Thatcher's Children?

"Will Sir be requiring another schooner of lager?"

I am chavved out! If I encounter one of these handfuls of pond sediment today I'm gunna get me a gun!
I went for what I had hoped would be a quiet beer yesterday lunchtime, when I could sit in the sunshine, read my book and enjoy a couple of pints. Just me, you understand - no-one else, not even my imaginary friend. Me and me alone.
I had not been there 10 minutes when there was the sound of roaring engines and gravel being shot-blasted around. Onto the car park screeched an array of appallingly "pimped-up" cars and out them poured the end of my hopes of a little relaxation and deep thought - a bloody chav wedding party!
On being excreted from their wankermobiles, they proceeded to shout and scream and laugh uproariously at things as comedic as a crisp bag on the ground and a sign on the pub door detailing the opening hours before disappearing inside. Peace, I thought? Some hope! They then came back outside, replete with their order of 15 pints of Stella Artois - Wife Beater, as it is known colloquially - and proceeded to drape themselves across tables near me. What is it with these tossers? I realise the acts of walking upright and chewing gum simultaneously are difficult for them but you thought they would have been able to master the design complexities of chairs and what they are for!


"Bride or groom, Sir?"

I don't know whether or not you know this but chavs abandon their normal Burberry bollocks for a completely new look when they attempt to dress up for a wedding. All the blokes were dressed the same - as gangsters. Not hip-hop, in-the-hood, smack-my-bitch-up gangsters, no, but real, 1930s, Chicago-style gangsters, with black suits, black shirts, luminescent, wide, white silk ties and white-flashed brogues. Each one, of course, proudly displayed his badge of office - a bling neckchain worn outside the shirt.
The girlies with them were, let's just say, a big disappointment. I find women at weddings (and, somewhat perversely, at funerals!) absolutely filthy! Sexy hats (just a kink of mine), billowy dresses or tight, naughty-secretary suits, high heels and just a hint of classy jewellery. Mmmmm. This lot were like extras from Tenko! To say they hadn't made much of an effort would be a slight understatement. It was all jeans, T-shirts, belt-skirts, bomber jackets and, again, bling.
This used condom of chavs (not sure of the correct collective noun) then proceeded to shout, swear, belch and chase each other for about an hour until I could stand it no more, waved the white flag and retreated to the solitude of my back garden to seek solace.
I bucked up as the afternoon wore on and then in the evening went out for dinner with my soon-to-be ex-wife. We went to what was, the last time I dined there, a decent gastro pub within walking distance of Pither Towers. The place had, however, changed since my last visit. It was chips with everything! Oh dear. Still, the current Mrs P and I managed to find something we liked and, with a nice bottle of red, began to enjoy our meal. Then it started. Football chanting from the bar area of the pub around the corner from the restaurant. I went to check out the racket on the pretext of going to the loo and there they were again - chavs on Stella! Jesus H Christ, these bastards are everywhere these days! The chanting, beer spilling and chasing continued throughout our meal and no-one even attempted to tell these bacilli to shut up, let alone fuck off out of the bar.
We trudged home eventually, with slight indigestion having eaten up as quickly as we could, and retired to Pither Towers, locking, bolting, chaining and steel-bracing the front door behind us. Who will rid us of these turbulent beasts?
Chavs can most definitely go to Grantham.
NOTE: On a point of minor interest, if anyone knows the derivation of the word "chav" would they pop themselves on a postcard and let me know? I'm told it's from the Romany word "chavi", meaning "a child" but that doesn't sound right.