Cas-vegas, as it’s known locally and ironically. Home to the iconic chav-wear factory aka Burberry… and so f**king bad even the chav’s and chav-wannabes are gagging to leave !
This place started dying in the 1980’s, after the Tories shut down the mines, and anyone not on the dole left.
Today, the town looks like a cross between a level from Fallout and Little Britain. (I blame the heavy metal pollution in the water). What we have here is weed smoking mutants in bad shell suits and baseball caps. Most of them would have to go several evolutionary levels to be called chav’s elsewhere. Nuking the place would actually improve it.
Chief past times here among the younger yobs seem to be spray-paint huffing, drunken violence and hanging around smoking and looking scummy… among the older, slightly less devolved chav’s it’s going out getting pissed at one of the grotty clubs [or all 3 of them] and shagging in shop doorways… often with members of the opposite sex, but dogs will do in a pinch judging by the results 9 months later. Slightly better off chav’s usually invade Wakefield for these pastimes, descending on the place like a track-suited, bling-encrusted mongol horde every Saturday night.
Granny chav’s are well supplied with bingo halls and slot machine arcades, hence the stupid nick name.
One of the odder points is that there doesn’t seem to be many working aged chav’s here, those who do remain sit behind the Mcdonalds drive thru window, a stark reminder on why Asda sells Freederm. The working aged chavs tend to leave their oiky little offspring with the Chav Grannies.
Castleford could be said to export chav’s to the rest of the country.. although infect would be a better word. Sorry about that…
Suffice to say, if someone wanted to give Yorkshire an enema, this is where they’d stick the tube.