Written by Anonymous Visitor and posted in Oxfordshire, South East, United Kingdom

Aaah Oxford, the city of dreaming spires. This is true of our  historical  and picturesque city centre, definately something to be proud of. Take a trip out of the centre on a no.5, 1 or 10 bus along to the end of the Cowley Road and then things take a slightly different turn. Leave the bus at “The Original Swan” and you’ll be transported from the city of dreaming spires into one of the ugliest, most depressing, soul destroying corners of 60’s urban planning known to mankind- Cowley Centre (a chav, wannabe gangsta and p***y paradise rolled into one!)  You’ve got Wetherspoons, Halfords, Peacocks, Bakers Oven and a TK Maxx right next door to Matalan- chavtastic.

I regularly have to endure the pain (but at the same time; morbid fascination) of taking a stroll into this “living zoo” which sometimes feels as if you are being transported through a vile, vomit ridden, piss stained vortex into another world known as “Chavley”. A world where some of the ugliest, chavviest, gangsta wannabes, sicknote dolebludgers and pissheads are all fighting for the same space (well thats a bit of a lie really as the pissheads are usually comatosed in the park behind TK Maxx hibernating like an undiscovered species of primeval beast cocooned in their own vomit- David Attenborough would be in his element to make such a discovery!). The first major landmark you will encounter on your tour of Chavley is The Nelson. For those of you familiar with the iconic Channel 4 series Shameless, this place could double as The Jockey- not only for its ghastly appearance but also for its inbred chavtastic clientele. It is at this stage that your eyes are blinded by the amount of rancid golden tat on display in the pub garden. The Oxford branch of Argos is in permanent meltdown as the  Elizabeth Duke section cannot keep up with gangsta chav demand. The amount of fake bling on display will either blind you or burn your eyes out of their sockets in one hit if reflected by the sun. The pub garden has been beautifully designed to make the chavs, rude boy gangstas and dole spongers feel at home. Based in a car park, the ground is carefully littered by a sea of broken pint glasses, soiled nappies, duty free fag boxes used johnnies and greasy kebabs in various stages of decay, along with the occasional dead rat. Surprisingly the chavs all manage to find themselves somewhere to sit back and relax with a beer amongst all the filth. Spliff, pint, 20 Soverign and a pay as you go mobile one hand, baby Courtney in the other. You will always hear some kind of drunken, banshee type 18 year old chavette who’s fella’s in the slammer screeching at one of her 4 kids, “Stacey, you little cow, get the f**k back over here and put that mans wallet back, there aint no cash in it as i’ve ad a look froo it already, come sit down and ave a fag with mummy you little fucker”.
Onwards from The Nelson you pass Templars Square shopping centre but its not really worth the hassle, unless you’re a fan of Savers, Peacocks and Qs, need a bank or enjoy being cussed by gangs of 12 year old hoodies in identikit Lonsdale t-shirts and fake Evisu jeans worn so low that they have to swagger about like nobheads as if they were to try and run, they wound all trip over themselves . You can never usually get past the doors anyway as same group of hoodrats shout,”yo blood, gissa fag” at you and when you say no mate your only about 12, you usually get a response like “dat bloke’s a f*****g c**t innit, next time I see him i’ll bust his face”. If I do need to enter the shopping centre I, and every other normal person then have to dodge feral groups of pregnant chavettes wearing the obligatory hotpants with the word booty, bitch or slut sown onto the arse, along with a greased up Croydon facelift hairstyle, tightly scraped back into a ponytail with those tendrils of hair hanging down which they glue to their face in curls to cover up their acne. Their vile, goblin faced little offspring usually tell you to “go f**k yourself, shitface”,just for a laugh  as they drag themselves past you. They look even smaller than the average malnourished little urchins of their age, but then you realise this is simply because they are weighed down by excessive amounts of kiddie bling and those Elizabeth Duke hoop earings that are so f*****g big that a performing dolphin could easily jump through them with room to spare.

With the exception of the John Allen Retail Park which  is only good for the Chavley (Cowley) chavs to rob, race their semi bodykitted nova’s, or shag their bitches in. The only other bastion of security for Cowley Centre’s chavviest is the local Wetherspoons- a drinking mecca for chavs and inbreds and dolebludgers across the country. In fact this one is so special the local chav and inbred community that they consider it to be their second home. This can be said due to the fact that they will hammer on the windows at 8.30am (despite tha fact that it opens at 9) demanding to be let in. When the doors finally do open as I have witnessed on many a morning bus journey into town, they will force their way throught the doors like a stampede of wilderbeest, then get wankered, especially on giro day which is like new years eve for this load of useless scroungers who’s motto seems to be claim, claim, claim! I dont begrudge those who need and value that cash, but these lot dont work and just piss it up the wall at the taxpayers expense! They then parade around the place with their swaggering chavvy ways bigging themselves up with a fat wad of cash tightly squashed into a gold encrusted hand (f*****g Elizabeth Duke again!) By the time they’re all wasted they tend to start trying to flog their ill gotten gains (robbed from the retail park) to unsuspecting ‘normal’ customers. Usually after this the soap opera starts, the whole area is like some hybrid freakshow but I still cant decide wether its more EastEnders, Trisha, Jerry Springer or a mixture of all. The occasional bitchfight may break out over who’s shagging who or chav loyalties may be put to the test which usually ends up with someone being glassed, furniture being thrown, windows being smashed and the type of inbred chavvy bickering you would expect such as cheap threats that only a 16 year old twat with no brain could think of. But thats life around here!

Aaah Chavley, Chavley Cowley!  The true face of South East Oxford!