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that is pretty decent is the Spar – new interior and food is quite edible (apart from the sausage rolls that are always out of date, and of which consumption would cause you to excrete a replica of the place on your Armitage Shanks).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.