I went flathunting in Slough, which really is a godawful shithole by the way
And spent the rest of the weekend playing Skyrim in my pants whilst stuffing my face with crisps and wondering without any sense of irony why it is that I can never find someone.
( Kroney, Mon 21 Nov 2011, 10:34, 4 replies, latest was 14 years ago)

why would you flat hunt in Slough?
plenty of nice places just outside
( Naked Ape call me Caitlyn, Mon 21 Nov 2011, 10:36, Reply)

Close to work, mostly.
I won't be looking there any more. I had thought that its reputation was mostly undeserved, all towns having good bits and bad bits etc. Not Slough.
( Kroney, Mon 21 Nov 2011, 10:41, Reply)

no not slough; look in Eton, Windsor and Datchet all really close by

( Naked Ape call me Caitlyn, Mon 21 Nov 2011, 10:45, Reply)

Have a look at Windsor, Egham and surrounding areas. Much nicer. More money though.

( Fucking hell Jeff I am not a robot, Mon 21 Nov 2011, 10:36, Reply)

It really is.
When I lived in Windsor all the working class boys' fathers worked at Mars in Slough.
( Monty Boyce, My cheese game is strong, Mon 21 Nov 2011, 10:39, Reply)

You double posting ninja bastard

( Naked Ape call me Caitlyn, Mon 21 Nov 2011, 10:40, Reply)

By John Betjeman (1906 - 1984)
Come friendly bombs and fall on Slough!
It isn't fit for humans now,
There isn't grass to graze a cow.
Swarm over, Death!


Come, bombs and blow to smithereens
Those air -conditioned, bright canteens,
Tinned fruit, tinned meat, tinned milk, tinned beans,
Tinned minds, tinned breath.

Mess up the mess they call a town-
A house for ninety-seven down
And once a week a half a crown
For twenty years.

And get that man with double chin
Who'll always cheat and always win,
Who washes his repulsive skin
In women's tears:

And smash his desk of polished oak
And smash his hands so used to stroke
And stop his boring dirty joke
And make him yell.

But spare the bald young clerks who add
The profits of the stinking cad;
It's not their fault that they are mad,
They've tasted Hell.

It's not their fault they do not know
The birdsong from the radio,
It's not their fault they often go
To Maidenhead

And talk of sport and makes of cars
In various bogus-Tudor bars
And daren't look up and see the stars
But belch instead.

Slough
Tinned fruit, tinned meat, tinned milk, tinned beans,
Tinned minds, tinned breath.

Mess up the mess they call a town-
A house for ninety-seven down
And once a week a half a crown
For twenty years.

And get that man with double chin
Who'll always cheat and always win,
Who washes his repulsive skin
In women's tears:

And smash his desk of polished oak
And smash his hands so used to stroke
And stop his boring dirty joke
And make him yell.

But spare the bald young clerks who add
The profits of the stinking cad;
It's not their fault that they are mad,
They've tasted Hell.

It's not their fault they do not know
The birdsong from the radio,
It's not their fault they often go
To Maidenhead

And talk of sport and makes of cars
In various bogus-Tudor bars
And daren't look up and see the stars
But belch instead.
Come friendly bombs and fall on Slough!
In labour-saving homes, with care
Their wives frizz out peroxide hair
And dry it in synthetic air
And paint their nails.

Come, friendly bombs and fall on Slough
To get it ready for the plough.
The cabbages are coming now;
The earth exhales.
( Fucking hell Jeff I am not a robot, Mon 21 Nov 2011, 10:45, Reply)

TL:DR Slough is a shithole.

( Fucking hell Jeff I am not a robot, Mon 21 Nov 2011, 10:45, Reply)

Who sung this?

(PsychoChomp, Mon 21 Nov 2011, 10:45, Reply)

It's a poem.

( Fucking hell Jeff I am not a robot, Mon 21 Nov 2011, 10:46, Reply)