My younger brother
had a friend some ten years ago that I shall refer to here only as "the chav", and it is to these two that this story applies.

Bruv and the chav had been friends since roughly the end of school, and hung around under the same slides/ sitting in the same empty garages/ attending the same free house parties for the next few years, mostly drinking cider. After around four years of their association, the whole arrangement was brought to an end when the chav's parents divorced, sold their house and went their separate ways, leaving the chav with no choice but to leave our backwater edge-of-london market town and move with his septuagenarian father to a murky part of the East End, where pops set himself up in business, selling "erotic massage" to ladies above a certain age via the magic of small ads.

As in most cases of this ilk, contact was maintained initially, but as the weeks turned to months turned to a couple of years, the inconvenience of over-long train journeys and the ease of access to each of other, more geographically favourable friends led to contact becoming less frequent and eventually lost.

Where News International, publishers of The Sun, launched Sky TV, the publishers of its tabloid rival, The Mirror, launched L!ve TV. It lasted only a few years, but that was to be expected given the quality of its programming - the only parts of the schedule in the public eye were "News Bunny", in which the headlines where read by a presenter whilst a man in a rabbit costume mimed his response to the story (pretty much limited to "happy bunny" and "sad bunny"), and two weather shows, one read in Norwegian by a woman in a bikini, the other in English by a dwarf on a trampoline.

One morning, Bruv was off work and surfing the the hell that is cable daytime tv, after the accepted fashion - skip, wait a few seconds, skip, wait a few seconds, ski.... as he was about to jump from L!ve TV to the next channel, a familiar voice came from the TV.

"Have you seen my sheep?", it asked. It was the chav. In a dilapidated concrete East London shopping centre. Holding a crook, and wearing a gingham dress.

Over and over again, the chav approached the hard-faced, betracksuited locals, and repeated the refrain "I'm Little Bo Peep. Have you seen my sheep?", for which he usually received a very strange look, and the occasional laughter or obscenity. After a few minutes, the whole affair drew to a close, and the chav re-appeared in his street clothes with the show's presenter, who thrust a sum in the region of £7 into the chav's hand and waved him on his way.

The show pressed on without the chav, but revealed its format - the presenter walked around various low-rent neighbourhoods, and encouraged people living on subsistence incomes to humiliate themselves for a few pounds for the viewer's amusement.

As the formula repeated itself over and over, Bruv reached for his mobile, intent on mockery. He was not hopeful, as the chav was wont to lose, sell or disconnect his mobile every few month as his finances dictated. He looked up the last number that he had, and dialled it. It rang. A familiar voice answered.

"Hello?"
"Y'right chav. Guess who I've just seen on tv?"
There was a pause. From the chav there came awkward silence, from Bruv the noiselessness of a smirk.
"I never thought anyone would ever see that."

Bruv then rinsed him, as only friends are able.
(cs1ca, Sat 13 Jun 2009, 21:07, 1 reply)

Topless darts on live tv was alright as well.

Well it was tits, ropey old slappers tits with the occasional honey thrown in if they were feeling generous.

Also haven't heard the term 'rinsed' in years!! Well done sir!
(Formaly Over say's hello, Sun 14 Jun 2009, 1:48, closed)