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
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
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—"
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
"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.
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
"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
"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
"Surely you're exaggerating, professor?"
"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
"We meant isn't it risky to have unprotected
"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,
"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
"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
"At Jade's advanced age—"
"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."
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,
"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
"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
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
"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
"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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