Café Nero - Meatball and Mozzarella Panini

The world has gone mad and I found out whilst eating a meatball and mozzarella panini.

I was in my favourite coffe shop, Café Nero, and ordered a double espresso and panini. I like Café Nero, the staff are always friendly, the service is more than acceptable and the café is situated on the main artery of Chavs-ville*. I can mull over a café latte and watch all the idiot hoodies walk by with their cheap tattoos and tagging bracelets, pushing prams full of the next generation of dole-sponging, drunken, menace-to-society brats called Britney. I can sip my coffee and watch them shout at their children and drag them by the arm into another pub. I can nibble on a raspberry and white chocolate muffin and ponder over whether we should abolish the dole system all together and settle back into a clear three tier class system, open up the sweat-houses and convert Penhill into a ghetto (lets be honest it would not take much – if anything). We could even sterilise them to stop them breading.

So, what was I saying… oh yeah, I like Café Nero but on the day in question I chose not to chav-watch. No, I chose to read The Independent instead.

And while I waited for my panini to be toasted I read an article on the current state of honey bees in the U.K. The report highlighted that there has been a rise in the theft of honey bees and their hives.

I know it’s stupid but bear with me, please.

So who is stealing all of the bees? Well the report insisted that to steal bees you need to understand them. Who on earth would try and steal a hive of excitable bees? It just would not be worth the money. Well, apparently, the only people who could steal the hives are the very people who keep bees.

And that is where my problem is… Bee keepers are fundamentally a British icon. The thought that the retired general who has bought a plot of woodland, studied the art of keeping bees at night school, who has battled the viruses killing off hives and who has farmed his own honey is the same person who is stealing the bees… Well I just can’t handle that. How does somebody who predominately wears a straw boater put on a balaclava and go out in the middle of the night to poach hives?

There must be another answer, there must be.

So I think we should blame the chavs.

Chavs are the equivilant to punks, teddy-boys or mods. Chavs are a movement, an identity. They have their own rules and lifestyle and music and as much as I don’t like them I will admit I don’t understand them either. My main gripe is that they don’t really stand for anything apart from laziness and sponging from the state. At least punks had a code, a way of life. Chavs just want to breed, fight and be too thick to know any better.

So how can such an established paper as The Independent blame bee-keepers when we have a swarm of anti-social-idiots who would happily attempt to throw a hessian sack over a hive in the middle of the night and run off with it? Chavs would do anything for another pint of Stella and twenty Marlboro Lights and they are thick enough not to realise the bees are stinging them – lets be honest by three in the morning most chavs are too drunk to feel anything (perfect for stealing the national honey factories) either that or they’re scuttling another Britney, Tracey or Shaznay around the back of Debenhams…

I say lets head down to The Savoy and arrest any chav with a face full of bee-stings. If there are none there we can also check Ladbrookes, Tesco or Subway.

By the time the Panini was served to me I was fed up. How bad is a world where people steal bees? The mozzarella had melted, fusing both slices of hot toasted bread together. It took three bites before I tasted meatballs which were peppery and a ‘little-cheap-tasting’. And as I realised that the tomato sauce had been spread on the bread hours ago I wondered whether there was anything a chav wouldn’t do to annoy me.





*Chavs-ville – The triangular area between Sir Daniels, Lava Lounge and Halifax where chavs migrate after all day drinking in The Savoy. Area tends to be full of Staffordshire Bull Terriers, men smoking outside the pubs and women in shorts skirts pushing prams with a fag in their mouth and a mobile phone up to their ear. Welcome to Swindon – Please drive on.