I can’t believe Bishop got in and not a word about Crook.

Crook Vegas as it is affectionately referred to is a bleak shit hole somewhere in County Durham. Pram faced locals descend on the town centre to visit Greggs, Peters or shoplift wares from the ‘Original’ Factory Shop. Many of them reside in the delightful and scenic ‘Gaza Strip’. At weekends the streets are patrolled by rabid, white lightening consuming gangs, many of whom have taken to wearing flat caps and rigger boots and calling themselves the CTC or Crook Town Casuals, perhaps the Crook Town Cunts would be more appropriate, or just cunts for short. These youths urinate in a phone box and boot footballs up and down the street, a highlight is going ’up the back of the doctors’ for a few cans or visiting Ronnies video shop for some kets. Countryside sports such as lamping are popular, along with shooting tramps and burying their remains at local sites of natural beauty such as Kitty’s Wood. The town boasts a scenic picnic area, which doubles as a dogging venue, trees by day, a fat lass’ arse pressed against the windscreen of a rusty Ford Escort by night. 

There are few shops, however it has numerous take away outlets and a surprising number of pubs. The Crown or Fraggle Rock is particularly lively on giro day. Standing proudly is the council building or pagoda, the vision was a modern and Japanese influenced stylish administrative centre for the now defunct Wear Valley Council, sadly it looks like a pile of shit, designed in lego by a retarded pre-school child.  The main street, laughably called Hope Street (no fucking hope more like) may well boast the highest concentration of betting shops in a 20 yard radius. Again, giro day is a busy period. Tanning shops help the women over 40 to maintain a healthy orange glow, with skin the texture of dry, cracked leather. They are easy to identify clacking down the street in 80s stilettos like a group of angry velociraptors.

Economic activity in the town is somewhat limited, although the local ‘fag houses’ stocking a wide range of snide, foreign smokes appear to have combatted the recession effectively. The once weekly market also thrives, particularly the 2 stripe tracky bottom stall and the jeweller does a roaring trade as locals trade in their Elizabeth Duke in time for the man from the provy or shopacheck to collect the next instalment of the substantial debt racked up purchasing a 50″ plasma screen to view Jeremy Kyle or buying there foul-mouthed toddler a Playstation 3.

Genuine citizens need no explanation as to the true identity of the Cheif, Tennis Man or Radio Roo. They refer to places as what used to be… for example the aforementioned Factory Shop- what used to be Presto, Crazy Jakes- what used to be Bob’s Bargain Centre or BBC (a sadly mourned local resource that proudly displayed its range of sex toys and hardcore porn amongst the household cleaning products) and so on and so forth.

Another key local event is Thursday noght Family Planning Clinic, attendance is not advised for the over 15s, as they may be intimidated by the ferral hoards of 14 year olds in tracksuits vociferously demanding clap tests. Since the sad demise of the Rainflower Arcade or ‘Chongers’ there is little in the way of entertainment, perhaps explaining the high teen birth rate and demand on council dwellings.

Account #1: The Park

Now as the oldest of the Crawleyites I would love to be able to say that Crawley wasn’t always this way, that it didn’t always have Chav Mecca – County Mall. But that would be a lie. A barefaced, stinking, stupid, shitty little lie. Crawley has been this bad as long as I can remember, there have always been squeaky voiced little boy chavs trying to look big for their five years underage slut girlfriends. ‘Tis just the way.

Arguably the thing that made Crawley famous was a little event in an area local to my house called Tilgate Park. A place where, shockingly for Crawley, there are very few council houses. Single mums teenage mums, however, are surprisingly enduring when it comes to finding a home. Anyway, some chavs who were feeling far more clever than they actually were hooked a moped up to a child’s roundabout. They proceeded to rev it and cried in youthful glee when the engine caused the toy to spin. Three Chavettes then seated themselves on it and the fun began. It spun so fast that the stupid sluts were thrown off and given broken limbs and third degree friction burns. This made NATIONAL NEWS and so it should. We should remember the amazing depths of chav idocy. We could scarcly believe it. Other chavs could scarcely believe it.

But that is only what the BBC knows us for – an event outside Tilgate Park. I now wish to talk about what goes on within it. I am of course referring to the ‘night fishing’. Ever wonder how our teenage pregnancy rate is so high? Well this is how! Chavs and their all-too-young chavettes go the the lake at night and do any number of activities at an interesting variation of volumes. Fornication, fighting (even though they may not have alcohol!), nude swimming or even murder. It is so very difficult to tell. The police don’t dare enter, neither do those unfortunate enough to live nearby. This behaviour is odd and almost bestial, just like the Pint&Fight phenomenon. Because of it we have an ever increasing number of the burberry wearing, sticky fingered, pissed off their faces, headache inducing, mugging, thieving, fighting, little bastards. Would it kill you to use protection? REALLY?

It’s not much to ask is it?

Account #2: The First Hand Encounters

As a local shop worker in a newsagent I notice something about my regular customers every so often and this happens to if not all of them, the teeange single mums and lay-about housewives will dissappear for a week or two only to reappear a few days later with another child, which would make 4, 5 now? I lose count. If I’m not being regailed with truly inspirational stories of how their wonderful lives fall to pieces when they can’t cash a gyro at the local post office only to get them selves pissed for another night at the local pub; I am met with the classic chav who comes in asks for a large Rizla just so they can get high for another night as they roll up in front of me.

And then it happens I’m invited to go out with a group of *sneer* adoring locals who wish to go to Bar Med (local Chav night out of choice for your classier chav) to which I laugh and respectfully decline for fear of being followed home and gang-raped. For as we all know Bar Med is one of the areas in Crawley which I like to refer to as ‘The Source’. From ‘The Source’ spouts all manner of things drugs, fights and the occasional - no thats a lie – daily occurence of the couples entering the gents; probably going to flush the chemical toilet and make more darling cherubs to brighten up my day. After all where would we be with out this stunning beacon in the middle of our town centre, it reaches to all races and cults of the Crawley area drawing them in from all over like goblins to get their usual fix? Where would we be?

A better place.

Now after hobbling out of Bar Med you would think they wouldnt get so pissed out of their minds they can leave with some diginity right? You would be wrong. They step onto the bus, refuse to pay, fight with the driver and then only find themselves on the floor of the bus or plastered to the glass sheilds, they will normally stay there till morning. This is no ordinary bus service; this is Metrobus and Fastway but that is a topic I shall leave for the next writer.

Account #3:

Crawley can only really be seen on a bus, and coming from Bewbush (the cesspool of the cess pool), I really get to see some…coulorful characters! I remember one experience on the way home through gossops green, minding my own business a brick suddenly found itself trying to break through the glass beside my head. Fearing it was the end and terrorists had finally emerged from the back of Ifield I thought I’d stare death in the face and give a well earned ‘fuck you’. Imagine my suprise then when the brick had been thrown from a bunch of kids no older than 10…just think, they lived so close to bewbush and they weren’t fathers of at least 2!

Although this point has been gone over so many times, underage pregnancy isn’t a problem, more like expected. If you’re bleeding from the vagina then it’s time to leave home and get yourself council house! Best way to do that? Shag in every back corner and have yourself and your wailing baggage shoved in Bewbush or Broadfield, or if you’re really lucky the hostel just by ASDA. Just think, the boozer across the road, the hospital down the road and the church graveyard a 5 minute walk away. Its like a neon sign BE THE SHIZ PICKLE YOUR LIVER INNIT!

Ah yes Bewbush, the part of Crawley no-one wants to be in…and the council accept that! they even try to solve the problem! ‘Try’ being the main word. The local pub got knocked down a few months ago and is getting replaced by, you guessed it, more council houses! They even tried to help the poor trackie bints with prams and gave them a park to go to…which then turned into another baby making spot. Oh and the leisure centre got knocked down and replaced by a sort of…sexual health clinic? No-one really knows what it is and the chavs, with top form i might add, quickly covered it in grafic graffitti telling them where to shove their advice up the backside.

The field on the back of the old leisure centre is another story entirely. A huge football field  on the back of the farer out council houses, is the prime vacation spot for all pickeys. I cannot tell you the joy I express seeing a nike covered gypo having a crap in the street. In fact, I think this is all chavs are ever good for in Crawley. If they see a pickey then all attention is directed at driving them away! It’s like a holiday from the constant shit they give you, instead of having them try and beat YOU up, the gypos get it instead! But then they leave and the chavs use it as the ultimate boozer. smashed WKD bottles…oooo yay.

We are three non-Chavs from Crawley and even we cannot escape the culture. If you ever find yourself in this God-forsaken spit of land then run, run fast and hard and don’t look back. Much as I hate to say it MAKE FOR HORSHAM. We don’t really like them on principle but they have one thing right. Crawley is a deadly place for the non-educated in chav ways. After awhile it gets inside you, it infects you. Soon you end up swearing and liking RnB.

Sad times. Sad times, people.

I have now completed a year working in the Dunstable area and any day now I am expecting the Queen to summon me for my knighthood. Dunstable has to be one of the worst towns in the country. It has more taxi drivers than people, I swear I was asked if I needed a taxi (although pronounced “Taxi boss?”) while I was in my car. The town is obviously designed as an ode to Logan’s run and people have as much pride in their houses as Naomi Campbell would do for genital herpes. 

I have often said that predictive text on a mobile phone has a sixth sense, as in my ex was called Ang and it would try to replace this with nag. Well try Dunstable and it will change it to Dump table. It knows. It is not that it is the most deprived area, nor the ugliest; it is that no one cares, no one works and no one has any interest in other people. It is like a cell that has just been infected by the Luton virus and does not bother to take the antibiotics. 

The worst thing about this place has to be the lack of class. Class to someone from Dunstable is something that you ditched when at school. When it comes to fashion, the last time the clothes worn by the locals were seen was in an Adam Ant video.  People comment at Christmas at the house covered in neon signs requesting “Santa please stop here” with phrases like “Doesn’t that look nice” . No it doesn’t, it looks cheap, it looks chavvy, and basically it looks shit. 

Everyone in Dumptable has a limp which can only come from many years of previous generations introducing their siblings as their partners. All the teenagers are in tracksuits and as for Dunstable College; I’m personally convinced that this is where you go when you are turned down by Borstel. 

In short, why anyone would choose to live here is beyond my comprehension. There are some nice hills and open areas which leads me to request that the British army forget Salisbury and start the maneuvers right here. Some of the larger guns should be able to target Luton as the icing on the cake.

Anyway, enough about that. The reason for this post is the farcical rise of a new breed of Chavs. The ‘chavistani’.  These little hyenas hang around in packs and try to intimidate people with their slick LA wear, complete with handkerchief neck ties, gold plated ‘Ratners’ chains (almost touching the floor as these street monkeys never touch 5ft 2in) Evisu (very un-cool) jeans and Wiltshire cross Goan attitude. Hilarious!!! I challenge you not to check out Facebook and not p*ss your pants laughing when you see these little street urchins posing in this gear. Hilarious!!!!

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!!!!

The day we moved in we witnessed 2 cars swapping bags through the windows, something told me they weren’t gummy bears. This was in broad daylight, people just stood around on the street, they all knew what was going on. Only when we moved in were we told that Winson Green prison was within walking distance from the house, just around the corner in fact! Oh joy!

Walking around the street was a no-no pretty much any time of day or night, no matter if it was lunch time or midnight there was always some skinny crack filled creature lurking around outside their house talking about how they are pissed off with “Jamal, cos he aint got me no weed this week”. We were the only white couple in the street, which is no problem for me personally but it did seem to be for everyone else, any time I walked past a group of guys I would either be stared at, “oi’ed” at or sometimes followed. My girlfriend, being the sexy, busty blonde that she is could not walk down the street without being asked if “they’d met before”, constant car horn beeps and the most filthy old men trying to persuade her to relieve them of their sexual desires.

Cars used to drive along the speed bump stricken road at 50mph, always some boy racer or some drug user trying to make a hasty getaway as the police rolled past checking for transactions. Not long before we decided to leave, a speeding car somehow managed to lose control, drive into the front of a house and flip upside down into the centre of the street. The driver was killed and the entire front of the house destroyed. The night was filled with police skid testing, youngsters playing with broken house pieces etc. Funnily enough all of the usual street dwellers had scrurried away into their houses.

In the 5/6 months I lived there I remember seeing about 20 different incidents of drug dealing. Either outside of a house or 2 cars parked alongside each other. One night after returning from a trip to Star City I literally had to wait for 2 guys to exchange drugs and money as they were blocking both lanes of the road.

*** Section removed about a Letting agent in Winson Green for Legal Reasons. You know who you are. I have removed the comments about your company at the request of the author. I was happy to let you be named and shamed – Chavtowns Webmaster (abuse@chavtowns.co.uk) ***

Anyway, Winson Green is major turd. Steer well clear unless you like the attention of dirty old men trying to penetrate you, you have a crack addiction or enjoy the odd near death driving experience.

There are a lot of piss stained, beer soaked swillings of towns reviewed on this site but I can honestly promise you, they are nothing compared to the blight on the UK that is Newton Heath.

Situated in the North of Manchester, it is perilously close to other “respectable” neighbourhoods such as Moston, Clayton, Gorton and dare I say it, Miles Platting.  Truth is, if you can get off the bus on Church Street without getting mugged you’re a better man than I am. In fact, if you can get onto the rotting, shit stained Bluebird single decker in the first place you’ll be lucky.  Getting past the twenty or so 16-year old single mothers with prams in the disabled area can be quite a nuisance, especially at peak times.  And if you do manage to get past the smoke-smelling, pink-tracksuit and crop-top wearing louts to the rear of the vehicle you’ll inevitably get the seat next to the pissed old scruff who’ll definitely try to touch your leg.

The aforementioned Church Street, which is Newton Heath’s chewing-gum and chippy wrapper strewed main street, has a variety of shops for you to choose from during the day and a host of nightlife outlets of a night time.  Netto, which shares a building with Iceland, hordes the majority of the Giro-wielding scumbags who can’t afford to go to the LIDL a little further down the street.  This yellow peril has blighted Newton Heath for years, and only seems to be getting more popular as Iceland across the pathway loses out.  If supermarkets aren’t your thing, try the ‘60p’ shop, which retains its name even after nothing is actually sold at 60p anymore.  But this eternal symbol of scumbag-isation still stands sandwiched between a bookies, a pawn shop and a Greggs. A perfect line of outlets for any discerning day-to-day Chav.  Many Newton Heath-ers will spend every Monday blowing their Dole money on the Irish Lottery, pawning their mothers old family heirlooms for cocaine followed by a trip to Greggs for a dog meat and potato pasty.  And when their screaming little shit they have in tow won’t shut his fat little face, they’ll buy him a throwaway lighter from the 60p shop to keep him occupied.

As for the nightlife, Newton Heath boasts a great many beer swilling joints, namely the Railway, Culcheth Gates and several on Church Street itself.  Each one is as grotty as the last, and each one is run by a fat old woman who sleeps with a baseball bat at the side of her bed every night. And one of the punters in it.  Even after the smoking ban, you can walk past the doorway of one of these hateful sin-bins and get high from the cloud of marijuana fumes escaping from inside.  The local Working Mens Club has actually installed a kind of ‘open air prison cell’ right outside the front doors, so you can watch the Tetleys-drinking old men perving on your girlfriend (or mother) as you wait for a bus at the stop outside it. Speaking of which, the council recently tried upgrading this lowly bus stop with a new shelter for Newton Heath’s extensive Granny population. I don’t think it’s ever had any glass inside it, however. If it has, it’s likely to have been nicked to replace someone’s council house front window.

The locals of Newton Heath couldn’t be friendlier. Swarming with ‘Trespass’ black-waterproof tracksuit clad thugs; I wouldn’t bother asking for directions if you’re unfortunate enough to get lost in Pooton Beef.  There’s a local rivalry between the three main high schools of North Manchester, namely the Girls School, the Boys School and St Matthews High School.  The Boys school frequently beat up the Girls, and St Matthew frequently get beaten up by both.  The 677 school bus is the stuff of nightmares; I’ve seen horrors on there which should never be released into the public domain.  It’s not just the youths, though. Indeed, most of the thuggery hanging around on Newton Heath’s estates are between the ages 20 – 40, some even older.  Drug dealing is rife, the wardens are corrupt and the police simply don’t give a shit.  Dogs are used as currency in areas such as the Troydale estate. The bigger and rougher looking, the more they’re worth.  Poodles, for example, are roughly equivalent to 1p in monetary terms.  Trading a dog for food or sex is also commonplace.  Sex with the actual dog, too, can probably seen after dark down some of the more downtrodden alleyways.

Finally, I come to the local culture of NH.  If you don’t wear a pair of Nike Shox, you’re homosexual.  If you don’t shag somebody before you’re 13, you’re gay.  If you impregnate a teenager, you’re classed as a local hero and may even attract your own gang of thugs.  Certain areas, such as Brookdale Park and Scotland Hall Road are no-go areas unless you drive an armoured vehicle. Do NOT drive anything less around Newton Heath. At least, if you take pride in your car any road.  It WILL get broken into.  No doubt about it.  All children in Newton Heath are brought up on a diet of chippy teas, weed and Carlsberg, the latter two of which can be bought from California Wines on Culcheth Lane.

There’s a level crossing at the bottom of Berry Brow in Newton Heath.  Trains run every 30 minutes through this crossing.  If you happen to accidentally venture this way, it’s certainly better to end your journey by waiting for the Manchester Victoria service to squash you to a pulp.  A lot better than walking through Newton Heath.