by David G. Thorne
Aah, the first signs of Summer are here. The days are becoming long and sultry. Nights are sweaty and uncomfortable. Young ladies in flimsy summer dresses show off milk bottle white legs. Kiddies splash about in paddling pools. The dog lolls his tongue. Thoughts turn to firing up the barbecue and inviting the neighbours round for a beer and a burger. There is every possibility (with a bit of luck) you might poison the boss with a piece of undercooked chicken. Happy days.
Yeah right. You know that Summer is drawing near when after the first two consecutive rain free days of the year every white trash yobbo feels it is his solemn duty as an alpha male to strip off his shirt and parade around the town in all his semi-naked glory.
You cannot venture out without running a disgusting gamut of sweaty, tattooed oikdom, all crappy ripoff adidas clothing, I.Q.’s lower than a pensioners tits, and uglier than a hatfull of ass. They roam the city centres in herds like bare chested townie adonises, reeking of counterfeit Hugo Boss aftershave and cheap cider. Presumably exposure of the torso is part of a primitive mating ritual along the lines of, “If I takes my shirt off and shows my sixpack, den all da bitches will be gagging for it, innit.”
Yes it’s warm, but for fucks sake! At least we can be grateful that the female of the species usually keeps (most of) her clothes on. Albeit these consists of a sleeveless vest and a white denim skirt that covers barely a quarter of her thighs, meaning that when she farts the skirt will reveal all. Phat clunge!
You have to pity the poor sods who use public transport during the summer. Fine weather guarantees that our buses and trains are packed to the rafters with these untermenschen flocking to seaside hellholes, erm… that is, hotspots like Seaton Carew. Imagine being crammed into a sweltering coach with no hope of escape from the stench of musky perspiration and being assaulted by the tinny sounds of So Solid Crew and Blazin’ Squad emanating from a Motorola Razr V3i Gold D&G! Or worse, having to sit on a seat previously occupied by Bazza and Britny. You could catch a very nasty dose of chav.
No normal, self-respecting person goes around half-clad like this. You wouldn’t go into the bank shirtless, or pop down to the post box with your wedding tackle swinging in the breeze. Hopefully you don’t dangle your baps over the cold meat counter in Sainsburys. Decent people understand about modesty and decorum.
The uncomplicated, uninteresting and wholly unneeded Neds of urban Britain think it is elegant to amble around the Kwik E Mart with their out-of-a-bottle tanned (or never-been-washed grey) flesh on full display. Of course their idea of living is hanging around outside the local chip shop, car park or McDonalds shouting abuse at anyone not wearing burberry, drinking stolen alcohol and smoking/sniffing/trying to fuck drugs. That’s real class.