There’s no doubting my current town used to be a nice place to live, it was once known as “the gateway to Cornwall”, oh, how things have changed.

I’m not exactly sure when this invasion started, but the the place has become so over-run i get the feeling some people are too scared to go out.

It all started with the Boy Racers, fair i’ve noting against people driving cars and having fun, but when you hear and see a poorly “pimped” Nova with body parts more commonly seen in a Hotpoint showroom strapped to the car body, driving pointlessly around the town with some godawful exhaust pipe with holes drilled in sporting that “fake turbocharger noise”, playing out their techno music for all to hear don’t blame me for getting a little angry.

The real problem though, is the Mopeds. This i really cannot understand, why the hell would any respectable person want to drive on this contraption that sounds like a hairdryer. What gets me about these “drivers” apart from their “burnout” and “skidding” antics is their “drive-by insults”, apparently this strimmer on wheels turns them into some kind of superman.

I’ve come to expect it though, the random insults, running into roads into the path of oncoming cars (why oh why do they stop?) and the generalised bad attitude and “look at me i have a pladtic necklace so that gives me the right to go up to anyone and start throwing abuse, no matter how big they are and how small i am”.

i think some pain needs dealing, i’m not a violent person, but when a 4ft skin head who thinks he’s the best thing since sliced bread starts throwing insults at you, wouldn’t you get a little ticked off?

Maybe it’s me remembering a peaceful place for family holidays when I was a kid in the ’70s, maybe it’s because my ancestry goes back to the late 17th century in and around St Ives (no, chavsters, I’m not posh, it’s just that someone has researched it and put it on the net), maybe it’s that things were always like this and I never noticed….

NAAH f**k it.

The truth is that the whole of frigging Cornwall has become chavved up something chronic. Everywhere you go, lardy white bellies (shortly to become the colour of lobsters because the silly little twats never learn do they?), acne, fast food, Croydon facelifts and all the paraphernalia of chavdom largin’ it up on holiday like.
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I’m not a big one on violence but I witnessed one of the funniest chav retributions at the weekend.

Saturday morning, Penzance main street, people doing their Christmas shopping, stopping and chatting on corners; all very nice and civil. I was chatting to a mate when I heard this engine revving (well, more of an exhaust blowing) from behind accompanied by the all-too-familair sound of a ‘un-cha, un-cha, un-cha’ of drum and bass from some ridiculously over-amped car stereo.

Anyway, there’s a pelican crossing by the post office and the law and convention is that you stop to let people cross.

Not these twats in a vaguely customised Clio. There were two spotty chav pricks with their underaged bints smoking fags in the back seat as they raced up to the zebra crossing. A granny (well, a lady in her late-60s) was halfway across and the crossing and these chavs either didn’t see her or didn’t care. The wing mirror of the chavmobile caught her arm and she fell; the little fucker driving the wreck had to audacity to peep his horn after he’s hit her and then accelerated off. The little c**t was probably still pissed from the previous night’s £1 a drink session at Club2K.

A few of us ran over to help her and I noticed an old boy called Stacks running up the road. Now Stacks in an old time hard nut. Used to be a doorman in the ’70s when local boys would go to clubs just to fight the doormen. He was a rugby player, boxer, farm labourer and a fair bloke. You just didn’t cross him; even now when he’s pushing 55-60.

Anyway, I looked up and the chavs in the Clio had been stopped at a traffic light but were trying to edge out into the traffic. Stacks ran up to the driver’s door, grabbed the spotty prick by his fake Kappa hoodie through the open window and pulled his head and half his weedy body out through the window.

Then Stacks smacked him. Twice and then twice more to make sure. The sound was like something off a western bar brawl. He pushed the kid’s bruised and broken head back into the car where his chav mate was frantically trying to lock all the car doors and the chavettes were screaming ‘leave it aught’, ‘dant hurt him’, ‘wot’s he dun to you?’. The chav driver just sat with his head rested on the steering wheel, blood splattered all over the polished dashboard. He wasn’t knocked out quite as when he pulled his head back, he was actually crying.

Anyway, the whole thing was caught on CCTV and the police turned up. Stacks got arrested for assault but the kid was done for dangerous driving, failing to report an accident, not stopping at the scene of an accident and having no insurance.

The old lady was fine but a bit cut and bruised and the general consensus was that the little prick got what he deserved.

Chavs are alien to Cornwall, but the spiecies are multiplying.

Not my home town (Yeovil is covered elsewhere!) but the mecca for Chavs on holiday where I had the fortune (or misfortune) to work in all summer!

Newquay is well known for being a centre for Chavs on tour. I mean the whole town thrives on the money they all bring in. There aren’t actually proper clothes shops in Newquay, save for all the ‘surf’ shops offering over priced ‘hoodies’ most of which appear to be red, have LIFEGUARD – BABEWATCH DIVISION and NEWQUAY 2005 in yellow lettering on them somewhere. Not to mention all the t shirts with somewhat ruder sayings on them, and thats just what the ladies are wearing, which believe you and me, wasn’t much!

While I’ve never experienced Newquay on a Saturday in the height of summer I’ve had to deal with the mess and the fallout of it the day after the drunken adventures.

Saturday afternoon in Newquay often meant the arrival of the many National Express coaches from around the country. They would then get an overpriced taxi, or a bus out to one of the many holiday parks so designed for them. One of them has a double deck bus service running every half an hour into town, and I got to experience the delights, or otherwise of the operation. Even when you happen to be aboard one of the local service buses the cry from the drunks awaiting at the stops (an acheivement for them for some don’t get that small concept into their heads) of are you going to ‘Sunnyside’ or ‘Trevelgue’, to which we would answer no. Now Trevelgue is pronounced tre-vel-ge(emphasising the eee) which again to some of them appears almost impossible to pronounce correctly. Mind you it is Cornish! There were all kinds of antics, best was the usual game of the drunks ringing an unmanned office to ‘find out the next bus’ at 2300 hours while you’re on a break from a shift. Result: lots of phones ringing and not being answered.

Saturday mornings were spent at the bus station dealing with those who had been out the night before (using the last bit of money they had remaining) and missed the bus ‘cos the taxi didn’t turn up’. Only the once did I get an honest one who said ‘we purposely missed it’. Problem is if you miss the coach the ticket isn’t valid so you of course tell them the cost (for the five of them) to get home. I didn’t get abuse off people, though some of my colleagues did (well you mention £150.00 to a bunch of chavs and wait for the reaction). There was the memorable experience of helping out several attractive females by sorting out the ticket and getting them onto another bus. I did once get this really abusive person, who needed telling three times the bus was on the way, and he was adamant it had turned short of the stop. Suffice to say the conversation ended after he began to swear. The idiot rang up for more, so same response again, phone down. A trick I learnt from being a taxi controller in Yeovil (reference all the bits about drunks at 0200) was to simply put the phone down when they get abusive!

Generally however the attitude of the chavs on tour left a lot to be desired – there were those who took the pi*s cos I was actually working, I just wanted them to miss the bus home so they would have to be nice to me again. Me, I just smile sweetly and put up with it and be as helpful as possible. But do we really have to be nice to a sub section of the population that indulges in getting wasted at almost every opportunity? Perhaps not.

Newquay after a night out was a sight to behold, various sections of vomit everywhere (from the kebab that seemed SUCH a good idea at 0300) and the smell of urine from where they decided to take a leak. The bus station toilets were even designed accordingly, so that when they were locked you could take a leak through the railings, and there was a conveniently situated plughole to blast the lot down in the morning somewhere in the doorway… We had to lock the toilets cos people would, well, do things that we cant go into here in them and generally wreck them.

So there you have it, Newquay the mecca for chav holidays. I forgot to go into great detail about the chavved up motors that run about the place with the passenger in the back thumping the windows (or is that actually meant to be music?!) or the latest ‘rap’ tune blasting out for us all to hear. I thought public broadcasting wasn’t allowed unless you had a licence?

Then there was the coming of christ in August, when the KFC opened. Ignoring the large queue I went to the slightly quieter than usual pasty shop for my lunch. But this was a better than average KFC, where you didn’t have to point at the sign to tell them what you wanted to eat!!

Newquay gets a mention for being a chav town cos of the people who visit it, mind you get the St Austell lot on tour. Now there’s a place worth its own entry!!