Ipswich Chavs
16 September 2004, 10:08 AM
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Ipswich Chavs
Sent to me by a friend 
Nestled amongst much rural splendour in Suffolk, Ipswich is an ancient market town with a rich history. Unfortunately it is now also a hive of the most inbred, intellectually stunted and fashion challenged morons in the UK. Central to the mix-and-match-sportswear and Argos jewellery crowd is the shining haven of Cardinal Park, a monumental bastion to chavism so poor in it's degree of clientele that even the Virgin group swiftly divested themselves of their stake in it's "multiplex" cinema so as not to be tarred by association.
The temple of worship on this fast food, chrome and glass conurbation is Liquids nightclub. Liquids team of heavy browed low IQ doormen have the singular honour of being the most arrested and trialed team of missing links in the region, outdoing even their spiritual relations in nearby Colchester. My favourite incident to date is when they allowed a group of young chav lads in with their hats on, and then threw them all down the stairs an hour later for not conforming to the "dress code" - i.e. wearing hats. Another infamous triumph was when one of them managed to mace an entire queue of people during a "fight". Quite why these giant men have to resort to chemical weapons to stop a group of eight stone Burberry wearing alcoholics is still unknown. Liquids is the spiritual home of "garridge" and "R'n'B" in Ipswich, as witnessed by the groups of white boys, who despite coming from a farming town in the countryside all talk like Brixton yardies, that frequent the club. It is rare that anyone could differentiate between the "women" (although "female children" would be a more apt term) that frequent this Satanic fleapit and the monsters that stand on the street corners in the nearby red light district of Portman Road as their style of dress and willingness to indulge in "a quick ****" for personal gain (although in Liquid the currency is usually Bacardi, Malibu or Archers) are identical.
Further attractions of Cardinal Park include the two drive in fast food joints who's car parks play host to a motley collection of "modded" (a euphemism for "Made to Look Like A Box Of ****") hatchbacks infested with baseball cap wearing earring infested youths and their acne ridden under age bleach blonde slag girlfriends. These budding Jensen Buttons all hair round the adjoining one-way system in a Mad Max meets Trumpton extravaganza of badly tuned engines, neon lighting and cheap but loud stereo systems, hazed out on McDonald's, Red Bull and cheap hash and ragging their tiny little insurance friendly death traps in an effort to prove their supremacy over the normal citizens who also have to use this road.
Ipswich also has a wonderful collection of council estates. In days gone by t he subnormal or overly inbred offspring of Suffolk folk would be quietly shuttled off to farms to tend to cows or shovel ****, kept away from the eyes of society. Today they get given a shingle fronted house made from fibreboard and woodglue, benefits and the right to Sky TV and to keep old furniture in their front gardens. The youths that live amongst the burned out cars, **** soaked mattresses and smashed bottles dream of being old enough to get a job in "Maccy D's" or "BK's" where they can singularly fail to understand even the most basic of orders and ask if you "want fries with that", even if you have already got ****ing fries with it. Witness the marvel of the Gainsborough estate, where no policeman will venture without body armour (sad but very, very true) where the local tax and soap dodging muppets recently re-discovered their sense of civic pride and adopted a new council initiative to clean up their estate. The burned out cars were towed away, the rusting washing machines, fridge freezers and cookers were placed in the skips they should have been introduced to ten years previously, lawns were mown, glass swept away, bits of fibreboard replaced with windows once again. The week after this marvel was completed the local TV station took a camera crew and interviewed some of the newly washed and tidied residents. They were proud of their achievements and rightly so. Last week I drove through the estate and either an air freighter had exploded above the place and showered everyone’s front lawns in burning white goods, setting quite a few cars alight at the same time or the recessive chav gene infesting these ******* had resurfaced. Groups of gold chained hash smoking white cider drinking twelve year olds clustered on street corners shouting abuse at anyone passing in a subhuman mongoloid tongue, spitting and for some reason holding their ********* although it is likely that if they let go someone would "twock" them.
Ah, Ipswich. I was born and raised in Ipswich, I have A-levels and drive a new car which I have not seen the need to stick a Cosworth whale tail spoiler on, my house is tidy, I do not own a Staffordshire Bull Terrier, a sovereign ring or a Kiss FM R'n'B Compilation. Neither do any of my friends. So what happened? I lament at the sad decline into chavdom which has befallen my town. Given the opportunity and sufficient firepower I would cheerfully massacre these pervasive cancer-like inbred socially inept subhuman knuckle scraping every other word is **** constantly breeding STD ridden chain smoking benefit draining selfish pond life ****heads en masse and probably grin whilst doing it. Chavs? I hate chavs."
Nestled amongst much rural splendour in Suffolk, Ipswich is an ancient market town with a rich history. Unfortunately it is now also a hive of the most inbred, intellectually stunted and fashion challenged morons in the UK. Central to the mix-and-match-sportswear and Argos jewellery crowd is the shining haven of Cardinal Park, a monumental bastion to chavism so poor in it's degree of clientele that even the Virgin group swiftly divested themselves of their stake in it's "multiplex" cinema so as not to be tarred by association.
The temple of worship on this fast food, chrome and glass conurbation is Liquids nightclub. Liquids team of heavy browed low IQ doormen have the singular honour of being the most arrested and trialed team of missing links in the region, outdoing even their spiritual relations in nearby Colchester. My favourite incident to date is when they allowed a group of young chav lads in with their hats on, and then threw them all down the stairs an hour later for not conforming to the "dress code" - i.e. wearing hats. Another infamous triumph was when one of them managed to mace an entire queue of people during a "fight". Quite why these giant men have to resort to chemical weapons to stop a group of eight stone Burberry wearing alcoholics is still unknown. Liquids is the spiritual home of "garridge" and "R'n'B" in Ipswich, as witnessed by the groups of white boys, who despite coming from a farming town in the countryside all talk like Brixton yardies, that frequent the club. It is rare that anyone could differentiate between the "women" (although "female children" would be a more apt term) that frequent this Satanic fleapit and the monsters that stand on the street corners in the nearby red light district of Portman Road as their style of dress and willingness to indulge in "a quick ****" for personal gain (although in Liquid the currency is usually Bacardi, Malibu or Archers) are identical.
Further attractions of Cardinal Park include the two drive in fast food joints who's car parks play host to a motley collection of "modded" (a euphemism for "Made to Look Like A Box Of ****") hatchbacks infested with baseball cap wearing earring infested youths and their acne ridden under age bleach blonde slag girlfriends. These budding Jensen Buttons all hair round the adjoining one-way system in a Mad Max meets Trumpton extravaganza of badly tuned engines, neon lighting and cheap but loud stereo systems, hazed out on McDonald's, Red Bull and cheap hash and ragging their tiny little insurance friendly death traps in an effort to prove their supremacy over the normal citizens who also have to use this road.
Ipswich also has a wonderful collection of council estates. In days gone by t he subnormal or overly inbred offspring of Suffolk folk would be quietly shuttled off to farms to tend to cows or shovel ****, kept away from the eyes of society. Today they get given a shingle fronted house made from fibreboard and woodglue, benefits and the right to Sky TV and to keep old furniture in their front gardens. The youths that live amongst the burned out cars, **** soaked mattresses and smashed bottles dream of being old enough to get a job in "Maccy D's" or "BK's" where they can singularly fail to understand even the most basic of orders and ask if you "want fries with that", even if you have already got ****ing fries with it. Witness the marvel of the Gainsborough estate, where no policeman will venture without body armour (sad but very, very true) where the local tax and soap dodging muppets recently re-discovered their sense of civic pride and adopted a new council initiative to clean up their estate. The burned out cars were towed away, the rusting washing machines, fridge freezers and cookers were placed in the skips they should have been introduced to ten years previously, lawns were mown, glass swept away, bits of fibreboard replaced with windows once again. The week after this marvel was completed the local TV station took a camera crew and interviewed some of the newly washed and tidied residents. They were proud of their achievements and rightly so. Last week I drove through the estate and either an air freighter had exploded above the place and showered everyone’s front lawns in burning white goods, setting quite a few cars alight at the same time or the recessive chav gene infesting these ******* had resurfaced. Groups of gold chained hash smoking white cider drinking twelve year olds clustered on street corners shouting abuse at anyone passing in a subhuman mongoloid tongue, spitting and for some reason holding their ********* although it is likely that if they let go someone would "twock" them.
Ah, Ipswich. I was born and raised in Ipswich, I have A-levels and drive a new car which I have not seen the need to stick a Cosworth whale tail spoiler on, my house is tidy, I do not own a Staffordshire Bull Terrier, a sovereign ring or a Kiss FM R'n'B Compilation. Neither do any of my friends. So what happened? I lament at the sad decline into chavdom which has befallen my town. Given the opportunity and sufficient firepower I would cheerfully massacre these pervasive cancer-like inbred socially inept subhuman knuckle scraping every other word is **** constantly breeding STD ridden chain smoking benefit draining selfish pond life ****heads en masse and probably grin whilst doing it. Chavs? I hate chavs."
16 September 2004, 10:23 AM
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