There’s a good reason Bangor isn’t already on here; no-one knows about it enough to give a f**k. And to be honest, that’s the best thing you can do for a place like this.

The nearby estate of Maesgeirchen breeds chavs like a roadkill badger breeds maggots, and they completely swarm the city. But it’s not just the ratio of chav:normal person that makes it so bad. These chavs can’t even be angry or violent properly like most city chavs. Remember those kids i school who’d hang around with the bigger bullies and peer around from behind them shouting abuse instead of actually being tough? That’s every single one of the chavs in Bangor. Every one of them has an uncle/cousin/mate/boyfriend/dad/brother/all-of-the-above who’s a local fighting legend and will kick the shit out of you for looking at them funny, yet said legend never actually appears. These fuckwits can’t even muster the attitude to finish a fight they start even as a group, unless it’s against an OAP or a phone booth!

Not only that, but the rest of locals seem to support these walking-abortions too. The only thing that brings any sort of money into Bangor is the students (themselves not the brightest of sparks to have chosen to study in f**king Bangor…), so the for 1/4 year that they’re not around the place almost literally grinds to a halt. To that end the univrsity and students are hated because they don’t bring enough money to the area to support the dole-monkeys for the whole year and consequently are given a hard time just for being there. So what did the council do to fix this in recent years? Builds a f**king shopping centre in the city centre… When every other unit on the high street is shut already… There are units in this centre that have NEVER been occupied. You’d think they might have learnt their lesson, but they’ve recently allowed the build of a f**king huge new student union complex… 

Perhaps this will help one or two of the chavs muster the courage to actually be the hard bastard they all purport to be… Folks, please, don’t EVER go to Bangor1 Just let.it.die…

By: Gee Allen

Wales is an ancient place – a dark place. Merlin came from here, in ancient times when the Romans had gone. There are places, high places nestled in mountains full of ancient faery magic, where the malevolent spirits of the Earth whisper secrets in the crevices of men’s hearts. Places where time refuses to trundle onwards as it should.

Croeserw is one of those places. A place of black, malevolant evil. Everywhere you go, the hairs on your neck will stand to attention. You are being watched – not by trolls, or goblins, but big, fat, sweaty women with more tires than Michelan, and proud tax payers who haven’t worked since 1974. By ladies whose faces have been mummified by thirty years of thirty-a-day. Their curtains twich as you walk their streets.

Who is this person? Their eyes say. What is he doing here? Where is he from? Will he scream when I wave a straight razor at his face? Will they ask questions when I bury him in the woods.

The western mail called this small Welsh village “The Sickest Place in Britain.” As one in five people here claim long term sickness benefit. Unemployment is sky-high, crime is seen as a part of life. It’s a long way to the nearest police station, hospital, job center. And travel mostly relies on public transportation that is shaky at best: sometimes the bus will simply bypass this village completely to save time (I once remember having to wait fifteen minutes when one bus driver stopped outside his house to make himself a piece of toast, and, presumably, sex up his wife, before returning without an explanation of his absence.

The accent is a peculiar type of English. An English language as envisioned by a lunatic. Consonants have magically vanished. “Where are you going, then?” Becomes ” ere ou goin, en?” And of course every sentence begins with “Oh!” and ends with “But”

Roving gangs of “children” wander the streets, shouting and fighting into the night. Their screams could be interpreted as wordless laments at a dark and rainy sky. Everywhere you look, baseball caps, spliffs, empty cans of Skol lager, cigarette butts lie in the gutter like broken dreams. Grown women shuffle down dirty pavements at 5PM like the ghosts of their childhood dreams.

Teenage pregnancy is at such a high rate that women give birth to babies who then sometimes immediately go in to labor.

Once I went into the pub. Big mistake. The local pub is known affectionately as The Bog…take a minute to digest that. It’s called The Bog.

It seemed to loom over me, mist pouring from the doorway, windows became eyes – hungry eyes. Inside, I was subjected to karaoke that sounded like artistic, ironic, sarcastic parodies of the songs that they originally were. I was accused, quite violently, of being an undercover cop. Then approached by a girl who seemed like more of a haggard masturbatory aid than an actual human being with a soul, thoughts, memories, etc and asked for my phone number – I told her it was 12345678910 and she said duly saved it.

Please, gentle soul, i implore you. if you would like to keep your soul and not have it ripped from you, stay away from Croeserw. Far away. never come close, if you can smell Joop and Benson and Hedges, you’re too close. f**king back off! if you EVER come here you will be here forever. You will wear a baseball cap, the peak slightly bent, you will wear underpants that will last you the rest of your life; an immortal dole claimant who’s best years are far behind him. And one day, you find youself looking out the window when a well dressed stranger passes your window.

Stay away. Here there be chavs.
By: aaron

Ah the song of humming birds, the rushing sound of water as it meanders the tributories and echanting church bells echoing through the valley. These are all the glorious characteristics you’d normally associate with the traditional Welsh villages in the heart of Carmarthenshire and indeed one would suggest, at a first glance, that Whitland has all these charms. But don’t be fooled by its apparent appeal of being surrounded by beautiful countryside. Having lived in Whitland and gone to school for several years I have come to realise that, in fact, Whitland has similar characteristics to a beautifully delicious ripened macintosh apple, with razor blades in it. True to its form it may look pleasant, almost harmless, from the outside but the sheer depths of dispair only surface when you take a huge bite into it.

Upon entering Whitland you are greeted with the facade that is dirty grey pebble-dash housing, burnt out buildings, a derelict behemoth of a train station and loads of horrible shops which many are still empty; oh and the bloody chavs.

But for many years Whitland was a thriving little market town having a very proud traditional welsh industrial backbone propping up the community with its very own milk factory. However, as is often the case, the industry collapsed. To further compound this despair, the demise of Whitland’s industrial spine coincided with the completion of the Whitland bypass which well and truly finished the town off. The resulting concoction was, and still is, a mere pimple on a pig’s d*ck; a sinister town lurking in the shadow of it’s more aspirational neighbour Narberth in Pembrokeshire.

Since the demise of Whitland’s industrial grit the town has seen an influx of intolerant, insufferable and unemployable chavs who, still to this day, patrol the dark and dingy streets of Whitland like swarms of wasps. Whitland has also welcomed a herd of volatile pseudo-irish gypsies bringing trade (in the form of drugs) into this soul-less one-horse town. In fact a few of those very gypsies knocked on my flat door the very evening I moved in, asking me ‘Av yer got any gear boyo?’; and still to this day, each and every house vomits chavs as they head over to the local chip shop of an evening sporting the usual hoddies, trackies tucked in their socks and upturned baseball caps. Rather bizzarely, Whitland chavs have a tendancy to look identical, with either long necks or short cropped ginger hair; and their hostility knows no bounds. The usual activities of a Chav include hurling foul obscenities at passers by, throwing coins at windows, shouting and generally doing what chavs do best.

To further exacerbate the already dismal chaviness that beholds Whitland, there are 2 local chav recruitment offices also known as schools, where wannabe chavs spill onto the streets at the 3 o’clock bell. The adult chavs too have their own chavettes aka girlfriends and are easily identifyable in their uniform brown / pink pajamas pushing prams.

It also goes without saying (but I’m going to say it anyhow) that this small and innocent-looking town is also rife with unemployment and crime. Whitland has the highest population of Jeremy Kyle viewers in the world (probably) and the gap between poverty and greed is nearly as wide as the Andres is long. For much of the poverty-stricken, a trip to the launderette on a Saturday (for those who can afford it) is pretty much the highlight of yer week, and I remember it well.

Thankfully I was one of the lucky ones to escape this downtrodden hole, but you might not be so lucky. Whitland is nestled in a valley which means when you leave this town you are always challenged to climb a hill, and a very large one at that. It’s quite appropriate to suggest that Whitland’s steep hills present the ‘escaper’ with such an arduous challenge that they leave you with no other alternative but to head back to Whitland in acceptance that, at least, you tried to escape. But there’s very little hope of escaping this town as it frantically sucks you in, desperate to cling on to every poor sucker. In fact most of the people I went to school with are still living in Whitland 10 years on, still grasped by the clutches of their dilligent sentence to life in Whtland. Fortunately I got parole.

I’ve been to some miserable places in my time. Slough, Cumbernauld, Bridgend, Neath, Glasgow, Liverpool. We’ve all heard of these places and know of their unspeakable misery. Unfortunately Whitland doesn’t even have the dignity to uphold a reputation to provide material for comedians, which makes Whitland worse than any of these towns. It’s a joke that needs to be explained.
By: Sean Graham

Cant believe you left out this chav infested run down dump off your list, it borders crime ridden Rhos on Sea or OAP on sea as its known, and drug infested Penrhyn Bay,as well as Crime ridden Llandudno or Mankydudno as its now known,

Well Colwyn Bay was once a fantastic grand town with a huge hotel on the prom called THE COLWYN BAY HOTEL, then two things happened they put a motorway through the town cutting it off from the beach, destroying a hundred houses and they pulled down the fantastic hotel on the prom for an ugly block of oap bedsits known as Princess court, so the prom and most of the grand buildings went for oap flats, and still are going and the rest went to chavs and crime, they have just built a new travelodge in colwyn bay and its used the house the homeless etc, its a real dump , even the local counsellor Bob Squires has publically stated in the local paper barely a few months ago he doesnt feel safe in the travelodge  and town in the day, drug deals are openly done. its too late to try to save it, corruption and bad decisions have taken their toll and drug lords rule, they dont call it brown town for nothing

By: the north wales critic

This is a marvellous little town situated in the South East Wales Valleys but is blighted by vermin known as ‘chavs’. Although it isn’t very hard to spot one of these creatures in the town, it is hard to say their hotspots as they like to hover around. However, my observations found that the best places to spot a chav is in the middle of town centre by Iceland and Wilko, the Jobcentre which is a short walk away from town centre, the bus stops by the council offices and Tesco.

There is a small area in Pontypool known as Trevethin where most of these creatures have settled. When you drive through this place, you look at it with disgust and begin to ask yourself why you are coming here. Some roads are somewhat quiet but there are others that are swarmed with chav children who ride around on their bikes wearing their classic attire, shouting in their retarded gangster accent and just being mischievous little things. If you’re unlucky enough to be in the area, you may encounter some verbal abuse from them and possibly further if you challenge them. Most of them like to chill outside the Spar asking those passing by to buy them cigarettes and alcohol as they are not old enough to go out and get it themselves.

You may also come across a bit of noise on your travels around Pontypool. This is the sound of the elder chav zooming around the place in a very old Citroen Saxo or similar with a big exhaust engine at the back (cause of the awful noise by the way!) with the car tricked out with bright colours or even lights underneath the car if they’re feeling extra creative! Be sure to cross the road with caution!

If anyone tells you that the South Wales Valleys is like the UK version of the Deep South in the USA, it is likely they are telling the truth. Pontypool is one of those places where everyone knows each other and know each other’s business (if you’re the type of person who likes their privacy, avoid this place at all costs!) Pontypool has been known for some inbred tendencies between families which is rather scary. Also, the teenage pregnancy rate in this area is very high. Some kids as young as 12 can be seen pushing their little brats in a pram.

By: welshchavhater

Well what can we say about Mold… much like many of the towns we can read about on this site – it’s plagued by low life chavs! 

Mold is quite strange, unique in it’s ability to never actually change, the local hotspot as of about 2003 is the local “weathers” where the cheap ale flows freely, purchased with the “job seekers” allowance they worked so hard for – the best part is though, you can go here on any given day and the exact same group of old piss heads and dolies will be sat in “their” chairs supping.

As is quite normal in many places, the weekend brings the younger generation out of their council flats to grace everyone with their presence, they drink, smoke weed, snort coke and then go get a meal from the “kebaby” … then ofcourse, how could we finish a night out with out giving someone a slap for staring at them / their mrs (usually lying on the floor outside weathers covered in their own puke at this point) – at this point the heavily out numbered police will intervine…. ANYONE reading this from Mold and it’s surrounding villages will know EXACTLY who these idiots are.. by name… it’s always the same arseholes, week in, week out – off their faces on steroids, weed and super tenants. 

To conclude, if you ever want a career, change of scene, unpredictable nights out… you’re better keeping away from this dive – it’s like being stuck in the twighlight zone…

Well what can be said about Brynmawr? it’s full of cretinous wildlife known as chavs. Congregation usually takes place around the old cinema in the town centre which hordes some of the most arrogant and downright wastes of space I have ever seen. Most days I have to walk past them in their gangs of between 10 and 30 with ages ranging from 13-20 to get to band practise , and most days I get the usual barrage of abuse , most commonly used are the words “Goff”,”Goffick”,”Sweaty” and “mosher” , Oh and the obligatory “Go and cut your wrists you emo” , Yes , because i wear jeans and a black hoodie and have a few tattoos I cut my wrists , well done you absolute waste of oxygen! I really do think these dole arses and inbred kids should be thrown out to sea and never ever rescued. It makes me sick to the stomach when I look at my wage slip to see that the tax im paying is supporting these layabouts to be able to hang around places like this and hurl abuse at honest , working citizens like myself. Be gone vile scum!!!

To those of you that have never had the displeasure of visiting the vile cumstain of humanity called ‘Beddau’ situated a bus ride from the other chav hellhole known as Pont-ee-preeeeeeeed (translates as Sh1tdump on the Taff) , I bid you a warm welcome to the carbunckle of crap known as the place what I, unfortunately, reside in.

One translation from Taffylingo (Welsh, innit boyo?) is literally ‘Graveyard’.   Beddau sure is that – a depressing pile of shite crapped out of the Devil’s anus.

Journey up Parish Road Hill and gawp in amazement at the never ending procession of teen mums and their spotty, hoody, white-cider drinking waste of sperm boyfriend/shag for the week.   The girls here are know as Yorkites (not to be confused with Yorkdale, which we will come across later – but in homage to The Grand Old Duke Of York whom, like these girls, had 10,000 men).

At the top of Parish Road is a roundabout with three directions in which to choose (but all leading to further eyesores – you will want to put bleach in your eyes to end the pain and suffering!)   Left leads to the main shopping area which looks as if it’s been air-lifted from some Communist backwater and dropped in a great hole.   One ‘improvement’ has been the erection (sadly not mine up Katherine Jenkins  love gusset) of fencing atop the chippy (nice chips to be fair, but the staff there would not know English if it bum-raped them) in order to stop the local yobs from dropping bottles into the hairdresser’s gutter (no euphamism there!) and to stop them pilfering from Fulgoni’s via jumping across the gap and smashing the back open.   If there was an Olympic event for this, these lads would take gold – sadly there isn’t and these miscreants should be tied to a railway line and let the 09.25  to Paddington do it’s British duty!

One shop that is pretty decent is the Spar – new interior and food is quite edible (apart from the sausage rolls that are always out of date, and of which consumption would cause you to excrete a replica of the place on your Armitage Shanks).   The old lady at the counter is quite nice, despite throat problems caused by sucking on 100 fags a day like it was the paperboy’s wiener, however the younger fat slag on the till will bite your head off for even farting.   When she’s not slamming change into your palm like mad, she’s most likely showing her fat saggy tits on porn sites to half-baked 50 year old pot heads who masterbate on their computers and live in Mummy’s basement eating moldy cheesy pasta (from the Spar) whilst listening to Pink Floyd’s ‘Great Gig In The Sky’ all day, every day, non-stop.

The estate adjacent to the Spar was, until 1988, called Auschwitz (which is pretty ironic considering that Poles now live on that estate) and despite some modifications it still looks like one giant concrete turd.   The pub on the estate has been open and shut more times than a whore’s vagina, and there is street after street of empty grey nothingness.   You will think that a holiday in Bognor Regis is heaven in comparison!    The red sky at night is not shepherds delight, but probably the Cwm Coking Works on fire.

The only nice part is Carn Celyn (but they never associate themselves with Beddau – oh no darlings it’s Gwine Misskyn!)

Local schools include Brincankellog’s (rough as an Arab’s butt-crack, but still got some decent talent there – also Neil Jenkins went there so it ain’t too bad like!) and for the Caffolicks there’s Cardinal Newman (sorry, the Marxist Common Purpose Brainwashing Training Facility – where kids are show how to vote Labour, worship Lenin and Marx and say YES to all things European).

Although they don’t live in Beddau (cos it’s too posh for ‘em) the Cocco family have control over all building projects in Beddau and through their Marxist Mason Membership (yep, new world order is here!) have a stake in brainwashing kids in Newman and also at the Loonyversity of Glammmmorganshite.

So, if you fancy a visit to this Godfersaken hellhole, please be my guest – heck you can rent my place, for free – JUST GET ME THE HECK OUTTA HERE!!!!

i’ve lived in swansea all of my life and  i have to say of all the places ive been to, the chavs in my home town are the worst.
the most popular hangout is the city centre high st,the job centre is located here and its close to dyfatty flats, full of heroin addicts. walking down high st in the day is bad enough but at night you’re taking your life into your hands,the city centre is full of chavs especially on a monday, 15 year old girls with those piercings above their lips ,pack out primark with their prams ,greggs bakeries are another favourite to get their brats their pasties,oxford st is full of them , gangs of chavs with prams outside the 99p shop and of course soccer sports,if it wasn’t for chavs i dont think soccer sports would be open , the chavs go there for their tracksuits and nike air max trainers,and of course to buy the latest trainers in chav style for their babies.all the chav girls have yellow hair, elizabeth duke earrings, and about 40 rings on each finger,guaranteed every sentence they speak ends in the word MUSH,im hoping to move out of this shithole soon as its really starting to get me down, me and my mates dont even drink much in the city centre any more, because of the amount of chavs,thank god for the new sa1 development, otherwise we’d have nowhere to go, any body considering visiting this pit don’t bother, you wont be missing anything.

once a quiet rural village,Rhoose is now all but an extension of Barry.The focal point for the local and visiting chavs is the spar and the only bus shelter(50 metres down the road).The bus shelter is ideally situated next to the only telephone box in the village,so when one of their chavvy drug dealers fails to sort them out or someone pisses them off they only have to walk outside and smash up the phone box(.a weekly occurance).They are not without imagination though,they have been known to smash the spar windows and also the estate agents have had a few windows kicked in.They range in age from 14 to 40,but the main core of chavvy “cokeheads” are surprisingly 17 to 24,these supply a vast range of drugs to all the other chavs and are able to purchase lambert and butlers and cheap booze to the younger chavs and chavettes.incredibly most of these little hoodrats do not come from council estates but from the affluent Rhoose point estate,they sport the latest expensive tracksuits and trainers and drive around in new little motors,joeying the drug dealers around.if you ever wished to meet one of them just chuck on a trackie,a baseball cap(optional),walk up the spar(with a limp prefferably)hold out a clenched fist and say”safe bruv,wos appening”,you will be well in bruv.