I can't stop talking like a pikey.
I fink I may av a problem.
I spent the weekend surrounded by boys, which was very orrrr-eye.
For a solid 48 hours, C and I found it physically impossible to not talk like chavs. Trust me, we tried. Face? Bovvered? Regardez mon visage, regardez mon visage? Je suis pas bovvered.
Anyway, I had two seriously hectic double benders. C's party first, then the Mandog with the lads, bouncing on them shoulders all night long (bouncing on his shoulders, not bouncing on him, I didn't get a jolly roger)
Saturday morning I got a little bout of loser's complex (from bouncy to bovvered, then to bouncy again) - only to hit the Colony Arms hard with C and the lads all over again.
Everyone fought me and my brevren were from England and some people told us we were bovvering them so we should hactually just go back to Croydon or wherevver our council houses were.
“But you fancy us,” and telling people with bar rash, “You should be wearing SPF 30.”
Obnoxious chavs. The worst kind.
An ex, at the Mandog:
Ex: You smoking?
Peas: No I aint.
Ex: But I can see it in your hand.
Peas: Not I aint.
Ex: But you're holding a cigarette, I can see. It. In. Your. Hand.
Peas: I'm not though.
Peas: No, I'm not though (takes a puff)
Ex: Anyway, ok, whatever.
Went to a braai and by the end of the night we all had the following written across our faces in cover stick (pasty is tasty)
Vagina (Later Va – Ina. The g got rubbed out)
Excessive. I'm done wiff it now, I promise.
This and this will give you a mere taste of the past 48 hours.