Bros and Bro Hos are a social plague — a global
pandemic. They are everywhere today, and if you have ever felt the bile
in your stomach rise while in the presence of them, you are not alone.
Western “Civilization” is sliding back down the evolutionary ladder as
scores of mouth-breathing, knuckle-dragging, peckerwoods fill the
public with cat-piss cologne, flip flops, puka shell necklaces,
matching jock haircuts, pedophile facial hair and sunglasses only a
seven-year-old could wear with a straight face. Anyone who doesn’t yet
know what a Bro is should just walk outside and take a look at the guy
wearing shorts in 44 degree weather. He’s probably also got a baseball
hat on backwards or to the side, maybe a tribal tattoo, or maybe even a
full sleeve he got with his tax refund. Oh, and he voted with pleasure
for George W. Bush. Why? Because someone else told him to. You
think he came up with that getup on his own? Think again, he belongs to
a class of human John Updike once called “Sheeple“.

Bros ruin everything they touch. They are deeply racist, yet
vulture-ize black culture with attempts to be “down”, while living as
far from any ghetto as humanly possible. It’s because they seek danger,
or the illusion of it. Through their economic power, Bros are able to
affect every aspect of the media and popular culture — in a larger
sense, our entire waking environment. A member of the Bro subgroup
always loves music made by artists that can tap into their own inner
tough guy or rebel, and their kind funnels money into the pockets of
artists like The Kottonmouth Kings, Pennywise and 50 Cent.
Somehow, Bros have even made being drunk uncool, since they always need
to pose with a can or a bottle of liquor in their hands, or be seen
chugging the shit out of some watered down Miller Genuine Draft, or any kind of beer from which it takes several twelve-packs to cop a slight buzz.

But Bros aren’t solely an American phenomenon, oh, no. In England they’re known as Chavs, Chavettes and Essex Girls (the feminine counterparts), in Scotland these types are called Neds (Non Educated Delinquents), Iceland has Chocos, and they have also been referred to as Billys, Thicknecks, Flatbillers, Chads, Chachis, Joeys, Tonys and Frosties
elsewhere. But, in the end it’s all the same — grown men and women
locked in a brotherhood of willful ignorance and poor personal style.
We could refer to them as “The Bro-therhood”, but they’re simply Bros and Bro Hos to me.

A Bro Ho? What is a Bro Ho, you might be wondering. Emma, a member from
Long Beach, California, tells us a Bro Ho is also known as a Blouser: “Those girls with blonde hair with dark streaks in it, ugg boot wearing, mini skirt flaunting, too much makeup from Nordstroms,
a wife-beater in 30 degree weather, a trucker hat while wearing the
above-stated outfit…and they’re passed out after two drinks.” The Bro
Ho is the favorite target of the Bro, and when he finds this target he
is able to reproduce rapidly, in much the same way as a layer of scum
on the underside of a rowboat.

But as important as sex is, his transpo is always a Bro’s number-one
priority. The Bromobile is central to one’s sense of Bro-ness, and that
mode of transport is always a truck. A monstrously inefficient,
raised and modified American pickup that is in inverse proportion to
its owner’s penis. And speaking of penises, Bros have also brought the
concept of homophobia to a new level. You see, they love play
fighting, tackling their mates, and joke incessantly about each other’s
wieners. But they will claim that there is no connection whatsoever
between their overuse of the term “faggot”, their intense desires for
close physical kinship with their pals, and their own closeted Bromosexuality.

A substantial portion of the Bro population enjoys daydreaming too, and
often these daydreams influence the way they speak and act. Bros
everywhere can identify with Marshall Mathers, someone who committed
identity theft and made millions as the fantasy rapper “Eminem“.
Members of the Bro tribe like to think that they will also be looked
upon with as much respect if they not only act hostile and indifferent
toward everyone around them, but take it one step beyond as
full-fledged gangstaz in their own tree-lined suburbs. And if
they live life in the fast lane, the way Eminem appears to, they’ll
achieve immortality — or at least get more action. Some members of the
Bro subspecies find Eminem a bit soft though, and prefer the more
street-oriented sounds of The Kottonmouth Kings, who grew up –
like their fans — in the lily white suburbs on a strict diet of the
kind of sickening violence rampant in nearly every white, middle-class
household. When a Bro pops a KMK cd in his truck stereo he instantly
feels as though his entire “ghetto” is riding shotgun and watching his
back. So, cruising down the street with a cell phone in one hand,
ringing up a bootie call, eating beef jerky, and trying to stay in one
lane, a Bro is determined to leave his mark on society. Unfortunately,
that mark seems less significant than “DGAF” smeared on a bathroom wall in poo.

Speaking of which, have you ever seen an beautiful statue absolutely
covered in bird shit? That’s the best analogy I can come up with for
what the Bros do to our waking environment — our world. But at least
we can laugh about it sometimes. Charles Darwin might have had a point. Join us if you can understand.
Continue reading “NIGHT OF THE LIVING BROS (chavs in the usa)” »

Recently had the privilege of visiting Gumbet in Turkey. (Not my choice)

Lets just say..the country is very chav-friendly.

Every shop in Gumbet was a fake goods shop, we’re talking nasty bags, tshirts, jeans, sunglasses….anything you can think of that would be classed as designer in the UK, you can buy as a fake in Turkey. (Although the Turkish will not admit to it being fake) I’ve never seen so many chavs abroad.

All the chavettes had the (lovely) braided hair…which again you can get in Turkey…I was pestered enough to see if I wanted it done as well. NO THANK YOU. All the men (as well as bright pink skin) had little slits done in their hair…again, this is done in Turkey.

Turkish people are a pain in the ass because they think all British people are chavs and will try to get with any girl that sets foot on their land.

Clubs and bars are easily avoided because I think you’ll agree, watching chavettes all over the Turkish men is not a pretty sight, plus you can’t just sit down and have a nice drink without them hassling you for a dance.

All Turkish restaurants menus consist of is pizza, fish and chips, and engish breakfast, and we saw a lot of chavs tucking in most morning!

If you can’t stand chavs, do not go to Turkey for a holiday, it is NOT relaxing, and they will drive you crazy.

Yep, there is no escape in France, because the Eurochav is here. Heading out of Paris on the train toward that beautiful Normandy coastline for example you’ll come along the delightful town of Mantes la Jolie, distinguishable by the latest French art nouveau of torched cars, graffiti ridden walls and stunningly beautiful tower block architecture. This charming place is home to arguably some of the most odious, nasty little Eurochavsters this side of the Channel. This is a place where these vile pinheads mainly of North African descent delight in terrorizing local communities and law abiding citizens, ‘tagging’ trains with glass etchers and effervescent spray paint, setting fire to local schools and public buildings and communicating in “fuckwit” French. Yes, friends, fuckwit is not only a British disease, it is here too.

Being French your average Eurochav likes to shop at home, so for him or her the dress of the day is Lacoste or Coq Sportif, although Von Chav (not French methinks) is starting to have an impression. And the mobile phone will likely be a “Sagem” (French) or an “Alcatel” (also French). And being of North African descent, your average chavster will sport the obligatory wispy moustache whilst his chavette (usually dare I say black) wiill come trowelled in makeup sporting the latest (fake) handbag from Louis Vuitton. The “barryed-up” (for here let’s say Marcelled-up)chavmobile will also be a 15 year old Renault Clio one Controle Technique away from the Feraillier (scrap man), but with all the rest of the usual bolt on bits and coloured lights you find on a British chavmobile….

This part of the world is an area where the filthy chavsters do exactly as they please, using and abusing with total impunity. No ticket enforcement on the trains so they ride for free. Who cares? This is socialist France where like nowhere else in Europe everyone else pays for the underclass. And in these banlieues sensibles (sensitive suburbs), these nastly little Eurochavs breed like flies at the expense of everyone else.

So beware, chavtowns are not only exclusive to Britain. This is a global disease. Broaden your horizons because chav~ism is invading all towns and cities. Do not think that you can escape it here in France, in fact here it is likely worse.

Bon courage my friends. Bienvenue en France 

Another missive from the wild and wooly Cape Town …
Yesterday evening (Saturday 7 january) at about midnite, I witnessed one of the strangest events I’ve ever seen.
I live just off of a main road in Cape Town – a 2 1/2 mile long dual-carriageway, dead straight, which runs up from the local beachfront.
On most Friday and Saturday evenings, this road turns into a racetrack as various riff-raff, having left local bars in a state of mild inebriation, try to see how fast their cars can go.
Unfortunately for them, there are 3 or 4 sets of traffic lights on the road, so occasionally they find they have to come down from warp-speed to a dead stop in a bit of a hurry.

BUT the traffic lights allow them to ‘dice’ against fellow dickheads, trying to prove their prowess behind the wheel.
I’m very used to hearing the roar of engines and the squeal of tyres late at night, and last night the roar and squeal was supplemented by a screech of brakes, and that horrible sound similar to scrunching beercans.
I strolled to the corner, to find two chavmobiles in a poor state of repair - a ‘blinged’ corsa with most of the front end demolished, now up on the pavement, having left most of its sump and oil on the kerbstone, and a scruffy 80s Escort, with most of the offside rear in pieces, facing the wrong way down the road.
I surmised that one or ‘tother had skipped the lights – they hadn’t, but I will explain that later.
Out of the Escort wreckage have emerged two baseball-capped wankers, who seem more concerend examining the damage to their pride-and-joy than checking to see if anybody in the other car is injured.
Or in their own car. There are two bimbos in the backseat, obviously trying to get out (It was a 2-door) but being unable to move the front seats out of the way.
One was screaming “Darrrrrryl! Darrrrrryl! Let us out!”
But Darryl and his mate, having decided that the car was a bit of a mess, then approached the wrecked Corsa, from which nobody had emerged yet.
Aha, methinks, they are going to render assistance! No chance.  A lot of gesticulating goes on, and out of the Corsa step 3 lads, one the worse for wear, as he was in the backseat, and had slammed forward into the seatback, breaking his nose in the process.
Now we have FIVE neanderthals shouting and screaming and finger pointing.
On to the scene drives a 30-something chap, who tells me the guys had passed him a mile down the road, ‘at a hell of a speed’, obviously racing each other.
He and I approach the warring parties (It hasn’t come to blows yet, just a lot of shouting) and ask if everybody is alright, if we can phone an ambulance/police etc etc.
I went to both cars, and switched of the ignition – AND the radios, which were blaring away.
I also pointed out that i am a trained medic, and can render first aid if neccessary.
No joy. In fact, the chavboys by now had calmed down, realising they did NOT want to be there as they had all had a skinful, and decided to get away.

Escort chav then gets back behind the wheel, his mate piles in the passenger seat, and they try to make their daring escape. But the car is in no fit state to go anywhere – the rear wheel is about 25 degrees out of true (vertically) and 30 (horizontally). Cue horrid metallic scraping noises as they try to lurch off.

And what is THIS on the horizon – a set of blue lights, attached to a large wite car with stripes!
Out step two boys in blue, and take in the scene at a glance.
Meanwhile the Corsa boys are in a huddle, muttering to each other.
Plod #1 wanders over to speak to them, while plod#2 gets o the radio, then speaks to Escort boys.
Myself and the other chap stand about chatting and having a fag, when plod #1 arrives:
“Did you see anything?” he asks.
The other chap explains what he’d seen – the two clowns racing.
“Oh?” says plod. “Would you be prepared to make a statement?”
No problem.
Then he asks me who I am, and what I saw.
I explain.
“Ok,” he says. “One question. Who was driving the car (Corsa)?”
“That one,” we both said. (He’s easy to tell from the other two. – he’s coloured, while his companions-in-foolery are white).
“Oh?” says Plod. ‘that’s not what THEY said!”
Obviously the least inebriated of the trio (Or the one who actually has a driving license) had decided to take the rap.
This is now getting interesting – as Corsa Boys and Escort Boys are seperated and being questioned by the plods.
(Somehow, i don’t think their stories are going to coincide too well…)
Meanwhile, the Escort boys have decided there is NO honour among chavs, and the fingerpointing commences – “who was driving?” asks plod. they both respond by pointing at each other and saying ” ‘e was!”. Damn right – grass your mate up and drop him in the shit!
Plod was in hysterics by this stage – he’d never seen anything like it!

From what I and the other chap could surmise, the escort had braked for the lights, and the corsa, behind, and in the Left lane, and slammed on the brakes, and slid (No ABS on these noddy cars!) into him at sped, spinning him round, and ending up on the pavement, as mentioned.

Plod then proceeded to load ALL the participating chavs into a variety of blue-and-whites (Including the two helpless bimbos, who when released from captivity, looked to be about 14 yrs old) and take them down the station.

Wrecked cars were cleared away, a fireman swept all the glass and plastic and glassfibre wreckage off the road, and covered the oild patch with sand.
And I went back to bed.
And that’s that. Until next week’s repeat performance!

Chav comes to Cape Town!
Living, as I do, in one of the world’s greatest and most scenic cities, it galls me that chavism has reared its putrid head in the neighbourhood.
Of course, Chavism crept up on Britain through the ages, but here it arrived like an avalanche, after years of cultural isolation, caused by our previous government.
All the companies which had previously boycotted the apartheid state came steaming in en masse: McDonalds, Nike, Reebok, Stussy, Kappa, Bad Boy, Burberry etc etc etc.
In the past, many record labels had not released their offerings – but along with the good, came the bad, and the REALLY bad!
Then we got satellite television, and the associated Channel O and MTv, (the latter cringeworthy in the Chavness of the average interviewee.)
Bling and burberry became the ‘must-have’ stuff.
But, dear people, things got worse… not only was the nation flung open as a tourism hotspot, but the currency took a pummelling, which made it a very attractive and cheap prospect for the average chav who could not afford Bali, or who was bored (or banned from) Mallorca.
Suddenly we had a deluge of bling-wearing Shazzas and Kevins, totally amazed that their dole money could stretch so far!
Four star hotel? Yeah, right! A better class of carpet to vomit on!
Cheap restaurants? Damn fine! Rump steak and chips for less than the cost of a Big Mac back ‘ome!
Booze and fags? A bloody quarter of the price! Come on cirrhosis and cancer!
However much we hated the holiday Chavs, their pounds sterling were welcome in our beleaguered economy, and certain locals took a shine (pun intended) to the fake bling look. (The locals also TOOK the fake bling, normally at knifepoint, from tourists foolish enough to walk about with their ‘wealth’ on display…)
However, Holiday Chavs have caused some of us a great deal of amusement. Now, folk like you and me – wisely – tend to be low-key when visiting foreign climes. Not so the Holiday Chav. He (or she) is here, relatively wealthy, Xenophobic, rabidly patriotic in his attire and language, and just won’t listen to advise. Because he/she knows best, innit?
Apart from the bling-muggings (we TOLD you not to go to that part of town!), they also suffer horribly from alcohol-related problems (TOLD you not to drink it, it’s moonshine! And TOLD you to watch out for the local beer – it is stronger than the stuff you drink at home!), pummellings (TOLD you not to argue with that large Afrikaans speaking fellow about Rugby, especially reminding him that England are World Champs), and sunburn (TOLD you not to go out without SPF 40… especially at lunchtime).
In fact, the sight of Holiday Chavs, burnt lobster-red, walking down the road like they had just been rogerred red-raw by Mike Tyson, because their sunburned legs are chafing really badly, always causes a snigger. As does walking up behind them in the pub, and slapping them on the shoulder, and asking “How’s it going?”
Mad dogs and English Chavs go out in the midday sun!