Greenock is one of those places with an overall chav-stamp adversely
affecting the whole area. Generation after generation of neds follow on
from each other, their conversation and sounds made not changing at all
from one decade to the next. It’s the kind of place where decent folks
accept that chavery is somehow inevitable and that there is nothing
that can be done about it – this view even includes some police
officers points of view!
Gangs of roaming neds can often be seen, looking for anyone to at the
least verbally abuse and intimidate. The areas litter problem is a
testament to the lack of awareness of their surrounds that they all
have.
Another key factor in identifying the vast differences between a
healthy youth culture and a chav problem is the type of graffiti on
display. Guess what predominates here? – that’s right, it’s the artless
scrawly type – name mentions and perverted comments of a sexual nature
usually accompanied by a reference to the name of someone other than
the graffiti’s author. Unlike proper art, this kind of offensive
garbage is usually also done in such a way so as to deface someone
else’s property or vandalise a public area or existing public artform
of cultural value.
Please someone, help make Greenock and surrounds part of the real
Scotland again, and that within the real United Kingdom (or indeed
Great Britian, if ye prefer). All part of the Clean Up The Universe
Campaign.

East Kilbride Town Centre is ideal if your brain has a very low IQ and can not think in a sensible mannor, if you wish to become a grouse beater then East Kilbride town centre is the place for you extremley hostile people very un friendly and selfish if any one is deciding in spending a night out in East Kilbride Town centre be warned recently highlightes as being worst place in the county through local press for attempted murders  serious assualts ,etc not nice people in the slightest due to there backward education if you need to spend a night out travel to edinburgh or glasgow merchant city decent class of educated people not grousebeaters  that are likewise in east kilbride town centre  little people who think there clever but really are quite pathetic the village is ok a bit better than the town centre area be warned extremley hostile and un welcoming to strangers they should have filmed the wicker man in east kilbride town centre. STAY AWAY NOT a safe place

Rutherglen AKA "Ruggy" or "Ruglen" by the locals – possibly due to the ‘unpronouncability’ of Rutherglen after sniffing glue or consuming 4 bottles of Buckfast.

First, a warning. The typical Ruggy ned is marginally more difficult to spot than the usual chav scumbag. The usual ned uniform of Kappa/Adidas is outwith the purchasing power of the Ruggy ned so they need to make do with other forms of s**te sportswear. Look for such pathetic brand names as Hi-Tec or Gola. The Ruggy uber-neds that do have Adidas trackies will have had it for so long that the 3 stripes will be obscured by substances ranging from vomit, excrement, glue to blood.

For anyone thinking of visiting Ruggy you should plan this like you would a visit to Saddam Hussein’s hometown in Iraq. When I drive through it on my way home I always park up on the outskirts and wait for a police car to drive by. Quickly pull out and follow it through hoping you can make it along the main street without a traffic light change.

Public transport through Rutherglen isn’t an option. I have seen buses stoned, drivers spat on and am fairly certain one night there was even a failed rocket propelled grenade attack on the number 12. The train station has a 100 metre long dark, narrow, piss-smelling, ned infested walkway from the station to the exit which rules that out as an option too.

This year the Nov 5th Guy Fawkes "celebrations" kicked off in the usual Ruggy way with the stoning of the Fire Brigade and subsequent riot with the police making front page news across Scotland. Any match at nearby Hampden or an Old Firm game also tends to result in some fighting in the Main Street. Check the fixture list before planning a visit.

Ruggy gangs are the Young Glen and the nearby Toi from Toryglen. Sadly they are not yet at the stage of eliminating each other which proves that they are the usual little mouthy scumbags lacking the strength to inflict more than a scratch with their knives. This is possibly due to their diets consisting of a) stolen milk b) KFC’s and c) dead rats which fail to provide the necessary nutrients for strength.

Thankfully many neds have succumbed to the lure of smack making them easy to avoid. They are only capable of walking like zombies so a simple change of speed to brisk walk lets you outpace their shouts of "HAW, WHO YOO LOOKIN AT YA C*NT". At the other end of the spectrum however the amphetamine fuelled neds can run (and talk) faster than Maurice Greene in a skin tight speed suit. Accept the inevitable with these ones and try your best to absorb a few punches before they get bored and move on to a pensioner.

Areas to avoid – the main street, train station and overtoun park (aka ovy park), the mitchell arcade.

Areas worth visiting – swimming baths (closed in 2002)

In my opinion the only place worse on the South Side of Glasgow is nearby Toryglen. That has to be seen to be believed.

"I cannot believe that on a site dedicated to the Chav, no mention is made of Scotland’s second city: Glasgow. A city that represents the very cradle of life for the Scottish Ned, when it comes to unattractive social behaviour; what Glasgow is to Scotland, the USA is to the rest of the world. Nedism isn’t a strata of society in Glasgow it is a way of life. Thousands of children from before they are even born are inculcated with what is known as "The Tao of the Ned." Indeed, their very conception is rooted in that ethos.

Jaundiced babies swaddled in burberry romper suits become spotty toddlers that are taught the rudiments of shoplifting. These children are no less loved by their parent, after all who couldn’t love a child that represents a skeleton key for all that the social security has to offer. Housing, free money, milk tokens (Fresh or powdered?) income support and Brew money to name but a few.

On reaching double figures, (some would argue, on reaching an age beyond which the common ned cannot count.) Our young oik leaves its chrysalis form and spreads its pallid malnutrated bekappa’d arms and embraces the world with one hand and a bottle of buckfast with the other. Already well advanced in the art of anti-social behaviour but at this time not brave enough to leave the grounds in which it grew up. The Ned goes forth into its housing estate and begins the time honoured ‘Ritual of the Young Ned.’ Adding to the already over flowing heaps of broken buckfast bottles, increasing Scotland’s teenage pregnancy rates not to mention the proliferation of sexually transmitted diseases, throwing stones or bottles or anything that comes to hand toward anything that comes within site. All this coupled with a volatile unreasonable attitude. Making decent hardworking citizen’s life miserable is the hallmark of the classic Glasgow ned.

But what sets the Glasgow Ned apart? Imagine a genetically enhanced Cyborg Ned, increased durability, no concept of fear and a level of solipsism hitherto unknown in history. Bright white trainers (mugged of a Bearsden victim,) socks with bright white shellsuit bottoms tucked into them, (both shoplifted from JJB or possibly Poundstretchers depending on the class of ned,) a Ben Sherman top, (courtesy of Topman although not necessarily paid for) and a tracksuit top, (not necessarily matching, shoplifting being a quixotic activity.) All this topped off with a baseball cap, a fag cupped in the hand and a steady stream of foul language with possibly a nedette on one or both arms to serve as a carrier for all of the Alpha-neds STD’s.

These are dangerous creatures and must not be approached, on Sauchiehall Street or in the suburbs (except maybe Kelvinside where they all pretend to be from Edinburgh) There is no safe haven! From the Maryhill Massif to the Shettleston Young Team: BEWARE! The only possible defense is a machine gun, which are freely available in most of Glasgow’s Cash Generators.

Of course, to be completely safe, Edinburgh is a much nicer city with a far more civilized and cultured populace. Even our neds are polite, the one draw back is that the beggars expect a note instead of a coin…"

Chav Holiday Paradise

The following events happened many years ago. The Chav phenomenon had not yet come to the attention of the media, Burberry was not in, but the spirit of the Chav was very much alive and well then, as it is now…

Picture the scene: A bike ride from John O’Groats to Land end. Two young and very posh public school lads weary from the road approach what we surmised from the map to be a delightful Scottish seaside town in Ayrshire. Or at least that is what we presumed. It had a campsite and from this we deduced – a holiday town! How lovely! Must be a nice place. We were genuinely looking forward to stopping there for the night.

Suspicions were aroused on entering the Saltcoats/Stevenston/Androssan conurbation. What seaside resort has giant industrial works by the beach we asked. Scottish ones we presumed. And lo! What is that encampment down there, the one than looks like a holding centre for POWs, with razor wire surrounding it and separated from the beach by a railway line? Our campsite no less! Well lets check it out!

We pitched our tent by the razor wire next to the railway line. One solitary tent in a field of fixed –position caravans. We were the true peasants of the campsite.

Or so we thought. With little else to do, we headed to the campsite pub. We stayed for one pint. One obnoxious chavette addressed my friend, but with her back to him as she did so, so my friend was not aware that she was speaking to him and anyway, neither of her could decipher her local dialect. The offence caused by this –“Oi e’hm toilking ti ya!”, coupled with our own home countyness – “we truly are most terribly sorry” and the fact that all in the bar were now looking at as, and all were die hard chavscum to boot, meant that we felt pretty uncomfortable. So we decided to ditch our pints in favour of a nice cuppa brewed up on an epigas stove and the comfort of our 1.5 man tent.

As usually happens, I needed to piss that evening. So off I went to the local portakabin, which doubled as the campsite s**tter. Clearly the campers preferred to piss on each other’s caravans, for the toilet was instead used as a hangout for the younger holidaying male chavs of the site, perhaps the ones banned from the pub. Five spotty, spikey haired ruptuaries greeted me on entry to the toilets, none of the ablouting themselves, but instead smoking fags, and possibly shooting up (I did see a syringe in on the grass in the campsite, which was nice). Obviously the toilet was the place to hang. And I presume the girls were having an equally pumping time down at the ladies.

I can assure you that it is extremely difficult to piss in a urinal when a five jock chavscum are watching you do it. My dick was out, but there was no flow. The awkward situation lingered. Then I zipped up and walked out without yielding a drop. My toilet buddies burst out in laughter as I did so. From then on it was the grass for me.

We opted for an early night. We did not get it. Unfortunately we had pitched our tent rather to close to the campsite “Nite Club”. The tunes cranked out. Finally it came to a particulalry obnoxious hit of the time, the one with the chorus that goes “Alice? Who the f**k is Alice?!!!!” This was an enormous hit because the chavs could belt out the chorus, swearing in unison. Clearly it was great for them because it gave them the opportunity to say “f**k” for a legitimate reason, and so ad colour to their otherwise dour and pointless lives. The song was such a hit that they played an encore and then another, and another. It was so popular, they did not bother with any other tunes that night.

When the club closed at 4am. The chavs all spilled out singing their favourite song. And because they liked it so much, one of them obviously got a mate to come round and continue the party. The sound of a souped-up escort screamed up to the parking in front of the club and proceeded to belt out the who the f**k is Alice tune for another hour on the cars obviously souped up stereo (chav speciality). The communal bonding experience of swearing in unison continued to the wee hours. If I had a hand grenade, I swear I would have thrown it in their midst

We left quietly the next morning, as early as possible.