Although outwardly fairly pleasant, with houses, offices and shops like many other identikit London suburbs, it is not so much the general architecture which makes Sunbury immediately identifiable as a **** haven (not many ugly tower blocks, fly-overs and graffiti-ridden underpasses), but rather the disproportionate number of ***** themselves that seem to appear out of nowhere and permeate the entire general area. Don’t be deceived by the seemingly unremarkable, one might say charming atmosphere if you decide to visit in the week. One look at some of the locals out in force during the evenings and weekends will almost immediately dispel any desire you may have to hang around for any great length of time.
With the lack of local night spots or, indeed, anything else to speak of, gangs of horrid little Burberry-clad ‘yoovz’ loiter with intent around the shops and street corners (Sunbury Cross being particularly popular), revving up their pathetic little farting bikes, shouting their hilariously idiotic ‘bling’ speak at each other and bewildered passers-by, waiting for old ladies to mug and shop staff to hassle.
Plastic McDonalds containers, crisp packets and lager tins drift erratically in the wind like deranged creatures, intoxicated by the ever-present diesel fumes and jettisoned aircraft fuel, as chavmobiles with ‘chrome’ alloys splutter past with the latest must-have ‘Rubbish n’ ********’ track blaring out the open windows at a ball-breaking volume.
The Sunbury **** has a rather interesting accent – a peculiar blend of EastEnders ‘mockney’ and jobsworth’s whine, and it always gives you that uncanny sense that it is going to scrounge some change or steal your phone. You would be right to trust your instincts. I’ve been beaten up for a cigarette.
The night air is alive with the cheery sound of blown exhausts emanating from the battered, Max Power-esque, and almost always illegal fleet of Kevmobile Novas that tear-**** around the place in pursuit of their next drug deal. Never far away is the merry tinkle of broken glass from a newly-trashed phone booth or shop window, or the slightly more resonant crunch of a vodka bottle on an expensively-painted car. Seldom does a night go by without the dulcet, orgasmic squealing of spoilt, brutal girl thugs, shrieking with wet-knickered ecstasy as the horrific wounds of yet another hospitalised victim mark the climax of yet another sweat-sodden, blood-curdlingly orgiastic rampage of wanton, intensely nasty violence. ‘Girl Power’ has gone appallingly wrong. And occasionally you can hear the ever-impressive ‘whoomph’ of a stolen car bursting into flames in one of the parks or open areas, followed by the inevitable police sirens and demented laughter of the perpetrators.
So much for the **** yoof. Sunbury and the surrounding area is the natural habitat of Van Man. If you are not familiar with this most egregious offshoot of the **** species, let me help you identify an example. Lumbering, loud, thick and thoroughly obnoxious, with a big belly, big gob, tiny brain and tiny ****, Van Man is the most irritating of all the pustules on the face of everyday existence. At all times of the day these morons can be found cluttering up all the local roads in their knackered old vans, yelling at each other and battling for road space like a cluster of flies excitedly and interminably squabbling over a rancid portion of two day old vomit. Get in their way, however unintentionally or temporarily, and oh boy, are you in trouble. Consider yourself lucky to get away with just a barrage of abuse; usually this is accompanied by a very real physical threat.
Weekends are when the concepts of Sunbury ***** and Van Men are transformed into a profoundly disturbing reality. Turning up at the sacred church of Tesco in their thousands to worship the mighty deity of Mass Retail in their wives’ 4x4s, vans (of course) and souped-up Ford Orions, the weekend shop is a heaving mass of attitudes, of shaven heads, tattoos, hoop-earrings, baseball-capped Neanderthals; screaming, malodorous children and aggressive, loud, moist-looking women who surreptitiously play with themselves in the checkout queue. One big catastrophic congregation fuelled by equal measures of bile, greed, and the will to destroy.
Sunbury is the start of the M3, that long road that takes you into the comparative civilisation of elsewhere. Every Monday is signified by the melancholic monotone of heavy traffic largely absent during the weekend, bemoaning the start of yet another week in chavdom and the fact that you haven’t escaped yet. You plonker.
