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Just as Bill Oddie may like to observe his Wood Pecker oscillating in and out of a large hole from time to time, I like to view, from a distance at least, the segregated subgroup of desperate humanity that we like to call Chavs. As if you hadn’t already guessed from my [pessimistic] drones, I dislike chavs with an unceasing hatred, but at times I find them utterly hilarious. When I can, I often watch the humble and increasingly prevalent migration of the Chavs to their local off-licence, where, with a few pence between them, they manage to rustle up about 10 gallons of finest Aldi own-brand cider, and this, with their vastly [theatrical] habits, beckons giant amounts of predominantly patronising hilarity.

Even funnier than watching a 13 year old chav trying to buy alcohol is watching a 13 year old chav trying to drink it. Yes, we've all had a couple of under-age beverages, but never [to the extent] of the Chav. Walking around Peterborough, for instance, at about 3 [in the morning], you find yourself confusing the amassed collection of collapsed Chavs with [street furniture]. My friend, for example, thought that one young fellow was actually a bench, and sat on him. (What I was doing at Peterborough at 3 AM, I'm not entirely sure).

Finding a group of Chavs is easy; all you have to do is look in a park. Walk around, and you'll know you've found a chav when he pulls a knife on you and asks if you've got any nail varnish so he can get high off of it. A white tracksuit is a dead give-away, and you can always see them [in the dark] because of all of the glowing fags that hover about four-feet off the ground. Rest assured, chavs aren’t actually damaging their lungs with these [cigarettes], it’s just to make them look really, really cool. (Detect the sarcasm there?) Chavettes are easily identified because they will be wearing a lurid, metallic looking pink Puffa jacket, and will be wearing hooped earrings, that, I am reliably informed, ‘you could hang a parrot on’. Argos bling is also a dead-cert, however that ‘gold’ chain is in reality off of an old motorbike, and they’ve tinted it [using] paint bought from the Early Learning Centre.

Listening to a chav [conversation], I wonder how many words are actually in a Chav's [vocabulary]. "Fuck", we can presume, features heavily in it, as well as other [hilariously] patronising ‘expletives’ like "Cock", "Gay", and "Fuck-me-fuck-the-lot-o-ya!" (that, I am assured by a Chav I had the unluckiness of meeting in Peterborough, is actually a single word). Other words which Chavs use as much as these smirk inducing creations include "Mum", "Yur'mum", (which they somehow manage to transform into a single word), and "Innit", which unless you are talking about an old lady's purse, is the least likely place your going to find a male Chav.

Overall then, being a chav watcher is great. Being a Chav, however, isn't.

Its d’ fuckin trufe, innit!

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