I live in a quiet little village in Cambridgeshire.
Not exactly my neighbours, but a few doors away a whole family of chavs moved in. Now every evening they race each other up and down the road in one point fuck all Corsas, Clios and the like, with big fat wheels, and exhaust pipes you could drive a tube train through. The mother is about 45, about 18st with a huge fat gut, short skirts (when she is not wearing those tight leggings which show off her cameltoe), enourmous flabby tits which hang out of her tight tops and bleached hair and a voice which could peel paint. They all wear loads of Burberry and fake gold crap jewelery. Even the fucking pikeys have moved out of the field down the road. I would like to burn them all alive but the UK is a tad intollerant of that kind of thing, that Tony Martin lives quite close and look what happened to him. He should have been cunting well knighted. *tugs forelock*
( Captn Hood-Butter is not dead yet., Fri 26 Aug 2005, 18:53, Reply)