It is not just Kevs that are bread in this council paradise. Kevettes are also made (not born) here. Allow me to take you through the early stages of this shoppaholic’s meaningless life.
On average, the first words to spring out of these worthless *****’s mouths while they are still young includes “innit”, “pink”, “so last year”, “I want” and “high heels.” In the beginning, they start off unassumingly enough with only their tiny thought (no more than one) to keep them occupied. But after a while they are introduced to designer labels and suddenly they do away with thought all together and go shopping.
By the time they reach 10 their shoes have gotten higher and their voices have become so high pitched that when they speak, dogs howl and die in the street. Their jewellery is still quite modest, but not for long.
These weird mobile credit cards can be found in places like Weoley Castle square, Merry Hill and Northfield’s Grosvenor. Once in these massive shopping complexes, they can be gone for hours, harrassing shop assistants because they can’t find the mini-skirt section. Not bothering to look up at the sign saying mini-skirts with the big arrow pointing left.
It all kicks off when they reach the age of 14 or 15 and are in senior school. Then the under-age *** begins and, in big crowds, can be heard talking in much excitement about how one of them got bummed last night in the park behind the bushes by “that kid shes bin snoggin’ for abut 2 dez now innit.” They now have roughly 37 layers of makeup on them, skirts 4 sizes too small, 15 inch high heels on their blister-ridden feet and Argos earrings that, when on fire, whales could jump through in the circus. Smoking in the toilets and injecting themselves with **** that Ozzy Osbourne wouldn’t go near, these halfwits chat about the fact “shes such a stupid cow, if she ‘ad sed two more word too me I wud ‘av nocked ‘er ******’ block off” and “I no for a fac at om gonna get into modelling ‘cus I got a pwetty face innit.” Frankly, you like the back end of a hippo with hemaroids you fat cow! Anyway, I digress.
After shagging their way through school these pink postitutes go to work at Somerfield, on the tills. You know, the one that chews bubble gum, fiddles with her hair and always, always gets it wrong when punching in the prices and then has to call ‘Glyness’ or ‘Jane’ over with ‘the key’. After this they have two options: a) become a single mum and have many little Kevlings called Jumaine and Bionde (Beyonce?) while developing a weight problem, or b) go and work the corners in Soho to be the best hooker in a 50 mile radius.
This is to show that I am not being sexist in away way towards Kevs and that it is also Kevettes that cause just as much misery and annoyance to the normal people of this world.
