The Tuesday Twat(s)

Wayne and Waynetta Slob - icons of the modern parent.

Now those of you who read this blog regularly, may have gotten the erroneous impression that I have something against the "Chav" class ("Chav", for those who are unfamiliar, stands for Council House And Violent - I refer you this site for more information. Chav Scum). Nothing could be further from the truth. Chav's are an integral part of the food chain, fulfilling many vital roles in society. For example, they drown out the sound of people's IPods on Public Transport with their incessant arguing. They also keep the actors in Eastenders employed - they very obviously model their lives on the show, and pretty much form its core audience these days (not including the bedridden and educationally subnormal, obviously). They also ensure that Her Majesty's Constabulary get to waste spend their time chasing low-level, relatively safe, nuisance crime and filling in pointless paperwork, rather than risking life and limb chasing proper criminals (The ever excellent PC David Copperfield, a man who we cynical bloggers regard as something of a role model, can enlighten you more on that subject).

Nevertheless, despite my obvious love of all things Chavvy, there are some things that irk me ever so slightly about them. One of the most irritating being Chav parents.

So how does one go about recognising a Chav parent?

Well, the most obviously clue is the dress sense. Tracksuit, baseball cap and several respectable dowry's worth of cheap bling (sovereign rings being a particular favourite) are de rigeur of course. Burberry is a dead give away, seeing as Burberry's original clientele (the well-to-do labradoor, hunting and Landrover set) have now deserted the company in droves. Burberry almost exclusively means Chav these days. However, it has to be combined with spotless sporting gear (Nike/Adidas/Converse ideally - proof of purchase not required).

The second clue is that even in these health concious times, it is not frowned upon in Chav circles to smoke around your child. By this, I mean holding the baby's face so close to your dangling L&B it really ought to use its pocket money to go halves on the cost. Doing this with another one in the oven (as evidenced by the belly top that shows the world that yes, you can still have a pierced belly button when you are 8 months pregnant, and that no, exposure to sub-zero temperatures doesn't make the metal intolerably cold) is even better.

Even babies and toddlers can be incorporated into one's overall fashion ensemble. Now in all fairness, it should be pointed out that babies have always been used as fashion icons. Years ago, little girls were often dressed in so much Taffeta they were sometimes mistaken for cleaning utensils and used to dust the mantlepiece. Little boys would be forced to undergo cruel and unusual punishments, like washing behind their ears and combing their hair, before being paraded in front of their parent's peers at church on sunday. In that respect, things have changed only in the detail (and the cost). These days, the baby's clothing matches their parents. Despite them still mastering the complex arts of crawling, standing unaided and making sentences (an act not aided by the fact that their gobs are constantly filled with either dummies and nutritious snacks such as Walker's Cheesey Wotsits and Skittles and that the only verbal communication they are exposed to involves "shut up you little shit", "Where the fuck are my fags" and "turn the telly over, Emmerdale's on ITV"), these kids wear more sports gear than the average Premiership footballer. Sometimes they even wear the same kit as a Premiership Footballer.

But by far the most heinous abuse steeped upon them by their parent(s) is that of the ear piercing. Yup, despite proclaiming that they would "do anyfing for my kid. Seriously, I would. I'd do facking anyfing. And I'd facking kill anyone that hurts 'em", these pinacles of good parenting are willing to take their 6 month old child, and have holes needlessly punched through their ears. Even the boys.

And if that doesn't deserve a Twat Award, I don't know what does.

Labels: The Tuesday Twat(s)