can usually obtain these locally in the many carparks in the town centre. The Metro transport system is also ideal for tribes of suited up chavs to visit nearby Sunderland, while their chavettes stay at home on the estate to watch “Trisha” and to look after “Kylie or visit the local benefits office. Gateshead town centre, after 11am is also a good time for would be chav spotters..but don’t park in the multi-story!