Oi bruv… wagwan? You wanna hear how man turned into Charlie the proper chav? Allow me take you back still.
Man was posted at desk in this dead-end office job, yeah? Bare bills paid, roof over head, tryna live that “normal” life ting. But fam, I was movin’ mad tired of it—wake up, chop food, drag to work, gym, home, dinner, then doomscroll till man hate himself. Sound peak to you? Dun know.
Anyway, clock hit knock-off time. Man sighed, shut down the computer, stepped out the building into another pissing-down London afternoon. Reached in coat—swear down, out of cigs, forgot to cop a fresh pack.
“Oi,” some voice from couple feet away. “You need suttin?”
Looked over—young roadman in puffa, wifebeater, diamond studs glinting. Proper on road look.
“Nah bruv, I’m calm,” man said. “Safe tho.”
“Look like you gaggin’ for a cig tho,” he goes.
“Boy do I ever still,” man replied. Walked over, sighed heavy. “Got one?”
“Say less.” He pulled out pack, offered man one, took one himself. Lit man’s cig—first pull and the whole day stress just melted off. Peng feeling.
“Safe bruv,” man said, puffin’, lookin’ down rainy street. “Course it’s rainin’ again.”
“Always rainin’ innit,” he said. “You lookin’ for suttin’ different?”
“Different?” man asked. “Nah fam, just tryna get home. What man need is a break from this dead life.”
He sized man up head to toe like meat on the block. “Got the ting for you. Follow man.”
Didn’t even clock what was good—thought maybe get mugged, left in gutter, but at least it ain’t the same old. Shrugged. “Lead on then bruv.”
We walked, he said call him Chuck. Asked where we goin’—all he said was “you’ll see soon, bruv. Gon’ change your life proper.”
Five minutes later, we hit some sidestreet non-descript spot. Chuck knocked three times—door cracked, another roadman peeped out. “Who’s this wasteman?”
“Let us in fam,” Chuck said. Door man eyed me again, then opened.
Soon as stepped in—smoke hit man full force. Coughed, shook head, but brain cleared quick. This was chav/roadman heaven still—racks of tracksuits, puffas, fresh kicks every colour. Mandem posted up, smokin’ cigs like it’s nuttin’.
“Wait here,” Chuck said, dipped to back room, knocked, went in.
Door shut—felt bare eyes on man from the mandem. Like “who let this snob in our ends?”
Took a minute, Chuck came back. “Ambrose wanna holla at you. Got an offer…”
Weirder and weirder, but in the ends now—when in chavland, do chav tings innit.
Stepped in back room—smoke thick, but felt like king’s throne. Diamonds everywhere.
“Oi, who you?” big man in high-back chair leaned forward.
“Name’s… Charlie. Don’t even know why I’m here bruv. Think I should bounce.”
“Nah you ain’t leavin’,” he said. “Me? Ambrose. Chuck said you need change?”
Closed eyes, tryna process. “Yeah… guess so.”
Ambrose eyes sparkled like his chain and studs. “Man can sort that… if you want it.”
Must’ve been the smoke, the ice, suttin’—after a sec man nodded. “Give it me then.”
“On your knees and come here!” Ambrose barked, dropped the trackies—his leng waiting.
“Oi bruv, fancy a proper shag from the king of the ends?” he asked as man got close.
Man just opened mouth—Ambrose slid in, and finally felt peace. This is what man needed still.
Ambrose moaned, leaned back. “Take it all fam.”
Man’s own ting responded quick—got thick, hard, couldn’t stay in trousers. Ambrose yanked man’s pants down, grabbed man’s leng, started strokin’. Two kings linkin’ up proper.
Closed eyes—felt suttin’ shift inside. Ambrose pulled out—man missed it already. Peak.
Then he grabbed man, started kissin’ deep—our tings clashin’, gettin’ harder. Never felt this wave in life. Bare good.
“Oi, that’s hot still!” Ambrose said as man grabbed his leng, returned the favour.
He whispered, “Wanna ride this? Gon’ be bengng peng bruv.”
Took man to corner—bed sparklin’ like diamonds. He laid back, leng standin’ proud, hummin’ some tune.
“Jump on and ride till man buss,” he said.
Man turned, sat on it—pleasure hit different, nothin’ like before. That was just warm-up.
“Turn round, wanna see you ridin’,” Ambrose said.
Man spun, kept ridin’, starin’ in his eyes. Looked like diamond spirals now—pullin’ man deeper, deeper… glorious.
“So you wanna be Charlie the chav yeah?” he said, thrustin’ deeper.
“Oi,” man replied, fully under. “Better be chav than some uppity wasteman…”
Felt like hours—final thrust, Ambrose buss inside. Seconds later man exploded, sprayin’ everywhere. Instinct kicked in: “I am Brose… I am Brose… I am Brose…”
But none of it mattered anymore. Dead to the old life.
Ambrose laid next, laughed. “Welcome Charlie.” Pointed at mirror. “Have a butchers.”
Man stood, checked reflection—proper chav now: short ginger fade, late-20s muscular build. Job? Career? Didn’t give a toss. Felt whole for once.
Man’s Charlie the Chav now.