Today, I haven't left the house. Hell, I didn't leave my room till after 12.30. And after I showered, I put on the ultimate symbol of that decadent lounging: chav pants. And as I stared at that bling and felt the velour under my fingers, I felt my creative expression begin to flow, so I grabbed the nearest piece of kitchen roll and began composing. With apologies to Keats:
Chav pants, O chav pants,
Blue velour and diamante,
that lead me into sloth
and possibly
the Inferno of Dante.
O Chav pants,
your various styles
the subject of much discussion:
more bling?
velour? cashmere?
My head feels like I've had a concussion.
But even though my head hurts,
I must thank you, o chav pants:
the comfort of your elasticated waist and soft touch
spare my friends many Facebook rants.
*to non-British readers, definition of chav here.
2 comments:
Thank you for that most enlightening definition, not to mention poem. I possess neither chav pants nor jeans...but at least I sort of know how to distinguish them now. (Mind you, the idea of an elasticated waist band is increasingly appealing...!!!)
Love the poem!
So chav is essentially the UK equivalent of white trash? Kind of like the Southern U.S. women who think it's perfectly OK to wear sweatshirts with drawings of cute kittens on them out in public?
Mind you, in my household, pajama bottoms are standard wear for all no matter the time of day, as long as we're not expecting company.
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