the peckham terminator

So on chavs.

I get a link sent to me by a colleague in South Africa the other day, saying 'Mate, are these the types you're hanging out with in London these days?'

The answer is a flat no.

It's difficult to tell whether this person is on drugs, is purely psycho, on drugs and angry, or just insanely vexed.

To give you context, the suburb of Peckham is located south of south of the river. And is known for it's propensity for this sort of thing.

(Watch with earplugs. Watch til the end, trust me it's an education of illusionist walking-straight-through-doors-ing. It's wild.)


Like, what would you do? I'd run off the bus and take refuge amongst the bowels of the underwear section of Top Shop.

Either way, this is not normal.

In my neighbourhood, where I'm surrounded by rather...arcanely quiet council estates.
When the Brit and I were walking down the street, one little chubby 8 year old bounced up to us and said:
Oy. Can I 'ave a fag.

Brit: No. Sorry.

Peas: We don't have any. Hang on, how old are you dude?

Kid: Fiftayne.

Peas: Like hell you're 15. Go home and give your mummy a hug.

And that's about it really. My ghetto is chilled compared to Peckham.

Thank fuck.