So controversial is the study, that the author, Professor Morris Micklethwaite—a forty-two-year-old sociologist from the University of East Anglia, has received numerous death threats. What surprised us, is that the threats have not come from outraged Chavs, but from his fellow scientists, one of whom dismissed the study as 'the deluded ravings of a syphilitic old perve.'

Always keen to expose the seamy underbelly of the UK's degenerate sexual mores, utterpants lost no time in stripping away the gism-stained thongs which conceal this festering yeast infection eating away at the very fabric of decent, British society. We discovered that the study, which took four years to complete and interviewed more than 126,873 anti-social hooligans between the ages of 12 and 18, is the largest survey ever conducted into the 21st Century phenomenon of the 'Chav.' Chavs, as Professor Micklethwaite explained to us during an exclusive, three hour interview, 'are rapidly turning a third-world country into a first-rate hell-hole fit only for second class sluts.'

"Is there such a thing as 'first class slut?" we asked him over a cup of foaming Horlicks in his razor wire encircled semi, in Chigwell. "This is no laughing matter," he bristled. "This steaming shagfest of underage teenage sex is a national disgrace!" With trembling hands and bulging eyes, the cadaverous, pipe-smoking academic went on to explain the horrific scale of the problem to us. "This country is awash with drunken Chavs, mugging middle-aged men in broad daylight and frightening old ladies with their hideous, baggy trousers. Gangs of these disgusting teenagers, dressed in hooded tracksuits and Burberry baseball caps, congregate on every street corner, openly fornicating behind bus shelters and importuning complete strangers for sex in exchange for cigarettes and alcohol."

Whilst experts disagree violently on the causes of the unstoppable rise in Chav culture which has inundated the country like a gushing wave of girly love juices, none of them are in any doubt that Britain will soon be completely overrun with Chavs unless something is done. Indeed, professor Micklethwaite told us he has actually come to blows with colleagues over his controversial proposals to eliminate what he insists is a cancer eating away at the very fabric of decent, British society.
"Short of enforced sterilisation, these shameless sluts will continue to breed like sex-crazed rabbits—smoking, drinking, fighting and fornicating their way into every corner of the land."
"Sterilisation?" we asked. "Isn't that a bit drastic?"
"It's simply no good pussy-footing around with bans on the sale of Burberry baseball caps and designer tracksuits to teenage Chavs," he replied, as he sucked on a curiously shaped glass pipe and blew a cloud of pungent smelling tobacco in our direction.

"What about the Prime Minister's initiative to slap ASBO's on Chavs who congregate in shopping centres?"
"Completely unworkable," snorted the professor. "Even if sufficient officers could be spared from hunting down Brazilian terrorists on the London underground to police such a policy, the courts would never be able to handle the number of ASBO's needed to enforce it. I'm afraid that sterilisation is the only practical option, as my field trials among well-fit fourteen-year-old sluts in Romford clearly proved."
"Field trials, professor? Are you saying that you've actually sterilised female Chavs?"
The professor coughed noisily and caressed our reporter's thigh with a conspiratorial wink. "Er..not exactly no. I'm afraid that aspect of my report isn't quite ready for publication yet.."

We removed his hand and asked him if education wasn't a more sensible and humane solution.
"Education? EDUCATION!?" he spluttered, spraying a mouthful of Horlicks in our direction. "Shall I describe a typical Chav's day to your readers?"
"Please do." we replied, wiping our face.
"Well—Stacey, Porsha or Ashleigh—they all have uniformly preposterous names derived from some appalling TV docusoap, will crawl out of the foetid pit she shares with some Chav scumbag she met the night before, but can't remember the name of, when decent folk are having luncheon. The fifteen-year-old slut will then bundle little Chardonnay—"
"Fifteen?"
Professor Micklethwaite's eyes glazed over as he licked his lips lasciviously. "Yess..fifteen or even—uh—twelve. Filthy, disgusting little baby whores wearing lots of sparkly bling, with tiny titties and tight pussies just begging to be filled with great gobs of steaming gism...uhh...as one Chav after another spreads their skinny thighs wide apart and thrusts his throbbing—"
"—Professor?" we interrupted. "Are you all right?"

Professor Micklethwaite shuddered and took a long pull on his curious pipe. "Yes...uh...fine...never better. Um—where was I?"
"With little Chardonnay?" we replied nervously.
"Yes, yes," he continued excitedly. "Fifteen-year-old Stacey will then bundle little Chardonnay into a Taxi for the five hundred yard trip to the nearest McDonald's to ensure the mewling Chav-in-training gets a nutritious breakfast. Meanwhile, the male Chav who will be responsible for providing Chardonnay with two brothers before Stacey is old enough to leave school, will be tucking into a plate of chips and ketchup down the local nick, where he has been locked up since the previous evening for torching two cars and demolishing a telephone kiosk.

After breakfast, Stacey will push her buggy to the social to collect her giro, pausing from time to time to lean over her ear-pierced baby, drop her fag ash on it and shout: 'fuckin' stop cryin' Wayne!' The only jewellery missing from her jingling ensemble will be her wedding ring. Presumably, so she can still pull 'well fit buffs' down the local club whilst the fathers of her two previous kids argue about who fucked her last."
"Two kids—at fifteen?" isn't that a bit unlikely, professor?"

"I only wish it were. Your average Chav has had her first kid by the time she's thirteen. My research has shown that it's a point of honour among them to see who can spit out the most sprogs in the shortest possible time. Gorgeous Stacey is by no means the youngest little baby Chav I've fuc—er, young person we interviewed for this study."
"Did you just say 'fucked' professor? You weren't having a sexual relationship with a fifteen-year-old girl, surely?"
"No—certainly not! retorted the bespectacled academic, hastily removing the hand which had once again strayed onto our reporter's thigh.
"So where are the rest of her kids?"
"Who knows? In care, probably, or being paraded in front of some dim-witted social worker to wring a few extra quid out of the State in benefits."

"So, after she's collected her giro she presumably goes to school?"
"Hardly," replied the professor, exhaling a cloud of pungent smoke. "She'll have been suspended from school for assaulting a teacher years ago."

"So what does she do with the rest of her day?"
"After lunch—a plate of chips fried in oil so rancid that even the cockroaches infesting her council flat wouldn't dream of drowning in it—Stacey will recover from the day's exertions with a bottle of Bacardi and some 'spliff', while watching the 'vid' Wayne stole the previous day in Asda. Meanwhile, little Chardonnay will be sucking contentedly on the Prozac capsules her mother conveniently left in her cot. Depending on how intoxicated she is, Stacey will either pass out for two hours, or stagger out to pay her respects at some convenient shrine to Chav culture; generally the local McDonalds or a branch of J D Sports. There she will almost certainly discover she's run out of cigarettes and proposition the first bloke who looks like he might have more than the price of a bus fare on him. Unless he's a pensioner or a policeman, his knob will be in her hands before he's even had time to open his wallet. This display of bravado, accompanied by loud cries to 'fuckin' 'urry up can't yer,' every time he slips out of her little fingers, will invariably attract the attention of male Chavs, who will relieve the poor unfortunate of his valuables before kicking the shit out of him for 'messin' wiv our bitches.' Stacey will then drop her knickers and spend the next hour flat on her back, while her 'well fit' rescuers reward her enterprise by taking it in turns to re-arrange her ovaries."

"Surely you're exaggerating, professor?" we commented.
"About the ovaries?"
"No...we meant the sex. And please take your hand off my leg!"
"Sorry. Look, she's a Chav. Sex, drugs, booze, clothes and mindless violence are all they live for—especially the sex. These Chav sluts can't get enough mindless, casual sex."
"Sex seems to feature an awful lot in your study. Exactly how close did you get to Stacey?"
"Er—well, I—may have interviewed her a few times. Possibly while she was flat on her back with her gism-soaked panties wrapped around her Nike trainers, begging me...um—begging someone...to spread her skinny thighs wide apart and fill her tight, baby pussy with..Er...I really can't remember. Look, do you want me to continue or not?"

"If you're sure you're well enough?"
"Never better," chortled the professor. "Well—later in the day, Stacey will suddenly realise that she is bereft of her one hope in the world—the lottery ticket! All around the run-down council estate she shares with her fellow Chavs, her shrill cry will be taken up by a hundred throats: 'I'm goin' up Tescos to get me lottries!' But it is not until twilight—the magical hour when Chav culture comes into its own—that the real action starts. As dusk falls all the souped-up Novas, Fiestas and Saxos that by some miracle have managed to escape the crusher will be displaying their owners' mastery of the hand-brake turn and the tyre-shredding drag race. And so to bed, or more precisely, time to bed the dozens of fat Chavettes hanging around the nearest bus shelter who will drop their 99p thongs for anyone provided they're not too drunk to remember which hole to fill and don't use a condom."

"Isn't that a bit risky," we asked.
"Well—yes, it is," replied the professor, "but as most of them lose their virginities soon after they start menstruating, there's a pretty good chance they'll get pregnant before their fourteenth birthday."
"We meant isn't it risky to have unprotected sex?"
"You don't get it do you? These Chav sluts want to get pregnant. How else are they going to pay for designer clothes, booze, drugs and jewellery?"
"By getting a job?"
"At twelve or fourteen?" retorted the professor derisively. "Look, they can't get unemployment benefit until they're sixteen. The only way they can get their sticky little fingers on our knobs, sorry, money—"
"—money?"
"Taxation! Who do you think pays for their luxury council flats and X-Boxes? Not to mention supplementary benefit, maternity grants, clothing allowances, fuel subsidies, child support grants and free medical care."
"Oh dear," we commented, "It sounds absolutely horrific."
"Shall I go on? You look a trifle shocked."
"That's because you keep putting your hand up my skirt, professor."
"Sorry. Um—I've not been well, you know," he replied rolling his eyes in a most alarming manner. "This study has taken a terrible toll on my health."
"We can see that. Do, please go on."

"Stacey's fun-filled day will invariably end around 3am when Wayne staggers in from whatever club hasn't barred him yet and whips out a filthy knob still dripping from the load he's just dumped between the thighs of some twelve-year-old, drunken virgin (desperate to 'ave a cute baby to play wiv like me big sis'). Stacey will eagerly fellate him until he ejaculates heavily down her gaping throat. This may or may not be followed by anal sex—"
"—Anal sex?"
"At Jade's advanced age—"
"—Advanced?"
"Fifteen is pretty much the sexual ceiling for Chavs. By that time, a Chav's pussy is so loose you could hide the entire cast of Sex and the City up there and still have room for a couple of pricks like Wayne. After that age they either get banged up under the totting-up procedure for ASBO's or marry a washed-up, fourth division footballer who's too stupid to realise what a clapped-out old whore he's bedded."
"And—um—after the anal sex?" we asked dubiously, moving our chair out of reach of his wandering hands.
"A bloody good punch-up."
"Punch-up?"
"The traditional Bacardi-fuelled relationship crises that neighbours dread and Chavs revel in like pigs in shit. This will usually begin with a drunken 'Wayne' (or 'Darren') uttering the remorseful line: 'But I fuckin' love ya Stace, ya know dat, baby.' This will progress to 'wots all dis i'm hearin' 'bout u an' dat fuckin' slag?' from Stacey followed by endless variations on 'ya don't wanna mess wit me!' and 'Right lemmie get 1 fing straight—u sayin' i'm a slut?' culminating in Wayne beating the crap out of the stupid slapper. After a short interval during which the two Chavs will make up, 'do some spliff' and finish another bottle of Bacardi, Wayne will rip Stacey's thong off, straddle her narrow hips and fill her well-ploughed pussy with enough spunk to float a sperm bank. Depending on how drunk he is, this may or may not be followed by him vomiting heavily over her tits. Alerted by the noise of the earlier altercation, the police will arrive just in time to prevent Stacey grinding her white stilettos into the groin of the neighbour who summoned them. The day will finally climax with her screaming obscenities at the police who are trying to arrest 'My Wayne!' for kicking the shit out of the dozy tart. This identical drama is played out every night across a thousand British cities.
Now—tell me how you educate Chav scum like THAT!?"

"Perhaps some form of aversion therapy? Well—it is a form of mental illness, isn't it?"
"Look—we tried that in Birmingham. We showed female Chavs images of Burberry baseball caps, a So-Solid Crew video, gold bling and a Ford Fiesta with alloy wheels. Each time they registered the slightest signs of pleasure, the electrodes we'd attached to their genitals administered a powerful electric shock. 92% of them passed out with massive clitoral orgasms and the remaining 8% who remained conscious long enough to grunt out 'fuckin' 'ell m8 dat was well mint, innit,' then smashed up the lab and legged it with our electronic aversion equipment."
"So what's the answer?"
"Fuck 'em!" exclaimed the professor gleefully. "Fuck, fuck fuck!"
"We beg your pardon?"

"Rip the gism-soaked, crotchless panties off the fourteen-year-old harlots. Kiss their immature little titties while you spread the firm young flesh of their writhing thighs wide apart and fuck the cock-hungry sluts until they bleed!"
"We're not—um, with you..." we asked in alarm as the professor began to massage his crotch with mounting excitement.
"Look, as I've explained; Chavs are multiplying at an alarming rate. You can't educate scum like that. The only answer is sterilisation, but the Government doesn't have the balls to do it."
"But surely fuck—having sex with Chavs will only make the problem worse?"
"Not if you give the filthy little sluts a damn good dose of AIDS!"

"My goodness! Is that what you've been doing? You hinted at it before but we thought we misheard you. That's so dreadfully sick..."
We trailed off as professor Micklethwaite rose unsteadily from his chair, plunged his hand into his trousers and broke into insane laughter.
"Professor? Stop that. Are you all right?"
"Not really, no, he giggled, as he began to masturbate brazenly in front of our reporter. "I—I—I've started wearing Burberry and hanging around bus shelters..."
"But that means you must have—"
"—been fucking Stacey and hundreds of cock-hungry little sluts like her throughout my study? Yes! I admit it. It was sheer hell, but someone had to do the research!"
"No, we meant you must have AIDS yourself."
"Yes and syphilis and gonorrhoea too. I've got more deadly viruses circulating in my blood than a biological weapons establishment," he confessed, gleefully.
"In fact I have several sexually transmitted diseases that aren't even in the textbooks yet. The quacks tell me I've got six months to live."

"Doesn't that worry you?"
"Uh—not a bit," grunted the professor, unzipping his fly and shamelessly massaging his crotch. "At least I've made sure several thousand Chavs will never have any more kids!" He shuddered as tugged his trousers down his legs and thrust his foetid underpants towards our reporter. "The little Chavs couldn't drop their panties fast enough when I told them they'd be on the telly. Especially Stacey's cute baby sister, Jade. The shameless slut sucked my cock like a practiced whore for ten Lambert & Butler and then begged me to fill her tight little pussy."
"Please stop that, professor," we shouted, pushing him away. "Is there nothing that can be done?"
"Nope. Uh—little Jade's tubes are—are—uhh—totally fucked. She's as Barren as an American Baptist spinster."
"We meant for you?"
"Oh, I'm good for a few more rounds yet," he cackled, dropping his underpants to expose what we can only describe as a misshapen sausage so far past its sell-by date that even a starving dog would run away from it, howling in terror.
"Let me ram my Chav Love Stick between those creamy thighs and—"
"—You're mad, aren't you?" we said, hastily backing away from him towards the door.
"As a brush!" he laughed maniacally, while furiously masturbating himself toward an explosive climax. "Uh—uh...Tertiary stage of syphilis...Uh..Half the brain's gone...other half just wants to fuck, fuck, fuck! Why don't you slip those panties off and put on this Burberry cap and tracksuit?"

"Er—no thank you," we shouted, narrowly escaping the gout of gism that flew past our ear as we made a run for the door. "It's been—a real education talking to you, professor."

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