What once was a normal street, with green trees, and a park to the back of the house, with kids playing has turned into a refuge of chav scum, with the only solution being battery acid and / or a shotgun to their faces.

Every single day, chavs are outside the park, “dissin me nan” and everyone else going past. They ride their dirt bikes up and down the park daily, especially in the summer.

The police are scared to even go down the street, the attitude problems have got so bad, that the only way to escape is to sell up, and move to a smaller house in a better area, if you can afford to.

Some misinformed people think that chavs are just normal working class people, who are demonised. WRONG. i am working class, proud of it, but you dont see me going around, beating women up, shouting at people randomly, taking drugs or driving cars and bikes down the street at 80mph.

the only solution is to lock these bastards away.

By: Gary E

I was born in 1993, in an area of Warrington called Orford. Only one letter off from being Oxford- but in terms of culture, architecture and economy- another world away.This perspective of course is tainted, ever since I moved ‘Down South’ I’ve thought of it more and more as some f**ked up dystopian reality of what would have happened if Russia won the Cold War and wanted to deplete the west as much as possible. But right now in the narrative thats beside the point.

My childhood was a fairly happy experience. Normal, caring parents. The occasional beatings from my older, stronger peers. Even the odd meat and potato pie from the synge street bakery, if I was a good (thieving) lad. It was lovely. But puberty and the ability to travel outside Orford and Warrington came.

I realised the politics and systems behind the place; of people being born into what ever god-forsaken position they could grasp hold of, and learning to behave in accordance to how they are expected to. I didn’t like the taste of this. I mean- f**k, how was it fair that I was doomed to the fate of living with a camp Warringtonian accent whilst having to expouse the masculine qualities of creating as many bastard children as possible, harbouring sexual fantasies about not-nearly-enough-distant relatives, developing the taste for recycled drunkards urine (frosty jacks), and denying my equality to ethnic minorities. I think a journey to Manchester might spark the ember of this revelation, a journey to Burnley pissed the proverbial fire, and a trip to the French Island of Corsica doused it in petrol and lit it up like the little c**ts who now reside in Warrington.

I also went to secondary school in the south of Warrington, something that highlighted the national north-south divide as something obscured by the facade of wealth, and so nevertheless the same in nature. At school there the prevalent universal situations of 13-year old girls being up the duff; c**tish pricks (dicks without balls) finding pleasure in kicking pathetic weaklings in the prostate; and lower-middle class twats donning trackie hoodies under their blazers. The c**ts from the south really were the worst, feeling they had to prove their disaffection rather than experience it.

Enough of that bulls**t, I’m a little inebriated from the memory of Orford Lane. Ah the various exotic smells of that beautifully destructive herb, its enough to haunt anyone. Bridge Street is another haunting place; the image of a man repeatedly punching another patron head, sneering at the blood gushing from the back of his head that was bouncing of the edge of the curb. A light hearted reenactment of the opening scene of American History X I think.

Anyway, after that torrent of incoherent bulls**t I will wrap it up. If you are seeking a town that will not be gentrified in a long time, go to Warrington.

P.S. STI checks, occasional reading, an avoidance of pubs like The Original Wire, and the mental strength of Steel (or rock if you are that way inclined) are all necessary to living beyond Warringtonian’s average life span- which is the spry of age of 65.
By: Greg S

Firstly, Skelmersdale you may say has an annoying habit of repeating roundabouts and admittedly I feel your pain (sarcasm), Traffic lights Vs Roundabouts… the constant stoppage or the continuous routes? Point made.

Secondly, green. Although we as the human race have a tendency of smashing violently on any form of nature we have left, Skelmersdale is relatively green which is something most other places cannot say they obtain is.

Poor people? Thick people? People with no aims other than to get pregnant and live off of  your taxes? Agreeably, yes, there may be alot of people who follow this trend here however this generalisation of people is ridiculous and if someone so absurd agrees with these accusations I will gladly send my personal CV in the post!

Leading onto my next argument,  I am an 18 year old girl who has grown up in this town and I do have ambitions which I am currently fulfilling and yes, a dream of mine is to move away to a better place however I am proud of where I come from and I may have come from a ‘poorer’ background yet i have been raised up correctly with respect and manners from a place full of down to earth human beings whom most will drop anything to help a stranger, a small and tight knit community who all help and support each other.

In conclusion, my main point is for people to not judge any community until you have lived the good and the bad, additionally I hope to have opened some eyes, lifted some eyebrows and just to fit in with my stereotype… ‘Pulled some sticks out of people’s arses!

Thanks

Just to clarify, I am not a conceited ‘posh twat’ who hails from a relatively ‘posh twat’ inhabited area, I was originally born in Forest Gate (which is also an ineffable s**thole), who migrated to Romford, Essex. Whilst the two aforementioned areas do possess their flaws (quite a few really…), Tilbury is bereft of any advantages to it. There is virtually nothing to redeem it.

My beloved sister moved to Tilbury on a whim as my aunt also resides there. I was dubious that Tilbury was actually much of a s**thole as they described because I never really ‘visited’ the area without a car. When we moved, we were optimistic, initially. But that soon dissolved one afternoon in a confrontation with travelling children. I was wearing black Nike Blazers and they were sporting Lonsdale and Adidas and one girl wearing Umbro Trackies possessed to audacity to say to me that ‘you have no taste’. That was moment I realised that the inhabitants of this God-forsaken land consist of disgruntled, rancorous dickheads with no more than two teeth in their mouth.

The chavs wear Adidas and Lonsdale trackies as if they are a compulsory uniform. I walk down the street wearing skinny jeans and a Topman jumper and I feel alienated. I’m often a target. Just three weeks ago, I tried to do a perilous walk from Tilbury Town Station to my sister’s house close to Civic Square. I was confronted by aforementioned chavs standing intimidatingly outside the Tesco Express and hollered out ‘What you looking at?’ Nobody batted an eyelid, so I sought solace in a Favorite chicken where one of the cashiers called a cab and I managed to obviate getting my head kicked in.

The area consists of dilapidated terraced houses which would the 1984 film ‘Threads’ a run for its money. The aforementioned film was set in the aftermath of a nuclear bomb explosion. Just watch it, and you will discover that the appearance of the houses in the film and the houses in Tilbury are virtually no different. The odour of urban decay is so palpable that you can cut it with a knife. Most of the inhabitants who reside in this unequivocal s**thole bear a resemblance to characters from ‘Gummo’. The only well-mannered and tolerable people I know in the area are often too intimidated to emerge from their own front doors in the fear that they will meet their demise in the hands of a thug whose only haven is Sports Direct.

There are no semi-decent shops. You will find a cornucoppia of African and Caribbean establishments, and, frequently, third-rate takeaway outlets.

The only advantage that I would have to give Tilbury is that it has a train station, which can provide you with the opportunity to disperse from the s**thole and be in the pursuit of a better life away from the chavs who provide the area with its notorious reputation. The area itself has not exhibited any signs of progress. It is the revolting, rotting apple of Essex. Bruised, neglected and rotten. With the incompetence of Thurrock Council, the damage already done to Tilbury is almost irrevocable.

My sister and my aunt still reluctantly reside in the s**thole until they can find better places to inhabit. I refuse to venture out unless there is a mode of transportation such as a car or train. For anyone outside of Essex, if you move to Tilbury under the impression that the residents will bear a striking resemblance to the cast of ‘TOWIE’, with white teeth, an illuminating orange glow and women frivolously splashing their wads of cash with a chihuahua poking prominently out of their handbags, you are wrong. Dead wrong. Tilbury is merely scab of Essex along the mouth of the River Thames. Avoid at all costs.

By: Jack

I have lived here all my life and it isn’t the same place it used to be. These days it’s full of smack heads, speed freaks and the new popular drug – Fert.

Nobody cares about having jobs anymore the new generation thinks its more fun to either spit out kids and get pissed or use their dole to get off their face on drugs. More  little s**ts growing up robbing houses and peoples cars and where as a lot of people have grown up with no fathers they have no “man morals” and think it’s ok to punch a girl straight in the face for looking at them wrong.

Barry town is full of gobby, free loading, “i’m hard” arse holes that need to get a grip, get a f*****g job and stop spitting out kids by different men.

Yes there are a few  decent hard working people in Barry but these just get robbed by the other dirty little tramps living here.

Sea side resort? yeah young girls and boys walking around drunk starting on people that are trying to have a nice time. Everyone here seems as if they have to prove something and thinks it’s cool to be a bum getting off their trollies day and night. The new generation here are jokes. Barry has now turned into a joke… sad to say but its true.

By: Kelz

When not dressed in tracksuits the local female populace favour bras 3 cups too small peeping out of fat oozing boob tubes and denim miniskirts

Barneys playbarn is the local drop in centre for anyone active enough to leave their ps3 alone for 1/2 an hour.

Overcrowding and inbreeding is prevelant where threesomes with your cousin is the norm.

The Wannabe Chav element (they are not even fully fledged chavs) flock here like ants around jam, whence they proceed to revel in their own s**t while decorating their overgrown gardens with dirty nappies.

Jeremy Kyle could not afford to run a programme here as the DNA test list of perspective fathers for the ADHD aflicted, ritilin dosed brood is just too widespread often venturing as far as Pensnett.

The local diet consist of iceland pasties, deep fried nuggets and on dole day Mcdonnalds happy meals all washed down with Frosty Jack cider or panda pop for the kiddies.

90% of these people will live and die within a quarter of a mile of where they were born.

This towns local cash in hand jobs consists of paper rounds, drug running or standing on street corners (right next to the police station)

The queue outside the Venerial Disease clinic to rid yourself of custard D**k is only just shorter than the post office queue on pension day

Where if you have nt Sh****D your mates missus it means there must be a viagra shortage.

Untaxed, uninsured shag vans carrying matresses are the least of your worries here as none of the drivers of them actually possess a driving licence.

On summary, any decent person posessing any moral substance should stay the F**k away or risk horrific flashbacks of this downtrodden community.

By: Mick

Nasty is the best way to describe Tyneside woman.
The men are generally easy going and you dont get much hassel .The chavs are similarly easy going and if there is any violence it is almot always between families which are huge, owing to in-breeding.

There are more dogs than humans in South Shields and they
are represented as follows:

Pitbull type staffys 80%
Huskies 10%
Little yappy dogs  10%

The shops are full of shiny cheap imports and tynesiders
think that anything that shines or lights up is posh.

I once heard a woman in South Shields  talk about class and the conversation is as follows.

Woman 1: I was afraid to come to your house with the other girls for the party because it looks posh from the outside.

Woman 2. Well its not I have dity knickers lying around the house just like anyone else.

In South Shields if you happen to get attacked by someone and report the crime to the police you will be arrested also .
If someone burries an axe in your skull you will be arrested
by the south shields police. This is unless you are an owner of a shop or someone who is wearing a suit .

South Shields is a Police State but the police do not do much except raid the odd house which is growing hashish in the attic. Other than that they pull shop lifters but that is the extent of it.

If you dont like the sea,beach or river then the only reason to want to live in South Shields is because you have learning difficulties.

Verdict : Nasty woman, no decent shops, no social venues, no class.
98% Chav population

By: Adam C

If you are looking to purchase clothing you’ll need the internet as all there is are charity shops which you can get a saville row suit that someone died in. or peacocks as a last resort. cuisine is expensive and undercooked so bring a packed lunch if you are desprite. the town has nothing businesses are closing down due to extortion council rates venture 1 mile out of the town and you have the grotty sleazy wannbe skegness west bay were the potent smell chips burgers from various food sheds “kiosks” that sell food you could get from iceland and the northern exposure appear in the summer months to park dean which is normally flooded and the owner needs to see a therapist. then you have jenson button wannbes in there crappy little 1.0l saxos thinking they are on fast and the furious doing donuts on a mini roundabout and race in a car park that closes at 10 so they piss of the the nearest business park and have nothing better to do than to raise insurance prices. crime is rife stabbings,rapes,suicides my mate was beaten up for no reason dropping of some stuff to a mates house and the police do nothing as everything to them is a civil matter or they cant be bother to do the paperwork. however they can scoff kebabs and arrest the wrong people. like the mazda gt advert there is no alive in this town. I cannot wait to leave this hellhole and hope our estate agent gets us out far out of here. and feel sorry for the people that move in.

By: josh w