I WAS sitting in a Southampton bar this weekend when I discovered yet another reason to feel bad about myself – I am not enough of a chav.

On first reflection this would seem to be a good thing, I have always felt superior and sneery of the Hugo Boss wearing fake Burberry carrying creatures who infect all city centres.

However, on this occasion I had wandered into a nice Bedford Place bar and saw a group of attractive girls and got a coy smile from a particularly sultry looking member.

I bought my pint and sat down cursing my shyness, hoping she would spill her drink on me so we would have reason to strike up a conversation. Sadly the moment passed and I grudgingly pushed yet another failed possibility into the growing ball of bitterness at the core of my being.

However, as I had a bit of time to kill until my friend arrived I decided to busy myself by eavesdropping on their conversation in case another “in” presented itself.

I was horrified as this angelic creature started squawking about clothes and make-up in a voice so coarse it sounded like she had been gargling razor blades.

Just then the doors flew open and in walked a group of boy chavs, brimming over with confidence and Lonsdale labels, obviously attracted by the overpowering scent.

After five minutes of mumbling “oi oi” and “innit” between them they had latched on to this group of girls who I had since noticed were wearing jeggings.

They were making rapid progress in spite of the conversation which was the dullest chatter I have ever heard.

Feeble jokes, boring small talk and the gaps filled by peals of shrieking laughter.

If I was a better person this would have been the point I felt grateful for my reserve and realised that we would never have been suited.

Sadly I am not and was cursing my inability to understand the chav mind.

I wondered if I could be witless and uninteresting and therefore slip seamlessly into their group but alas all of the comments swirling around in my head were scintillating.

It must be easier to ingratiate yourself into the chav world if you are a girl, simply a matter of buying 20 pairs of white stilettos and throwing away your underwear I imagine.

I wondered if I actually found the chav outlook attractive or if I had just noticed those with it tended not be overly burdened by morals or clothing.

This pondering brought back a terrible memory from my years gone by.

I had arrived home early to find my then housemate’s usually sophisticated girlfriend dressed in tracksuit bottoms, baseball cap, giant hoop earrings and make-up so heavy it looked like she had applied it with a spray can. From under her baseball cap I could see the troubling signs of a side pony.

I didn’t know what to think, it was like an old friend meeting you at the pub swaddled in velvet.

Maybe she was experimenting with a new look and thought this looked good.

Then after a few moments silence she put her head in her hands and admitted her boyfriend makes her dress as a chav because of some terrible perversion.

I nodded at her and she nodded back aware the two of us must never speak of this moment again.

I left to start drinking while she no doubt busied herself dabbing fake tan on every inch of exposed flesh before her boyfriend returned with further props.