AT HOME WITH THE CHAVS
Daniel
Storer
BEDTIME STORERS
Suddenly, there he was; a sexy, six foot something Spanish
God peering down at me. Not, I’m sad to say, my holiday bunk-up, but
a customs official who, at that precise moment, was all that stood between
me and my hard-earned holiday in Gran Canaria.
He conducted a very thorough search, not so thorough that it involved latex
and KY jelly, but enough to mess up my brand new hairstyle. Anyone who knows
me even slightly realises I would rather cut off both legs and poke out my
eyes with a knitting needle than let anyone touch, never mind mess, with my
hair.
I was just about to let rip, when a simian, assistant-type person asked to
go through my bag. No problem, I said, confident that this year I had not
secreted any illegal substances, or suspect packages...or so I thought.
Then it happened: the simian whipped out my combination therapy pills, thrust
them in my face and started hurling questions at me in broken English. Being
of humble council estate origins with only a French oral certificate to my
name, I struggled to explain what they were, without exactly blurting out
that they were for HIV. I mean, come on, this was Gran Canaria for God’s
sake, only the gay capital of the EU. Had they never seen anything like this?
Or were they just trying to strip me of all my dignity?
Behind me in the queue was a family of chavs from a part of England yet to
be discovered. I could feel their eyes boring into my back, dying to see what
the ruckus was about. Chav, if you don’t yet know, refers to certain
types who wear hoopy earings and Burberry or Nickelson, get into fights and
struggle a bit with the English language. I have only recently learned the
term and therefore feel an overwhelming need to use it in every other sentence.
Only then, I remembered the doctor’s note I had got on the advice of
friend while travelling in the States a few years back. Thankfully it was
still tucked in my passport. I gave it to the assistant who sped off across
the airport as though it was the Olympic torch. Some 25 minutes later he returned,
strutting through the airport with a disgusted look. He threw the letter back
at me and waved me through without another word.
Suffice to say I missed my coach connection and had to make my own way to
the hotel at unnecessary expense, only to find the chav family staying at
the same place. The dad started to quiz me on what all fuss was about. So
to avoid further embarrassment, I lied and said I had had a little bit of
smoke with me, but such a small amount customs could do nothing about it.
From that moment until the end of the holiday, the family thought I was really
cool and treated me like some kind of Ali G character. Every time I happened
upon them they would pipe up in unison: “BOYAKASHA” and do that
funny hand gesture thing. I did get pissed with them (more than once) and
found (more than once) that their youngest child could drink me under the
table.
Please don’t think me prejudiced. Coming from a family of chavs myself,
I feel I can speak with some authority on this. That is one good reason why
I am seriously thinking about dodging Christmas this year and going into hibernation
until the January sales. I know it is supposed to be a time of joy and family
togetherness; but when you add a dysfunctional family, expensive presents
and too much vodka and JD, it always ends in tears - usually mine.
The other option is to book yet another holiday and fervently hope that, when
I hit customs next time, I get the full body search - at the very least. Meanwhile,
to all you gorgeous people, have a Merry Christmas and see you in 2005. Another
year, another wrinkle.
A footnote: Thanks to everyone who has taken time to write. It’s overwhelming
to think people actually read your article and understand where you are coming
from. And it is reassuring to find you’re not alone in this world and
there are others who think the same things and make the same mistakes. After
all, we are only human.
dannydoodle74@hotmail.com
