This is the cry of the greater-spotted chavettes, heard most frequently around newsagents, bus stops and Metro stations across Newcastle. Uttered in a bastardised nasal-whine version of the Geordie dialect, this is more of an order than a polite request and generally comes from the mouth of some unwashed tracksuit-wearing little oik. That would be "little" in terms of height only, because in terms of circumference, as my mate Nev would say, "you couldn't bend wire that shape".
Sorry pet, but you ain't going to get one. Because you are about twelve. It doesn't matter how much make-up you slap on or how much "gold" jewellery you've got on (nicked from Elizabeth Duke at Argos), you still look twelve.
Now be a good little girl and run along to your friends - yes, that' s them at the bus stop drinking alcopops and eating chips. Then you can plan how many kids you are going to have before you leave school (at fourteen), how much benefit that will earn you and what incredibly stupid names you're going to give them.
It's almost worth giving up smoking just to avoid them approaching you.
Almost.
VICKI POLLARD IS NOT A ROLE MODEL
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