In recognition of the dominance of chav culture across the county, Suffolk is to this week, officially change its motto from ‘Guide our endeavours’, to, ‘You can’t polish a turd, but you can roll it in glitter’.
The controversial change, agreed last month by overpaid, out-of-touch, do-gooding Suffolk Councillors, has been met with dismay by many across the county, especially older people, and those who still maintain a modicum of pride in their appearance, or have a lingering respect for traditional British values.
Lack of basic hygiene
Although increasingly difficult to find these days, one person that fits that description is Lowestoft resident Thomas Crinch, County Chair of the campaign group Residents AGainst Everything (RAGE).
Crinch invited me to take a stroll through the town to highlight what he describes as ‘the interminable decline of standards of taste, good citizenship, and basic hygiene across the county, and country at large.’
“What really gets my gander up…” said a flushed Crinch as we passed a local sink housing estate, “is the lack of a sense of national pride. I mean, just look at those God-awful wheelie bins over thar. Chanel? Yves Saint Laurent? Gucci? Foreign ruddy muck.
In my day, we had good old-fashioned, unbranded, galvanized steel bins with removable lids and cold handles. Totally unmanageable design when it came to emptying them, what? Backbreakers. And they looked and stank awful, lining our front gardens and patios like decaying Daleks as they did, but I ask you, did anyone complain?”
“The bin men?”
“No! Not on your life, and why not? Because that was the way we did it. The British way! Yes, yes, yes, of course, the socialists complained. The ruddy unionized bin men complained, the commie buggers, they even went on strike over it, but the rest of us… the real great, English people of Great Britain never grumbled about it. NEVER! We didn’t falter when it came to overfilling our beautiful shiny bins, what? Now look at it. TRAITORS!”
Our visit to the estate came to an abrupt end when one of a gang of hoodied youths yelled ‘Oi! Captain Mainwaring – ‘ave some chips!’ as he threw a half-finished bag towards us. I had to forcefully remove the beetroot-faced Mr Crinch as he directed a barrage of expletives toward the youngsters, waving his walking stick at them, and yelling out something about ‘Winston Churchill’s Tommy gun’.