Tuesday, July 22, 2008

Twixt Iceland and the fried chicken takeaway lies scrote Nirvana


I OCCASIONALLY have to travel through what are best described as Scrote Estates. (Apparently we’re not allowed to use the word ‘chav’ anymore because if we do then we’re no better than fascists. Don’t ask me – some bloke in The Guardian said it.)

You know the kind of place: flat-roofed pub with a pair of Rottweilers leaning over the guttering, hoodies on mountain bikes riding on the pavement, the cross of St George hanging in bedroom windows long after we were expelled from Euro 2008. You lock the car doors on the way in and check that the carefully pre-damaged baseball bat is close at hand. (It’s for playing with the dog, officer. Look at the teeth marks on it.)

But I’ve now gathered enough evidence to put forward another theory. Presumably these people are officially poor, despite the overwhelming presence of the Magic Tin Leg of Money denoting another dodgy disability claimant. They can’t have much in the way of disposable income after the fags, the alcopops, the scratchcards and the Findus Crispy Pancakes have been paid for. So why, in every horrible, concrete, 1970s shopping precinct, usually in between the local branch of Iceland and a fried chicken takeaway, is there a tanning salon?

Why do poor people feel the need to look … well … orange? Do they think that they’ll be mistaken for Hollywood superstars who’ve just returned from a month on the Riviera? Do they think it’ll protect them from the indigenous scrote diseases of cancer and rickets?

Let’s face it: it’s not as if the tramp-stamped, thong-baring women need any help pulling after closing time at The Shivering Whippet. Their biggest problem is not spilling their chips while being serviced in the car park by a lad off the Waltzers at the local fair. Being bright orange isn’t going to help, beyond making it easier for the local Casanovas to find them in the dark.

Maybe it’s this WAG thing, whereby all teenage girls have only one ambition in life, and that’s to entrap a footballer of sorts and then appear in Hello! magazine at £250,000 a pop. The sad reality – for them - is that they instead fall pregnant to a nice Asian lad from the kebab shop and then spend the rest of their lives pretending to hobble round on the Magic Tin Leg of Money while buying fags, alcopops, scratchcards and Findus Crispy Pancakes. Still, at least the ‘brahn’ baby won’t need to avail itself of the tanning salon.

OUT HERE in the countryside, with Bastille Day gone, the combines have moved into the fields and a lemming-like tidal wave of rats, mice, voles and squirrels is heading for my garage where they’ll shred everything made of cloth, paper or plastic over the next month before giving birth to new legions of vermin in the debris.

I’ve tried shooting them as they advance, but the barrels of the Beretta soon glow red. The lurcher, having slaughtered more wildlife than a forest fire, a veritable canine Attila the Hun, has collapsed exhausted in front of the Aga licking his blood-stained jowls and refuses to set foot outside until there’s a hard frost.

So I went and bought a whippet. It was an accident really. I sat next to a bloke at the polo whose bitch had just had a litter, we went to look at them and that was that. Bring on another set of vets’ fees and damp patches in the hall.

He’s a game little thing, though. I took him to Pets ‘R’ Us to buy him a Barbour for winter and he was stood in front of the glass cases of bunny rabbits doing that twisty-head thing clever dogs do when this woman sauntered up.

“Oh, isn’t he lovely,” she said. “Are you buying him a friend?”

“No, love,” I said. “It’s an educational trip because I think it’s important that he sees where his food is going to come from.”

She stared at me for a full three seconds before running off. On the way out of the car park, I expected the armed response unit to descend upon me at any minute.

OUR PRIME Minister, who doesn’t even have a driving licence and who is chauffeured in luxury limo from banquet to beano, has decreed that we must all drive electric cars by the year 2020. How wonderful.

Now his pal Hilary Benn, the ridiculously vegetarian Minister in charge of the nation’s meat production, has weighed in by saying that rising fuel prices are A Good Thing because the cost of motoring will keep people off the roads, and that those rascals who own second-hand cars should be punished even further.

What planet are these people from? We don’t all live in Islington and work in Westminster. I have a 56-mile return journey to work. Many people commute even further. We do this because there is no suitable public transport solution unless we want to rock up at the office at 10.15am and leave again at 4pm. Three days a week.

And those evil buggers who are killing polar bears with their pollution-spewing second-hand cars? Guess why they’re driving a 1989 Ford Sierra? It’s because they’re poor and can’t afford a brand new £20,000 Toyota Prius milk float, stoopid.

And if they did have that money they’d blow it on a used convertible BMW Turbo Nutter Bastard anyway (plus extra trips to the tanning salon) because that’s human nature.

Sometimes I wish I was locked up in the Big Brother House, away from all this madness.

19 Comments:

Blogger pdwalker said...

You write brilliantly.

10:27 AM  
Blogger Seaman Staines said...

Quality stuff this week me old hearty.Those women that look like they have been dipped in Bisto and hung up to dry when they go out in the rain.

10:05 PM  
Anonymous Anonymous said...

Top of the Pops, shame we cannot have it on a daily basis..

1:19 AM  
Anonymous tony b.liar said...

Baz: Terrific post this week - you are back to your acerbic best, Mike.

Doubt this will interest any of your current crop of somewhat intellectually-challenged bloggers [certainly not "Semen Stains" anyhow], but this CHAV furore is interesting....well, to supporters of ZanuLabour PF at least. A few years back, I had a dialogue with our MP, the illustrious Dr Steve Ladyman. He produced an extensive list of ZanuLabours's achievements in office, which [as a completely disenchanted Labour voter] I challenged.

I agreed with him on one point, however:

".....and finally, whilst I heartily approve of free entry to museums and galleries [#21 on your list] this has far less importance to the "Chavs" one meets in the street as the price of a Big Mac or the latest ring tone for their mobile. Your cultural plans for the extension of the gambling laws are ill-advised. Along with 24hour drinking they will give us all the "choice" to have Mega-Casinos, transforming even places as dull as Margate and Ramsgate to something resembling a pastiche of Las Vegas."

and his reply was:

"You are a strange sort of socialist indeed - reducing the people you meet in the street to 'chavs'

As always I've noted your views but since we are never going to agree I doubt there is any point communicating further. I hope you never experience a Howard government - then you will have something to complain about. But should that happen remember this - you will have helped bring it about.

And should you ever visit Ramsgate or Margate you'll find them far from dull and we already have two casinos and have had for decades."

Ah, how things all come to pass if you wait long enough, Bazza!!!

1:28 AM  
Anonymous Steve McClaren said...

'the cross of St George hanging in bedroom windows long after we were expelled from Euro 2008'.

Your memory's playing tricks with you Bazza. England failed to qualify for Euro 2008 for some inexplicable reason.

6:49 AM  
Anonymous the other half said...

Good stuff Bazza, almost back to your BEP standard.
Please Sir, we want more!

Bye the bye, is your man Whittiker still in your employ? Seems as though he has faded from view of late.

8:09 AM  
Blogger Seaman Staines said...

Tony.b.liar is correct, apart from being unable to spell he is a stereotypical twat, as for Ramsgate or Margate they don't even have civilised opening hours. How else can we spend all our benefits (you pay for) when the pubs don't stay open long enough?
He had "dialogue" with an MP, I wonder why he never just spoke to him?

8:53 AM  
Anonymous Anonymous said...

You do write brilliantly - except in your last two columns you've made the mistakes of having alright instead of all right, loath instead of loth, and today had stood in front of [a mirror] instead of standing in front of. I've read good articles by you in the past about the decline of proper English, so Barry - pull your socks up.

9:59 AM  
Anonymous tony b.liar said...

"Semen Stains" is right - spelling was never my forte!!! But then i suppose he missed the irony [or shuld that be sarcasm] completely.

'Stereotypical twat' eh? My, what a BIG word me old mucker!!!

Keep up the good work!

11:34 AM  
Blogger Seaman Staines said...

Thicko, often sarcasm is mistaken for irony; however, sarcasm is a form of irony which uses sharp wit to highlight the obviousness, stupidity, or annoyance-factor of a situation. One main difference between irony and sarcasm is that irony is generally observed and sarcasm is generally created (i.e. spoken, written). People don't usually go about actively pursuing the creation of irony. Hope this helps.

10:27 PM  
Blogger Grumpy Goat said...

A teacher once told me that "Irony is when I do it and it's witty; sarcasm is when you do it and it's rude."

And if it's alright for the Almighty, then it's certainly alright for the rest of us.

12:25 AM  
Anonymous Rodger the Cabin Boy said...

Amazingly, Seaman Staines' pearls of wisdom have been plagiarised already!

http://www.sarcasmsociety.com/howtorecognizeirony/

You should make a formal complaint Shipmate. Passing off other opinions as one's own is the hallmark of a moron.

1:39 AM  
Blogger Seaman Staines said...

Plagiarism saves time when dealing with fannies like you. I would have thought someone would have told you by now but there again they might have been trying to spare you feelings so Mummy never found out.

1:25 PM  
Blogger Seaman Staines said...

Oh, almost forgot fannybaws, it was a statement of fact not an opinion so what you have posted means nothing.

1:27 PM  
Anonymous rodger the cabin bhouy said...

Oo. Touched a nerve there! Now you're trying to get personal with a fictional character over the internet.

Passing off opinion (even other peoples') as fact is as arrogant as it is ignorant.

12:38 AM  
Anonymous arescee said...

"Why do poor people feel the need to look … well … orange?"

I seem to recall a previous post Baz, wherein you advised us that Grammar Schools up and down the Country were giving GCSE's in fake tanning.
So perhaps not all of the Chavs/Scrotes are paying to look orange and this is the result of some peado who, obviously would not have his mind on the job & sort of understandably would be spraying the kids with the wrong solution of bisto and carrot juice.
So it follows that this is just another Nu Labour policy for easily Identifying the chavs or scrotes wherever they may roam, "If you want a GCSE young Tracey you will have to get yourself spray painted orange!"
Perhaps it shows up better on all of Nu Labour's cctv's and makes it easier to spot any signs of a mass migration of chavs to other areas!

1:52 AM  
Blogger Seaman Staines said...

You probably had your nerves touched in Jersey, but as you are fictional you cannot exist.

8:43 AM  
Anonymous Anonymous said...

56 mile return commute?

You're wasting your life.

8:47 AM  
Blogger Seaman Staines said...

The irony is that you don't need a return, a single would suffice.

1:14 AM  

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