Bradfields’ Brain

Rejoice, rejoice. The holiday season is upon us and it is time to eat too much, drink excessively and argue with your loved ones!

Christmas is normally very much the same, but this year I am off on a three week holiday to Malaysia so I expect things to be a little different.

I just wanted to leave a little message for all my fans before I go. Have a very merry Christmas and a prosperous New Year. I will be in touch with you all and I’ll be continuing to blog from the other side of the world.

Let the binge culture begin!!

While walking to work wearing my hoodie the other day I came up with what I consider a genius pitch for a short film. The film is a short piece titled “Chav Cam” and follows a young chav on his journey through an averagely chavvy day. The film would be filmed from a 1st person perspective with the sides of a hoodie / baseball cap peak in view on camera at all times.

A picture showing costume ideas for the film

Obviously due to its huge marketing potential I don’t want to give too much away, but below is a short extract from the first draft of the screenplay. Unfortunately during my background research I discovered a website containing a passage which follows the very same idea. In fact, the mofos even have a very appropriate domain name registered and a website surrounding the passage. I would like to say that I was unaware that this site existed when I had my idea and that I have not taken any content from this site into my work. The basis of their whole site is just a small part of my masterplan, plus I’m straight gangsta and from the streets of Chatham - nuffink can take that away from me!

Yes, you are a chav. Well done!

Choose chav. Choose the dole. Choose to shop in Primark. Choose a fucking big sovereign. Choose Kappa slappers, Burberry, trackie dags and tastelessly modified cars. Choose Maccy D’s, Lambert & Butler, and Smirnoff Ice. Choose loitering in shopping centres. Choose a street corner. Choose your ASBO mates. Choose hoodies and baseball caps. Choose a six-piece moving clown necklace on a week by week credit plan. Choose spending your child benefits in Oxfam so you can still afford some White Lighting to drink in the park later. Choose underage sex, teenage pregnancy and providing pikeys with a social underclass. Choose rotting away in the same place you were born, still gawping at the scantily clad girls with council-flat face lifts as you walk your pit-bull round the park and try to remember exactly how many kids you managed to have.

Choose no future.

Choose chav.

Thursday night and it was almost time. Two days of anticipation would be ended in just a few minutes as Dave prepared to make his big announcement. Everyone had made it out for the occasion - Hugh, Pugh, Barney McGrew, Cuthbert, Dibble and Jimbo?? Yes, that’s right; Dave’s “big” announcement was that the forgotten brother had returned to Leicester.

Jimbo claimed that he was there for a weekend of carnage - drinking, smoking and animal slaughter were all on the agenda - but my suspicion was that he had only made the trip to get his favourite VW Beetle jumper back so that he could wear it on the pull round Norwich - vroom vroom.

Thursday evening quickly deteriorated into a drunken mess. In order to get in the party spirit, and obviously unaware of what was going to be expected of me that evening, I had put away four cans of Kronenbourg at home. This combined with more Kronenbourg, Sambuca, Havana Ice Tea, more lager and some weird Belgian shit led to a reasonable amount of memory loss, and me still being steaming drunk when I got up for work in the morning.

Life would have been better on Friday had I not felt so betrayed by the whole situation. People outside our group of friends may think that the announcement was a disappointment - this was not the case for us at all. The disappointing thing was the fact that Dave had secretly got Jimbo up on a Thursday, knowing full well that everyone was going to get steaming, and then booked the Friday off work leaving the rest of us to face the music, still drunk, on Friday morning.

Needless to say, once I had received a text message from Jimbo at 10:30am telling me that he was still lying in bed, work did not last long. I wrote a very honest email to my boss explaining that I had got drunk the night before, picked up my things, and headed home.

The rest of the weekend is mainly a heavily drunken blur. Corona for lunch and Kronenbourg for dinner led to the house looking like a bomb site by morning. Not to mention the sheets in the spare room at Dave’s which apparently ended up a strange luminous green colour.

A Damien Hirst picture showing the effects of a night of passion with Jimbo