Bracknelites, Meteorites and the advent of Chavdom

I recently had the pleasure of visiting Canterbury - a city, I noted, that has almost unparalleled views from every vantage point of at least five baseball caps; if you’re lucky – in Burberry check. (Apparently there’s a cathedral there too; it had, as far as I could tell, been turned into a giant Starbucks.) This little jaunt gave me the chance to indulge in my new favourite pastime, Chav-Spotting, which has become something of a national sport. It may sound easy, and for all intensive purposes it is – all you need to do is listen out for the distinctive clatter of sovereign ring against forehead – but the challenge has come with the advent of websites such as chavscum.co.uk, which invite you to send in photos of said tossbags. You need to be discrete in this to say the least, unless you have a particular desire to be happy-slapped with your own phone.

Chav ‘culture’, I’m led to believe, was born in Chatham; if this is true then it was most likely nurtured in the womb of Bracknell (and, at a guess, is currently suckling on the teat of the dry slope at the John Nike Leisure Centre). There are so many pregnant 14 year olds in Bracknell that they’re actually skewing the national age average, and are currently the only reason we’ve not tipped into a full-scale pensions crisis. Fortunately there’s little to stop this phenomenon – Bracknell has so many roundabouts that any healthcare workers trying to deliver birth control have been deflected into the nearby forest, where they have reportedly turned into a feral tribe; attacking passing ramblers with packets of Mates.

I actually grew up near Bracknell and had the inconvenience of having to add it to my address, leading to cheerful remarks like “I was mugged there once!” or “I’ve heard that’s where my father lives!” every time I opened a bank account or the like. The fact that I actually lived closer to the centre of Ascot seemed to be lost on the Council’s planners, and they had even situated a sewage works between my house and the posh twats in their racing best, as if to say “we feel closer to our shit than we do to you”.

Luckily I have long since left the realms of Bracknell, and I’m not sure I could find my way back in even if I wanted too. You see, that’s the problem – it’s very easy to get out of, but very hard to get back in; something of a reverse black hole. So on it goes, spawning Chav babies and firing them out of cannons into neighbouring towns, where they grow up in Biffa bins before setting fire to them and crawling to the benefits office. It’s my opinion that Bracknell should be launched into space, as a deterrent for aspiring intergalactic invaders. Then if a meteor strikes, it would be deflected off one of the roundabouts, or become spiked on the 3M tower, thus saving the entire human race. But by that time, the earth will have become so infiltrated with Chavs and Chavettes that it wouldn’t be worth saving anyway. So sod it.

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