The throbbing metropolis of Gillingham, now pronounced “Gill-i-num” was once a proud and well-to-do area where the local menfolk plied their trade and people were nice and friendly…….Until the filthy, ******, stenching,drossy **** was born. These ****** stains on the undercrackers of society now have the locals in fear for their lives. Never have the tuppeny jewellers or market stall traders done so well as in recent times. The **** can be seen proudly strutting the streets with their ketchup-stained ‘tracky’ top and burberry cap. The alpha male can be spotted from afar with his hooded top and ‘gold’ chains, normally surrounded by a possee of local ******** keen to pass on the **** genes to the next generation. The local haunts are Maccy D’s (for the **** hierarchy) and the phone boxes outside the train station (for the rest of the *****). The train platform has a convenient gate which can be easily vaulted by the more athletic ****, to allow free day trips to see other ***** in the surrounding towns, or maybe just to smoke on the platform and “look hard, innit???” ***** are not allowed to pay for travel, and if a ticket inspector dare to approach a member of chavidom, then he would be told that ” I ‘aint got no money, so wotcha gonna do, ****”, and promptly have his shoes spat on by the wannabe gangster. Local ticket inspectors are now wise to this and know better than to approach any cap-wearing, ******* filth. The local park is the mating ground for the ****, and *****-stained clothing aplenty can be found among all the shrubbery. Many a time has a ******** been given “a ******’ good portion” in the bushes after a romantic evening strolling through the high street, maybe taking a quick stop in the Launderette for a quick grope if their passions get the better of them. The more generous **** may even treat his good lady ******** to fish and chips from ‘Peters’, but this is only acceptable in the laws of Chavitisation if **** *** is a ‘cert’. Local folklore has it that over ninety percent of ***** were conceived somewhere between the Black Lion Sports Centre and Gillingham Park. Guests are not welcomed into the **** camp, and have to work long and hard to make their way up the pecking order. The honour of wearing a ridiculous top, especially a Nickelson, has to be earned, and many old ladies have to be frightened and windows smashed before the ****** is granted permission from the upper echelons of chavitdom. Of course, tuppeny jewelry is a must, as is the need to constantly use words such as “savage”, “sorted”, “innit”, “****” (pronounced caaaaaaant) and “*******” (pronounced baaaaaarsterd) – the **** is oblivious to the fact that ninety nine percent of their sad race fall into this category, in fact most have no idea who their father actually is! Feel free to visit this once great town, but be warned – if you don’t look like a TOTAL **** then you won’t fit in !!!!!
