Your Town Is Shit And Here’s Why
As we all know, when the Universe finally collapses in on itself in the Big Crunch and both Space and Time cease to exist, London will have been the greatest city to have existed anywhere in the entire Multiverse, ever.
In fact, before the Big Bang … before even Space and Time existed, let alone anything or anywhere else … London was already going to be the greatest city to have existed anywhere in the entire Multiverse, ever.
That’s how great London is and always will have been.
So, there’s not really much I can say myself, because you all know how great it is here already … and, if you haven’t experienced it yourself, you’ve heard about how great it is — it isn’t called Greater London for nothing.
But what about where you live?
Unless you live in either Zone 1 or Zone 2 then it’s a shithole, isn’t it?
The equivalent of the worst toilet in Scotland …
But how much of a shithole is it?
I found some examples of people describing where they live …
“I don't give a shit which town you put up, whose town you put up, or why you put it up. Crewe trumps them all as the shitehole of England. Its the in-bred spawning ground of chavs before chavs became fashionable. The majority of people who 'hail' from this Victorian-era slum are ignorant, hide-bound, dull, unintelligent fuckwits.
To give an example of precisely why it beats other towns hands down? At the height of the housing boom last decade, Crewe made the national headlines for having the cheapest house prices in the UK. Think about that for a moment. People would rather live in Bradford, Rotherham, Doncaster, Heighton, Keighley, Buuurminghum, or even feckin Wales, anywhere ... ANYWHERE ... than this septic abscess half way up the M6.
'Crewe — Gateway to The NorthWest' was a suggested strapline.
I should have said 'Crewe — A Septic Spot Six Inches Up The Arsehole of England’.
Crewe. A prime dumping ground for your toxic waste.”
“Birkenhead — not quite my home town but close enough.
The town centre's full of disgusting chav mutants who probably can't spell ‘work’ never mind find any. Spotty faced 22 year olds with huge heads shaped like peanuts, hair shaved down 'to the bone', dressed in expensively named sportswear with the most horrible exaggerated Scouse accent walking round town spitting, swearing and basically looking like maybe Hitler didn't really have the worst ideas in the world.
The female of the species will be similarly attired in either branded sportswear or those skin tight legging things the girls are wearing these days, whether or not they've got thighs like a bag of spuds. The craze for wearing your pyjamas out in town seems to be abating but still happens. They will be sporting a luminous orange fake tan sponsored by Cuprinol, make up thicker than the glacis plate of a Chally 2, those Scousebrow things that are fashionable at the minute and might well have their hair in curlers (yes, in public). Their accent will be just as horrible as the male's, accentuated by being of such a tone that when really annoyed only dogs and bats can hear them. Their children (almost certainly at least one) will be ugly, obese ginger things dressed much like their parents and will live on an exclusive diet of Sayers pasties.
The town centre? Sayers, charity shop, Greggs, boarded up, charity shop, Brighthouse, charity shop, Costa, charity shop, boarded up, WH Smith, boarded up, Sayers, charity shop, charity shop, boarded up. Then, of course, there's Birkenhead market […] Mobile phone accessories store, eyebrow threading, shit fast food, crappy cheap clothes, mobile phone accessories, eyebrow threading, empty, shit fast food, repeat ad nauseum.
In short, the place has absolutely no redeeming features whatsoever except as a testing range for Trident Mk II.”
“If that WW2 freighter off Gravesend could finally get around to blowing up, it would rearrange Canvey for the better.”
“My girlfriend and I were getting passionate and she says to me ‘Kiss me where it smells.’ So I drove her to Port Talbot.”
“An interesting if depressing town. A slab-sided, concrete nightmare of some deranged architect's mental project, with windswept piazzas full of crisp packets blowing around like Wiltshire's own tumblweed. Revolvers are routinely handed out to visitors so they can mercifully dispatch themselves into the hereafter, thereby saving them the pain of experiencing fucking Swindon.”
“Gloucester. All the chavvery from above, plus a pall of gloom hanging over the shabby streets — it's as if the Boy Potter's Dementors had taken up permanent residence. Add in the shambling Beaker People from the Forest and stunted Neanderthals from Quedgely, pointing open-mouthed at cars and glazed windows and the carpet of drunken, tracksuit-bottom-wearing illiterate cretinous babyfathers ignoring the bloated, red-faced harridans who incubate their vile spawn and you have a splendid day out if you live in the decent part of Gloucestershire. It's like visiting Bedlam to mock the inmates, except it's free.”
“Ipswich. I can see why that bloke opted to murder those prostitutes now: there is literally fuck all else to do here.”