Derbyshire, home to the beautiful Peak District, Thorntons Chocolate Factory & the Crooked Spire of Chesterfield, has to be perhaps the ONLY county in Britain that has *****, Mobile-Wielding Single Mums & all-round neanderthal Bennys in every single part of it!
Bennys as I like to call `em, have been a staple of Derbyshire Life for as long as I can remember, only now there are more than ever. They were easy to spot even back in my teenage years at school: the boys had bowl-head hair cuts, wore their trainers instead of shoes EVERY DAY even though they knew they’d be asked to take them off by a teacher, & sparking a *** outside the gates as soon as it was 3.30pm, as a kind of “FU” to the teachers who never even noticed them going behind the gym for a crafty Lambert & Butler 3 hours earlier in the first place.
The girls would be round the boys like flies round sh… toffee. With make-up that looked like Stevie Wonder had applied it, their school blouses tied up to make it look like a white bikini, they all spoke in the EXACT same voice to each other while carefully caressing their “boyfs” puffa jackets.
Nothing seems to have changed in Derbyshire while I’ve got older & even more anti-****. Chesterfield is a perfect Benny Congregation-point, the empty market stalls are ideal for baseball-capped gobshites & their spotty girlfriends to have a sticky, sweaty adolescent snog, before walking down & ******* outside McDonalds asking passers-by “Yer got’a ***, mate?”
Unfortunately, what makes Derbysire special as a Chavcounty is that it is also the tiny villages that have been over-run by the Nova-driving set. Despite there being nothing of interest outside whatsoever, Bennys in my village will happily park their battered, no-tax disc Chavmobiles in the church car park, crack open a 3-litre bottle of Cheapo Cider & swear indiscriminatly at passers-by for a good 4 or 5 hours. At least I THINK it’s swearing, people in Derbyshire villages have such deep, fast voices, it just sounds like “UGA BUGA WUGA” most of the time, but you know their having a laugh at your expense with the yellow-toothed grins on their slack-jawed faces. The most depressing thing about my village is that nearly all the Bennys are actually of adult age, they drag their snot-nosed, foul-mouthed kids from the council estate 2-up,2-down to school every morning, then wait outside the Post Office smoking spit-filled roll-ups, playing with their phones, or talking to someone in the queue who they know (EVERY Estate Agent (council tenant) in my village is related to each other in some way, you ain’t seen ********** till youve come here)
If the place is a supposed tourist hotspot (like Matlock or Bakewell) or just a run-down **** hole (like my village, which had better remain nameless), Bennys, Kappa ********, Estate Agents & the suchlike will be waiting to greet you at every turn. I know this site is a bit of fun, but there is a serious message behind what I write: with the older generation of ***** growing up & (inter)breeding, there looks like there is going to be a never-ending supply of Bennys in Derbyshire for so many years to come. It’s so depressing, I’m actually moving to another country. No, seriously, I am.
Derbyshire: the birthplace of the school-bully, the fashion victim, the single mum who couldn’t keep her legs closed, the strange local dialect that sounds like two caveman buggering each other, the bigoted Sun Reader, the Boy Racer… in other words: the birthplace of the Benny. You have been warned!
