Despite the fact a Man United shirt is seemingly glued to his body, Will hasn’t been kicking many goals since his parents emigrated to Clarkson, innit.
Will has been unemployed since leaving school, partly because he’s a lazy git and partly because he’s listened to his father bellow at the television that immigrants have taken all the jobs. An irony very much lost on both of them.
Actually, that’s not fair, he did rock up to one day as a paintballing package salesman but quit on the spot after being told he couldn’t wear his Adidas tracksuit and Burberry hat. Plus it was a blistering 25 degrees, those “wastemen was having a laff, blud”.
The apple never fell far from the tree, and Will knew that instead of taking Australia by the horns it was far easier to just blame his adopted country for all his troubles, “not my fault I can’t get work innit, this country is rubbish”. A sentiment that always brought a tear to the eye of his bloated pom-bag father, “that’s me son”.
An unwillingness to try combined with a lack of access to “benefits” lead Will into the enticing world of selling shit drugs to his scummy mates, but like the average “yes” Brexit voter, he really didn’t know what he was signing up for.
Initially, he met customers at trainos but soon regretted that business model as he was getting rolled more times than a drunk Hilux driver.
Nevertheless, he would often brag to his pasty princesses at Bar 1 that he was making “bare cash” and neglect to tell them that most of that profit was being spent replacing the Nike TNs that northern derros kept ganking off him.
His cash flow wasn’t the only thing he was unlocking the backdoor to working visa girls with. He would also love to regale them with stories about his run-ins with the police. “pigs ran up on me the other night, I got away, but had my stick ready if they tried to knick me, sorted”.
In non-chav that translates to, “I ran away from a security patrol when they caught me tagging a bus stop in Clarkson, I didn’t have a knife, but I am telling you that I did”. Woah, has someone got diarrhoea? Because we got a bad arse on the run over here.
He will continue this path of minimal contribution for a few years, refuse to become a citizen, and continuously bang on about wanting to leave once the refugees stop ruining his beloved England.
Documenting the Human Zoo is thirsty work, so if you enjoyed what you read how about buying Belle a beer, ay?