Chavin' a right fab time, innit.

Welcome to England - the home of Coldplay, the breeding ground of colonialism, bastion of sheer bloody-mindedness, the land of plenty. Plenty of strikes, plenty of rain, plenty of people's sweaty pits dripping onto your iPod on the tube, and of course PLENTY of Chavs.

The 'Chav' (not sure what it's short for - although 'Council Housing Average Vuilgat' wouldn't go amiss) is an English phenomenon which i can't seem to grasp, and with which i have been told i harbour an unhealthy obsession. Now i have obsessions but they tend to be regular stuff, like turning the light switch on and off 7 times before i leave a room or drizzling my honey into my cereal in neat little 'z's every morning. That's pretty regular innit? Not a fuck i hear you say. Maybe all that therapy has been a waste of kleenex. I digress. So anyway, in a haze of burberry and prams, scraped back ponytails and milky white tractor tyres spewing forth from beneath short waisted puffer jackets, i tiptoe past bus stops (What do Chavs use as protection during sex? Bus shelters) and the stairs outside Centrecourt, clutching my bag as one would do on Strand street at rush hour, making sure not to make eye contact for fear of being politely asked, "whatha fook you lookin' ah?!". Its all a tad disconcerting and a little creepy but at the same time disgustingly fascinating. The novelty will soon wear off i'm told but until then i shall continue to be in awe of these beings who cannot be equated to any other culture on earth. Seeing is disbelieving.