This Is Aesop’s Missing Fable
It was told by Chavs in the back of an Uber going to Croydon one hallowed morning
My husband had a trio of chavs in the back of his Uber one morning.
“Chav”, also “charver” and “scally” in parts of England is a British pejorative term used to describe an anti-social lower-class youth dressed in sportswear. Source
The ladies are early-twenties, one bleached blonde, one redhead, both in velour tracksuits and bright white wedge-heeled trainers, glossed up faces, eyebrows shaped like scythes. The man is late twenties, heavy tattoos on his arms, neck and face, two rings hanging from his eyebrows, a chewed-up cigarette hanging from his lips.
He picks them up in Hammersmith and they want to go to Croydon.
Croydon’s in South London and used to be a proud thriving family-centric town. It’s now run down and squalid thanks to a council with shady priorities. Everyone there goes to Bromley and Sutton nowadays to do their shopping.
South Croydon’s still got a bit of a hope, West Croydon’s got that danger Brixton had in the ’80s before they gentrified it.
One Uber passenger, who used to live on Electric Avenue (made famous by Eddy Grant) was remembering being involved in the Brixton riots, 1981. He returned to the car after a stop-off at a shop and said it’s like the Brixton Front Line’s moved to West Croydon.
Here are some relevant links before I continue with the story
So, this trio want to go to Croydon and they’re all buzzed from whatever they got up to the night before. They’re speaking full-on Croydon Chav which is a South London dialect of blag, bling and bollocks.
The conversation has turned to cars and they’re discussing the cars they rate the best and want to own one day.
My husband’s listening to all this shite of Lamborghini, Porsche and Bugatti and blah blah blah. He’s thinking, “you poor bastards, get a job first.”
These kids know their cars and their designers.
They’re reeling off the specs like there’s no tomorrow. They’re listing all the designers known for the best custom car interiors. They’re even talking about shipping cars to holiday hotspots, the way the Arabs do when they come to London after Ramadan.
It reminds my husband of this kid — the one I mentioned here — this kid walks like he’s got no legs but the way he knows his cars, it’s like he built each and every one.
We used to talk like that when we were students too. We knew the ins and outs of all the mansions and cars we’d have when we grew up.
My husband’s been looking for a real job now that the pandemic is over but agents are screwing with him. It’s really sad. One agent interviewed him and was eager to put him through to the next stage.
They ask about his salary requirements — to be honest, he’ll be happy with anything that pays more than his current £100 a day for a ten-hour Uber shift and doesn’t leave him susceptible to traffic fines and accidents. Used to be £70 during the pandemic lockdown.
But he doesn’t tell them this because he hasn’t told them he’s been Ubering (employers are sensitive about things like that.) He asks them what the job is offering.
Get this.
They say they can’t mention the salary because they’re looking at candidates from a lot of countries and have a different budget for each country.
So reveal your budget for London then, Duh-brain!
They didn’t reveal the budget and the interview ended when my husband gave his rate.
The kids in the back of the Uber are arguing about the best colour for a Bugatti. Olive green, matt black or cherry red.
Personally, I hate matt cars. They’re waiting to be crashed into.
My husband’s given up on the conversation. Bless the little angels. Let them have their dreams, life’s hard enough when you’re an adult.
He arrives at the destination. A seedy street full of shit houses and cars on bricks. He pulls up at a house with an overgrown garden and a car covered with a green tarpaulin.
Tattoo-man goes over and ever-so-carefully removes the tarpaulin… a shiny sparkling custom-pink mirror-finished Bugatti with a personalised number plate pops out to say hello.
The blonde girl pulls the keys out of her handbag, they all jump in and drive off to a happy-ever-after while a certain Uber driver sits gaping on in disbelief.
Well, dear judgling of a husband… so funny!… thank you for being my type of guy!
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