That old article? Oh it was so 2002

And reading it now makes me chuckle no end, not just because of the impressive mountain range my (pre-straighteners) hair is forming in the byline picture, but because of the sheer 2002ishness of it all.

Both terms now seem so archaic they may as well have featured in a nice pre-1900 anecdote '“ perhaps about the shock caused when Lady Froggington exposed her ankles at Sir Blitherington-Smythe's annual Gala ball, requiring the resuscitation of the Reverend with some smelling salts.

Though at the time I welcomed "Townies" with about as much enthusiasm as I would do a bout of gastric flu, now I find myself recalling the darlings with noted affection '“ the market stall handbags, the frequent Trisha appearances, the mistaken belief that McDonald's doorways are

THE place to be seen this season.

Ah, the sheer innocence of it is now just a hazy memory.

For fledgling townies, you understand, did what all species do to ensure the perpetuation of their genes (and in this case, their jeans '“ thong-bearing and probably from River Island).

They evolved.

Spreading like a whiff of imitation Burberry perfume in a crowded Wetherspoons, a super strain of the townie emerged and took hold of the nation quicker than you can say ASBO.

This time it was about market stall handbags, frequent Trisha appearances, penchant for McNuggets on a Friday night AND the threat that they might kick your head in at the smallest provocation.

You know who I'm talking about.

Go on, we'll all whisper it in unison, as though we're talking about the Nazis: Chavs.

But, of course, I wouldn't insult your intelligence by giving you a laboured account of the ins and outs of chavdom.

It would be several years too late, for one thing, now that the concept has been so distorted and ingrained in the national consciousness by an army of middle-class, middle-aged media hacks that anyone who dares drop a "t" is in danger of being publicly rounded up and flogged, the C-word branded across their foreheads with a red-hot signet ring.

Yes, you know about chavs.

You know about the nice ones, like Mike Skinner.

You know about the not-so-nice ones, like that Jodie Marsh, who exposes a good deal more than her ankles on a night out.

You know about the posh ones, like Prince Harry, and you know about the pretend ones, like Goldie Lookin' Chain.

No, I don't need to tell you about chavs (though I am perfectly aware I've just spent 400 words doing exactly that, no need to write).

What I'd like to tell you about is chav chic. Which, I promise you, is not an oxymoron.

Despite more hype than that of a space launch surrounding her cheeky self at the moment, I have found the strength in me to like Lily Allen.

To her music I am smugly indifferent, as I tend to be when both The Guardian and my mother tell me I should like someone, but she has earned my respect nonetheless because I'm going through a bling phase.

And she wears lots of it.

With big ballgowns, which happens to be one of my very favourite juxtapositions (don't tell me you don't have your own top-10 list of juxtapositions written down somewhere. I just know you do.)

There's something about layering multiple gold necklaces that gets me quite excited at the moment.

Perhaps it's the faint feeling of rebellion, after years spent being told that anything other than understated silver or strings of patchouli-scented boho nonsense spell s-i-n in the style stakes.

There's also something rather thrilling about embracing the odd chavvy feature whilst very clearly not being a chav, a bit like borrowing your friend's top because you think you look better in it than they do.

Not yet have I been persuaded that those diamond-studded clown pendants look anything other than supremely ridiculous, but my jewellery box is beginning to look like a prop from Pirates of the Caribbean.

Among the piles of treasure is a "Laurie" nameplate necklace and a gilded bracelet so ornate it prompted a friend to remark, "I like that. It looks like something you've stolen from the Pope".

The good news is that thus far I haven't had the urge to bash in any old ladies in dark alleyways '“ but then again neither have most chavs.

I'm just rather enjoying being a budget Mr T for a while.

To quote the ultimate in LA chavettes, J-Lo, don't be fooled by the rocks I've got'¦I'm still Lauren from the block.

And they're all fake.