I happen to agree with the articles about Crawley but there is something worse than a young ********. It is an old ********! My Boyfriend’s mother is a prime example. She has fake gold large hooped earings (5 in each ear) tattoos all over the place (acompanied by more piercings) and if she cant get her own way she screams and shouts at the top of her voice like a banshee (yes with the wannas and changing t’s for d’s!)
Then has the nerve to say she is shy and cant talk on phones (and yes she does have a mobile-strange!)

Crawley has so many ***** and ********* who infest the place. they are like ****. Two ****** a young guy by kicking his head in just for his mobile the other week. Crawley can be a horrible place to live depending on what area you are in.
The underage drinkers going into pubs and trying to take on huge Rocker fans with pen knifes is what crawley is sadly reduced to.

I live in Maidenbower where you’d expect to be safe but alas there is a border, I my self am a 27 y/o Skater bloke love the board… But when you are skating through the street you can smell the change in the air when entering **** territory in Maidenbower the noxious smell of clearasil mixed with tommy or tommy girl. It burns at your lungs till you get closer to the shops where you discover them…
The spawn of a generation that forgot contraception the pink towling tracksuit wearing hideous fat arsed gold jewel encrusted evil that is the shaz and trace of maidenbower.
pushing aroung a small pram at the age of 13 wearing the biggest hoop earings the world has ever seen.
Now from the point of view of a philanthropist you can see that the earings size is proportionate to the wearers cervical size…. (in other words the bigger the hoop the more bucket the fanny)…

From a distance you hear the calls of the male ,”go on mate buy-us 20 B&H”. Followed by a pleasant fack you caahnt this translates to, “would sir please purchase me some cigarettes?”, the reply no generates the translation, “you are correct I am not old enough to smoke but I wish to look good in front of my friends. I of course cannot admit that now so I will show off to my friends using the only word I know….”

I have lived in Crawley all my life and since the days of school have seen its demise if ever there was an advert for contraception county mall is it you just have to walk 5 footsteps inside and you can see evolution working backwards.
Don’t get me wrong there are some lovely genuine people here, but it is difficult to find them when inept morons who think they own the town wreck you existence with the inane drawl that is their lives…..

Well, where do I begin? Crawley is the number one in the UK for pregnancy, with all the ********* having a *** and a shag every other night, usually at the back of McDonalds, or if they have a little more class, down the local co-op. As the burbery clan stroll down the street in gangs of 15 or more, you really do see the clones that are among them, and you think, why!? why!?

To become a **** you must do these following things. 1. Wear burberry, don’t wash your hair for a few weeks (minimum). 2. Have a few bratty kids, and call them names such as Manhatten Shian, or Tiffiny, or if your really classy, Chardonny (but obvioulsy with spelling mistakes). 3. Have any individual thoughts? Forget them, for you must be a clone and not have any other thoughts other than “Innit, safe blud” and the use of a knife. 4. Smoke, drink and take drugs every night, and last, but certainly not least, number 5. **** up old people for money. And, voila! You are an official ****.

Welcome to Crawley, soon to be renamed ‘Chavley’ on account of the amount ***** that reside and rule this 1950s prefab hole.
Crawley is made up of of several colour coded neighbourhoods (and if you don’t believe me look at the street signs!) where badly built houses are full of ***** whose mockney grandparents were unceremoniousley dumped in them from the bombsites of East London after the war.
Originally a peaceful utopia this town became ******** by ***** when the great **** estates of Furnace Green, Broadfield, Bewbush and Ifield West were all thrown up (literally in some cases) from the late sixties to the mid eighties.
As the second generation of Crawleyites grew up they gave birth to the ‘****’ a creature known for his or hers love of burberry caps, Nike white trainers and Nike clothing to match.
As ‘chavness’ grew and grew and ******** much of this town the town centre was surrounded, till finally the great **** mecca County Mall, “Shopping as never before!” was built in the early nineties the ***** launched an invasion, of which they have occupied since, the skateborders were then moved to the bandstand in Queens Square as a great massive **** ridden multi-plex cinema and retail park were put on top of the old half pipe near the old Crawley Football Ground (now in Broadfield, possibly the greatest of the **** estates) now the town centre is full of them, helped by a new guided bus link (because no driver could concentrate on driving a bus and fighting the ***** off at the same time!) that connects Broadfield to Gatwick Airport known as ‘Fastway’.
The other great symbol of chavness is Crawley College, the main tower block of this dump looks as if it will topple at any moment and this is where the ***** will try to insert some knowledge into their brains, sadly thats not going to happen, so bombing round the many roundabouts in stolen Vauxhall Nova’s will have to their life from now on.
Another great **** hangout is Broadfield Barton, a hideous seventies shopping parade where Iceland, and Kwiksave are where all the great **** takeways are located (takaway being grabbing a shopping trolley, loading it with as much food as possible and making a mad dash for it!)
So apart from the fact that Crawley is now five generations ahead of any other town in the surrounding area due the amount of teenage pregnancies that is it.
Crawley the great **** capital of Britain,
DO NOT ENTER!

Now, i have read the previous articles on Crawley and feel that they do this ********* town justice. The main thing i would like to add is that i work there, in the great **** magnet that is county mall. What makes this bearable is that i have the good fortune to actually live in Balcombe, a tiny, quiet village a short drive away. I do, however work in one of the worst possible shops to work in, in a town as ******** with ***** as Crawley. Ernest Jones is one of the more upscale high street jewellers and our branch is a Rolex dealer (i’m still trying to work out why on earth Crawley needs a Rolex dealer) i have heard some utter gems of **** quotes as you can probably imagine, my personal favorite was being handed a signet (and no, i don’t mean soveriegn) ring the size of my head coupled with the words ” ow much to get this smallened” I have never had to bite my tongue so hard in my life, before or since. There are also a set of benches right outside my shop. The number of benches within the building are limited, I imagine to stop too many ***** sitting on them (although one is clearly too many). Of course they have already spent their Giro’s on white lightning and mayfairs so they dont come to county mall to shop but to, to, to, i still haven’t worked out what they actually do there, i’ll keep you posted if i ever work it out.
I will, i have just deided (and i do mean just this moment) approach the powers that be at county mall and ask for a soundproof room for the employees of the building, not neccesarily sounproof smoking facilities as they have already provided smoking areas. All i want is a place where i can sit on my lunchbreak safe in the knowledge that i wont hear a baby break into what is essentially Crawley’s equivalent to birdsong. What I mean by that statement is if you live in, say a countryside village like me you cannot go a day without hearing a bird singing in it’s disney-esque lovelyness. I have never done a day of work without uttering under my breath “remove your child” as the screaming brat tries to wrestle it’s teenage mothers attention away from the Sterling silver and cubic zirconia or Burberry watch display. To close i would like to give you all a heart warming piece of information, i am how shall we say, a weapon in the war on ***** as i have the great pleasure (feel the jealousy rise up from your gut) to deflate their enormous ego’s usually in front of their mates. An example:
****: oi mate how much is this Rolex worth?
Myself: let me take a look for you sir
I EXAMINE THE GOLD PLATED EXCUSE FOR A TIMEPIECE MOST LIKELY BOUGHT IN THAILAND, STIFLE AN OUTBURST AND POLITELY SAY
Myself: i’m afraid it’s a counterfiet sir.
i could go on as they sometimes protest that i dont know what i’m doing and am a caaaant, but I shant. They generally leave the shop and I imagine piss on thier **** fathers grave for passing on nothing but humiliation in front of his Kappa wearing, 13 year old, trout faced, 20 inches diameter gold plate hoop wearing, already de-flowered, ikon/diva under 18s nite visiting (where 24 year old kev and stella probably met), cud chewing *******! Sorry i got carried away there. **** ****.

I was relieved to see that this southern gem (affectionately referred to as “the armpit of the south”) was not overlooked by your site, but am perplexed as to why the person writing the article would neglect to mention the accolades Crawley has gained.

While most ***** consider a fight to be anything ranging from randomly combining words like ****** and Licker with various body parts, best so far has to be a **** calling a fellow **** a ‘****-******’ (heavens NO!!!), to a full on Pose&Push style brawl, Crawley ***** have managed to elevate this to a new level.

Your average Crawley **** is able to brag that Crawley recently reached number 6 in the nations Stabbings table (impressive for somewhere that still hasn’t achieved City status). For those of you who read the tabloids you may be thinking the name Crawley sounds familiar? That’ll be due to us recently achieving the feat of having the youngest mother on record in Britain living amongst us, and while just turned 14 is a respectable age for *********, this one had a miscarriage a year ago!

By this point you may have started believing that ***** just go around stabbing and banging their bints in the well shadowed alleyways, but NO. There is another favoured pastime of your average **** which CANNOT be overshadowed. I am of course referring to the Pint&Fight phenomenon that rules there lives. Of course pints are expensive and become troublesome to carry off to the local park bench or the **** Mecca (the local Bus Station); hence Tescos has made a resolution to always have a special offer on 3littre bottles of white lightning!

Imbued with the newly found strength and power found at the bottom of a 3litre bottle of white lightning the **** and his *shudder* Crew can now take it to the next level and actually throw a punch. So to prove there Metal to the 13 year old ******** following closely behind the ***** will choose the most docile looking bloke (possibly even 2 if there feeling brave) and the fun begins. They will always have to justify why they have randomly started to hit you to the young ******** and will usually do this by bumping into you and saying “Whadja call mi?” This must immediately be followed by a drunken punch at which point up to 4-8 fellow ***** will commence “Givin’ the lil’ *** a right-good kickin’!”

All though this is a common event in Crawley on a Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday, Friday, Saturday & Sunday night, there is often a welcome respite on Monday nights as all the local pubs announces offers on upscale **** drinks like WKD Blue (NEVER ORANGE!!!), Smirnoff Ice, Archers and Bacardi Breezers. This has the desired effect of getting the ***** so slaughtered after there third or fourth bottle that they are force to stagger home haranguing and shouting and is by most people considered a council-run scheme to give the residents at least one night’s relative peace.

If you do by some unfortunate twist of fates find yourself in Crawley tried to avoid the Town Centre and any and all Street corners and alleyways. It is also prudent to avoid Broadfield and Bewbush or for the more adventurous among you, try to spot the single white minor without a sprog (if you don’t find one don’t be discouraged none of the locals have either). In fact your probably better of just running for Gatwick, which is always invested by hordes of ***** and *********, but is obliged by the government to offer cheap flights as a means for lost wanderers to flee the Town post-Haste.

As a final side bar I would like to tell you about a personal experience I had in Crawley. While committing the heinous crime of walking down the street with a friend wearing a leather coat, I had the displeasure of bumping into a **** on the pull who had snared a young ******** and was busy impressing her, by offering to **** up everyone in site. His gaze eventually fell on us and he taunted “Howz ‘bout I **** up those *******!” which got rounds of pig-like chortling sounds from his ********. In response I dismissively gestured and calmly said “whatever,” forgetting that this is one of the ***** sacred words. Angered by being dismissed in front of his potential shag, I was threatened with DEATH to which I calmly replied that it would be rather foolish as prison was a most unpleasant place to be. Further antagonism from him was met with an amused grin from me as he slotted perfectly into **** Stereotype. Finally it was too much for him and after no less than 3 attempts he was able to break a bottle on a metal dumpster (cleanly break the bottle! A wet mackerel would have been sharper.) He then proceeded to hold the bottle against my chin while I talked forcing his hand to bounce up and down as my jaw bone pushed against the smooth glass. As a final gesture of bravado he attempted to thrust the bottle through my thick genuine leather coat and then threw the bottle at the ground smashing it and thus giving himself a dignified exit from which he could then walk away, ******** in arms, with that choice phrase “you ain’t worf it!”

Ah, Bless ‘em.

Well let me tell you that in Crawley there must be something in the air, every pushchair you see has its own underaged muva attatched. Its like the newest accessory, as well as those ugly ***** looking things round their necks. What the hell! Those cheap clown things, now who on earth would honestly want one?! You walk past the ***** version of H. Samuel and there all looking in the window, looking for their next dole investment.
I think I should open a jewellery shop with only clowns and those big ***** gold earing’s and sovereigns, and some burberry dummies, I would make a fortune!! How can these dole light’s afford all this gold?! Yes its probably cheap plastic, painted with gold nail varnish but still. Why is it that we go out 9-5 Monday to Friday to pay for the ****’s to have their Gold and ****? And in Crawley town centre you know that decent shops like Topshop and Warehouse will be empty cos none of the ****’s can afford it. I love the way also they think their so hard smoking **** and swearing at their kid’s, I can’t help but burst into a rendition of ‘She’s a lady! whoo whooa whoo she’s a lady’. So Ive decided to go somewhere classy shopping this weekend cos I’m sick of being pushed and shoved in the shops cos ‘Kev & Lisa’ wanna get to the sale in Lidel. Rant over.

Original Submission by Aaron

I think crawley in sussex is the chaviest town in the uk because whenever you go there all you can see is white trainers burberry caps, ugly ***** munters. It seems you cant turn around without seeing a ***** with nothing better to do but sit around, smoking, drinking, laughing with their terrible nil education laughs and gappy rotten teath, holering at passing girls who’d just as soon screw them, have their child, and end up on Trisha. the best place to catch them in Crawley county mall, you’ll recogise them when you see looped earings that rest on their hips, let alone on their shoulders.