Woolwich - the UK's Mos Eisley?

I was on the train from Cannon Street to Plumstead this afternoon; normally I walk the ten minutes or so from Plumstead station to the Gallions' View nursing home where Dad lives. My plans were shattered when a pack of around fifteen Chavs got on the train en masse at Charlton. Individually they were as pathetic as always, but fifteen were just too many to stand up to; sweaty, crotch scratching, abusive, lager gas belching (though with their diet and lifestyle, I think it will not be long until the only belching many of them will be doing will be from the chimney of a crematorium) and smoking - you know the score. I got off at Woolwich Arsenal to make the remainder of the journey by bus (normally the 380 - the bus to Belmarsh high security prison - go figure). I had just missed it, so I went for a ten minute stroll around Woolwich town centre. If it was not for a lack of a working space port the place would be a definite contender as the UK's equivalent of Mos Eisley. "A wretched hive of scum and villainy" as Obi Wan Kenobi so eloquently stated. The place is full of pound shops, charity stores, fast food outlets, (including the first ever McDonald's in the UK) and is populated almost exclusively by pasty faced teenaged Mums and bare pigeon chested, baseball cap wearing rat faced, vacant staring scrotes who subsist on a diet of Gregg's pies, take away burgers and Lidl discount lager. I felt somewhat out of place surrounded by track suit wearing proto low lives spending their dole money, burglary and drug dealing spoils; there was I, attired in a tweed jacket, cream chinos and loafers, a copy of the Times under my arm, obviously out of place. It did not take long before I was targetted by a local smack head beggar asking for "a few pennies for some food". My spirited response strongly suggested he explore the benefits of sex and travel. You no doubt get the picture. To top it all, he was both unforgivably Northern and extremely ginger (have they not heard of hair dye?) Utterly vile.

When walking from Woolwich to Gallions' View, I took a minor short cut along a narrow path. Two thirteen or fourteen year old yobs on BMX bikes blocked the way; I politely said "Excuse me" and one reluctantly shuffled out of the way. As I walked on, I heard a muttered "Tosser". I spun around, saying "Is your mouth writing a cheque you can't cash?" Only to be met with blank incomprehension. Typical. A waste of a good insult.

Anyway, here is a short video I found online of a Maserati 4200 Cambio Corsa revving up - it is not actually Allen's, but you get the idea. Lucky so and so.