Chavtowns – Britain's worst places to live!

I love Bilston, it’s one of them places you go to and suddenly feel so much better than yourself……owing to the fact it’s such a dump even if you live on your local park bench you’ll see theres worse places to be.

Firstly theres the town centre, though i prefer to think of it as a few shops selling counterfeit goods and surprisingly gorgeous chips, unfortunately thats the only thing you’ll find gorgeous around here as the locals leave a lot to be desired. The daytime consists of many a local pondering whether to spend their dole money on cheap tat on the market, or just get one of their 7 kids to steal it for them later on. The local school kids also prowl the place in their knock-off nike tracksuits intimidating the locals by swearing and playing awful music loud on their phones and mugging old ladies in broad daylight. If you do get mugged don’t expect anyone to do anything about it, everyones seen it before many a time. If you want to come here and meet a partner, and you actually have standards then forget it, the men are typically drunk by midday, smell of a combination of stale beer and body odour through having a shower once a blue moon, and the ladies are disgraceful, typically overweight, pushing around a pram by the time they’re 15 and wearing plenty of fake designer clobber and big hoop earrings (all stolen of course). Ohh and if you do end up getting frisky with one of these creatures, do keep a condom at hand theres more sti’s floating around than there are people in the local population. Local sports include running from the police (or the rozzers as they’re known locally), hurling rocks at people having a swim in the local pool, fishing for fish to sell to the local chip shop, shooting squirrels for your supper, horse riding one of the many pikey horses on wasteland, moto-x on a mini motorbike over the “fozza” as it’s locally know (a forest to you and me), hurdles which involves jumping over a row of fences having just being caught in someones shed, fencing without any protective gear and samurai swords. If you own a Jack russell, drive a battered transit tipper, drive it topless and speak with a dodgy irish accent you may qualify as a local pikey and can involve yourself on parking a caravan anywhere you fancy, then once your 2 weeks are up move 100 yards up the road and do the same again, and steal all the copper and lead you can from local factories and houses in the meantime.
Nightlife in Bilston is surprisingly good, if your old pay a visit to the Hop Pole and enjoy the sound of your peers making fools of themselves on the karaoke and then getting mugged when they pop outside to have a smoke or make a call. The market tavern which is full of football toting drunkards on a saturday afternoon is officially the worst nightspot where the sole bartender has been caught asleep over the bar on many occasions. The Sir Henry Newbolt is great for cheap beer, also has security for that peace of mind that you won’t get punched for looking at someone funny untill you walk down the road that is. The nearby Greyhound is what could be describe as a cesspit, were all the local council estate’s most hideous residents descend upon to strut their stuff and try to up their shag count. The trumpet is the residence of the die hard alcoholics it’s oldest regulars are usually dead by 45. Other hotspots are the Robin 2 which plays host to all sorts of x-factor rejects and tribute bands, and the olde white rose which is where people flock to before a band plays at the Robin 2 to get tanked up on high alcohol percantage local brew. Former hotspots were Gavins sports bar, once this chav hole’s favorite spot until it’s owner got shot outside the front door. Another hotspot was The tropical harmony club which was host to a few fatal shootings and stabbings and eventually got closed down.
Theres a few prolific estates in Bilston worth a mention. One of the most well known in “The Lunt”, which was given this name to remind it’s residents what a dump it is. Here daily life for a bloke involves waking up at 10′am in time for Jeremy Kyle, collecting your benefits in the local post office when you can be bothered, beating up your wife and going down the pub to brag about it. Women spend most their time eating cakes to keep their boobs big, nattering outside the newsagents about how their 7 kids piss them off and then eating more cakes. Kids spend their abysmal lives fighting each other, robbing bikes from outside the local shops and then smoking dodgy cigarettes.
If you think this place is bad however, take a trip to the neighbouring estate St Chads, and don’t let it’s humble name fool you this is worse. Full of pure scum if you got put here on parole after a lengthy spell in prison you’ll wish you were back inside it was once reported on in the local newspaper where an undercover reported lived with a resident and had their car ruined and was threatened and spat at in one week, because the locals didn’t recognise them.

If you ever feel the urge to visit this place please purchase a big old car, a handgun and a flamethrower and kill as many scumbags as possible, police response times typically go into days leaving plenty of time for you to escape getting your medal for services to the country.

On the surface, many rants about Liverpool seem simplistic: scallies causing more than their fair share of trouble, a general lack of respect between younger and older generations, the prevalence of drug and alcohol addiction – all of these on the surface seem like a recipe for a terrible place to live: but the problem is much more serious than that, in the sense that this city will grind you down and destroy the person that you are if you are not careful, as anyone who does not conform to the abhorrent ideals of what it means to be a citizen of Liverpool (which I will go into later) and is in contact with the undesirable enforcers of these rules, which happen to be a minority of tracksuit-clad youths of around 25 and under – just like World War One: if you put your head over the parapet, you will be gunned down. Whether it is your self-esteem, your confidence, your enthusiasm for life – you must surrender it to survive.

For a city with such a long and glorious history of wealth, ingenuity and hard work, Liverpool is socially in decline – though there are many shining examples of why Liverpool is considered by some a success – for many unfortunate people, such as myself, Liverpool is like an obstacle course whereby one must continually dodge the scum that litter the street corners and shopping rows of even reputable areas in order to go about ones daily business.

At this point I must say that not all youths are as I describe in Liverpool – quite the opposite in fact – this is a case where around 9/10ths of the people in the city are honest, decent, helpful, friendly and kind, and this applies to both younger and older people in the city who for the most part would tie themselves in knots to help their fellow man – this is focused about the remaining tenth, who see fit to terrorise and ruin, who see no repercussions in their actions and who see difference as a threat. This minority is what you will encounter most often in the city, known locally as “scallies,” they are instantly recognisable by their uniform of branded tracksuits and branded trainers, their propensity to hurl abuse or objects at individuals on a whim and their general inconsideration for the rest of the world; whether it be graffiting, smoking drugs, robbery or assault (or any combination thereof) it is all neatly packed into their repetoire.

The major problem with scallies is “escalation.” This is where any retaliation to their ills leads to ever increasing problems – a large amount of violent crime in Liverpool stems from such escalation, where even simple tiffs on the street can build up to stabbings and shootings with alarming momentum. Communicating with the Police is a problem too – anyone seen to do that (even if it is in their own benefit to do so) is labelled a “grass” and further escalation ensues. The crime detection rate in Merseyside is less than 40%, showing that this damaging behaviour is ingrained in the local culture – law abiding citizens are left in fear of what may happen if they try to protect themselves.

Scallies love to target people who aren’t like them, or to put it another way, people who will not fight back – particularly if they outnumber you, so on the off-chance that they accidentally abuse someone who would plant them in the ground, they always have the “safety in numbers” approach – you will never encounter an individual scally who will flex his proverbial muscles, they will always wait for backup.

I suppose I could ask: “How did it get like this?” When did we get to the point where children and grown adults of all shapes and sizes came off second-best to adolescent punks? The answer is quite complex really – people who shouldn’t be having kids are having them both early and numerous: alcoholic, drug-abusing people seem to attract each other in Liverpool like flies to horse dung and bump their benefits up with a child or two: never mind the kid’s welfare when the local off-license has an offer on. Pregnant women smoking is another fine sight in this fair city, even I was surprised at the amount I have seen this week alone. These fine examples of parenting give birth to God’s little angels and let them roam the streets until all hours – childhood mischief turns into anti-social behaviour or criminal activity easily with no strong parental role model available. Couple this with dismally low performance at schools for such offspring (“why work hard when my dad gets paid to sit on his arse anyway”, or “trying makes my brain hurt so I’ll throw a tantrum instead”) and you are left with a generation of people who are exisitng in a veritable vaccum of knowledge and self-esteem, assuming the lazy parents are too wasted to give their kids a hug once in a while.

This is a sure-fire recipe for young alcoholism, teen pregnancy, dole scroungers and best of all, the scally. The king of his own universe (even if it is only outside a chippy) who will enforce his rule on all unsuspecting passers-by. Who knows only hate, and not love, and by terrorising indescriminately succeeds, by sheer volume, to have adults on the back foot. That, and the law makes them practically invulnerable to punishment – I get assaulted, they get an ASBO or an “electronic tag,” and I get labelled a grass for going to the police; I physically defend myself and it’s jail time for assaulting a minor.

To those amazing parents out there in Liverpool who love their children and each other, who read to them and spend all their time nurturing and caring for them, I thank you: you make all the difference. I hope your generation re-adresses the balance in this once great city. To all the young people who are reading this going “None of this applies to me!” then thank you for taking the time to read what I have had to say, I hope that at least some of this has resonated with you. To any scallies reading this who are saying “This guy’s a faggot and I’m steaming mad!” or whatever you say these days, I hope you can see just what this city thinks of people like you, and know that your time will come to an end one day soon. To those who have been on the recieving end of the abuse and torment, I say this, BE confident, BE enthusiastic, BE AN INDIVIDUAL! Above all, you know in your heart what the best course of action is when you are in contact with these little thugs. HINT – it’s not hitting them over the head with a cricket bat (as they are far too big to conceal in your coat!)

Carr vale is a small village in the bourgh or Bolsover. This is one of 2 main places where chavs come from in Bolsover, the other being the ‘whimps’. It is said by many residents that the house are sliding down the hill, this is backed up by the fact that many residents are unable to get house insurance because of this, and the fact that they have no money. At the bottom of carr vale is ‘new bolsover’ or the model village, this is were the 10 year old chavs spend there days, saying such quotes as ‘fackin cam on den!’ when there 10 miles away from you. They tend to walk around with there tracky bottoms around there ankles and with there hands down the front of there trousers.

Shetland is the worst place to live as you are not only surrounded by chavs but also nothingness, i wouldnt touch thi island with a 100 mile stick attached to a bio-suit. there is nothingness and chavs, lovely. you will lose you wallet, man hood and dignity do not enter at any costs.

Rossendale is made up of a equally shitty group of towns. Those being:

Rawtenstall, the epicentre (although this now has as much relevance as an epidural being that town contains nothing more than a large ASDA shaped like a fridge).

Waterfoot-akeaway.

Bacup, translated locally as baayk up.

Haslingden, those without pigmentation of the skin fear this place!

Crawshawbooth, once a nice village… now a shit heap of chavvy jam rags, partially consumed kestrel, etc.

To elaborate:

The borough itself would appeal to a passer by because of the hills & the… the… hills. Its what lurks at the bottom of the hills thats the problem. Chavs, chavs line the streets selling bags of salt (presumably passing them off as poor cocaine for £5 a bag) whilst holding each others dicks trying to get hard because they have just sucked off their eldest uncle & want to jizz swap with the remnants remaining in their dry tatterred mouths (chavs in rossendale believe this can get you high)

”The best way to find yourself is to lose yourself in the service of others.” GANDHI

Whilst they hover outside that shitty p@ki shop in stacksteads waiting for an unsuspecting elderly to mug, rape or ask to buy alcohol they share jokes…

‘what did d mosher say t’t doctor?… eerggghhh duno, what did e say den?… e sed errrghhh y dick ed!! waaa gimme a line for dat 1…’

yes rossendale is shit, chavs are all wankers but they are a subhuman species not capable of comprehending the way a modern day thinking man operates in terms of converse for the good of each other. So please when you next see a chav give them a hearty dose a brown finger under the nose, or similar.

peace out, you greasy wankstaffs!