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This is a question Rubbish Towns

I once went to Basildon. It was closed, I got chased by a bunch of knuckle-dragged yobs until I was lost in a maze of concrete alleyways and got food poisoning off pie. Tell us about the awful places you've visited or have your home.

Thanks to SpankyHanky for the suggestion

(, Thu 29 Oct 2009, 11:07)
Pages: Latest, 19, 18, 17, 16, 15, ... 1

This question is now closed.

Kappa-Slappa Jailbait
You couldn't even have a wank in this town without having some teenage girl battering down your front door, punch you in the face, pull down her knickers and squat over the splodge-wadded kleenex, inserting it deep inside her clout in the hope she'd get pregnant and move a little further up the council housing list.

When I first moved there I remember sitting in a pub, getting out my fags (back in the glorious days when you could spread cancer round to the ungreatful health Nazis), and sparking up. And the locals just stared. FIRE!!! OOooooOOOooooHHHHH!!! I thought they were going to start worshiping me as some sort of god. You could say this place was a little backwards.

The most notable memory of this place was when I went to buy some supplies from the local cornershop. A preeteen chavette was loitering outside, resplendant in bright pink Kappa-slappa shell suit with her oily hair tied back in a ponytail on her head so she looked like a scabby old pineapple.

"Mate, can you buy us some fags?"

"Errr... no..."

"Go on! Buy us ten Lambert and Butler," ahhh - the brand nine out of ten chavs go batshit mental for. They're like catnip for chavs.

I stopped: "No," I said more firmly.

"Cunt! Go on!"

Hmmmmmm. I gathered this girl didn't have a future career working as a diplomatic attache for the UN. But I was tired and wasn't really thinking straight. "OK," I mumble. "Just this once."

I enter the shop. Buy my supplies. Grab a ten pack of the cheapo cancersticks, and then I leave. I had them over to this bangle-earinged lovely and then she looks me up and down and smiles a toothless smile. "How do you want me to pay for these?" she asked.

Took me a while to register. But when it finally sunk in I very nearly shat myself. "Money would be good," I said, feeling a strange tightening in my gut as if someone had sneaked up behind me and was attempting to extract my lunch by constricting my sides, like I was some kind of dozy halfwit human squeezy ketchup bottle.

She actually reached out and stroked my chest. "I was thinking of summit else..."

"Errr... you're not even old enough to have tits," I reasoned.

"Fuck you! You fucking homo!" And with that she grabbed the Lamberts and fucked off into the gloom, her fat arse rustling in her polyester gear, her ponytail bobbing from side to side like a scabby old rattle snake, her Elizabeth Duke gold plated bangles clattering, a veritable thesaurus of new and interesting swear words spewing out of her herpes-encrusted lips. And from that day on a certain group of chav girlies used to scream: "FUCKKIN HOMO!!!" At me whenever I'd walk by. (Very embarrassing if you happen to be with a girl you're trying to leave a messy deposit inside of).

Fucking weird place.... Managed to get through the couple of years I had there without getting done for statutory rape, thank God. I swear, if a girl's still a virgin on her thirteenth birthday in this place she's ostracised for being more frigid than an eighteen wheeler ice truck full of Cornetto's in the fucking Antarctic with a busted radiator and a permanently jammed open sun roof. Bolton... The thought of the place still makes me shudder.

Apologies to any B3tan Boltonites... though I doubt there's any. Electricity is still seen as poncy, Southern and nouveau riche in that neck of the woods...
(, Thu 29 Oct 2009, 12:38, 10 replies)
Second chance
I grew up in a one horse town, where the horse is a donkey and the donkey is dead. For 18 years I dreamed about getting the hell out of the place and into a bigger, wider world where there were things like traffic lights and cappuccinos - the sort of things other people take for granted when they don't live in a neglected fishing village on the coast of Norn Iron where the only thing to do is drink 'til you're drowning if the sea doesn't get you first.

I grew up with everyone knowing my business. Nothing passed unnoticed in that place. The height of towering ambition was to marry someone who wasn't your cousin and build on your dad's back field. My aim was to get my driving licence and fuck off into the sunset, not that driving west would get me further than the edge of the Atlantic.

For anyone furious that civil liberties are being eroded in our CCTV society, I can assure you that London is liberatingly anonymous when compared to the village gossip network. Where I'm from, if they have no dirt on you they'll make it up. What else is there to do to pass the time when the 11 pubs are shut and there's only three buses a day out of the place?

I left and I swore I'd limit my returns. I'd go there dutifully once or twice a year to see the parents and give the neighbours something to talk about. Then, a couple of years ago, I went back because I was setting off with an old friend on a charity trip. We coincided the launch with the village carnival. I watched as my mate talked to the people we'd grown up with. I saw folks from my past step forward, unsolicited, to hand us cheques and equipment, cash by the handfuls, and to wish us well. Their generosity was overwhelming and their kindness was contagious. The gossip network that had terrorised my youth was the same one that spread the word that there was a good cause to be supported. I stood with a collecting bucket at the tractor show, knee deep in churned up mud amidst 30 amateur line dancers, listening to appalling country and western as familiar faces came up to talk to us, congratulate us and give us words of encouragement. I felt like I'd stumbled into The Waltons. We drove out of town with a thousand people clapping and cheering us on our way and for the first time ever I was really proud of where I came from.

It is a shit hole though. But it's not as bad as the next village over. They don't even have a pub.
(, Wed 4 Nov 2009, 10:11, 14 replies)
South Shields
Originally I come from a small market town in the south but for a few years I was a regular on/off resident in South Shields, Tyne and Wear. I wouldn't describe it as particularly shitty although at the back end of the eighties it took a beating from Maggie and her band, this stretched on into the nineties when I was there.
My girlfriend of the time was the traditional mix of Geordie women - almost six foot tall, blonde and slender - she could have been a model if it wasn't for the rather bent nose - the result of closing time punch ups. She taught me new swear words and farted almost constantly yet seen from the distance of a Guinness at the bar she was Farrah Fawcett's fitter sister. We'd met in a gay bar in Old Compton Street - I'd been 'experimenting' and the place was nicer than most straight bars - the carpet wasn't too sticky and the toilets were kept clean. She - Helen - had been in there with mates - women tend to not get hassled too much in gay bars although one of her friends was getting a sneaky feel from a short dumpy brunette who'd been buying her G&Ts all night.
Anyway, Helen thought I was a player on the other team and came home with me - I'd a one bedroomed place in Brixton - she said she knew she'd be safe with me...and she was. She also had the usual female thing of wanting to 'turn' a gay man - except I wasn't gay so it was a good night despite the farting (hers).

So...Shields. Helen was working in London but liked to get home to her folks as often as she could. One week we went up. Used the Big Bus thing - the Clipper I think it was called; charged £10 took 10 hours and as many stottie cakes as you could stuff in your gob. Helen slept for most of the journey and then woke up at the Washington services - from there on she bounced up and down on the seat and let me slide a crafty hand down her jeans - I only did that the once on account of the bouncing and her wind problem.

Finally we arrived, I'm standing there with all her bags and cases - my rucksack on my back, while she runs up the road to jump on a short fat bloke who looked rather like the old comic Frank Carson. He must have been bloody terrified to have a six foot blonde Amazon bearing down on him - six four in her heels but he was just smiling and laughing - her dad. Behind him was an even shorter woman - blonde like her daughter but with the largest arse I've ever seen on a human being - for a moment I did wonder if something had escaped from the zoo - leopard skin coats were fashionable at the time I think. When I met Joan I knew where Helen had got her mouth from and one night under their roof told me where her stinking arse had arisen too. Being hugged by her parents was rather how I imagine Willy Wonka felt if ever he embraced the Oompa Loompas - her mum even had the same skin tone.

Enough of the locals - onto the shitty town....

Joan and Fred loved to spend their Sunday nights down the Ocean Road which is where all the best Indian restaurants can be found and on a Sunday back then you could get a three course meal for £4 a head so it was a regular fixture and explained their ample girth. After eating a cracking meal Helen and I decided to hit some of the pubs - she wanted to show me off and I was only too willing to check the place out - Joan and Fred wanted their beds.

The northeast during the summer is rather like a warm day in the Arctic - stinging blue skies and vodka washed winds. The nights all the year round are similar and I with my feeble southern blood felt the chill like a slap from a witch's tit. Helen wore a vest top, six inch high heels, leather mini skirt, and as I was to find out later, no knickers. God, even now my cock twitches just thinking about her.
We had been into loads of trendy places full of fag smoke, neon signs and B.O. - every woman in there more beautiful and harder than the bloke standing next to her. Helen insisted on getting the drinks - she said if I opened my pretty boy mouth I'd end up fucked - I remember raising and eyebrow and smiling slightly - open for any opportunity until she clarified that I'd be pissing blood from my mouth for a month.
This was fine until the last place we went into; I think it was called something like the Star and Garter, something traditional and full of old men coughing up the only coal to be had in the whole of the northeast. No way was I going to let Helen go to the bar here - I'd had enough of being her pussy for the evening now was the time to go back to being real. The place went very quiet as I ordered a half of lager and lime and then noise returned as I added a pint. We found a booth in the corner to sit in and in true classy tradition she let me slip my beer soaked fingers into her wet velvet pocket - she insisted on sucking my fingers after and then dunking them into my drink before ramming them back up her furry muff. We downed two pints like that before my aching balls and full bladder could stand no more - time to break the seal. I asked where the bogs were and got sent out the back of the pub. I'd heard that there was a traditional pissoir in the area - I think the urine was collected for dye or something - maybe they sent it to France to make wine with. I ambled on out into the darkened alley, prepared to find an open air trough.

Instead I saw something that'll stick with me for the rest of my life - one of the old blokes from the bar had his keks lowered and was hammering into a large dimpled arse - in the darkness it was whiter than the fucking moon and only the flapping leopard skin that was wrapped around it prevented my eyes from being completely blinded by its glare. He was huffing away, his emphysemaed lungs doing their best and all the while his greasy flat cap stayed fixed above his sweaty fat face, eyes closed, mouth gurning between each laboured breath until he either had a cardiac arrest or shot his load and the leopard skin and arse shouted out, 'Gaaan on pet!'
Then she turned her head and Joan saw me, 'Eee, hinny! Y'gan next pet?'
Now I've done my fair share of mercy fucks, fat lasses, ugly lasses, pretty boys and fit birds - Christ I'm not choosy, if it's got a hole I'll have a go. But my girlfriend's mother? It just seemed like taking advantage of their hospitality. I shook my head and got on with my piss - I decided to just go there against the wall like everyone else was doing - did I mention I wasn't the only audience?

The next morning over cold toast and hot tea Fred nodded and grinned, 'I hear you saw Joan in all her glory last night then, lad? If you want a go you're welcome. Best bit of cunt this side of Bolden colliery. Keeps us in cheap curry even now.'

Helen and I split up after that - she took after her mother and you know what they say: you can take the girl out of Shields but you can't get half the fucking town out of her.
(, Tue 3 Nov 2009, 13:57, 7 replies)
Princes Risborough
Princes Risborough is a small town and civil parish within the Wycombe district in Buckinghamshire England and is situated at the foot of the Chiltern Hills. A hotspot for culture, with numerous restaurants and interesting historical sites, the town has become a must-see for all visitors to England.
Originally used as a stop gap for traders travelling to and from Cambridge and Winchester, the town has seen a vast increase in the number of people visiting in recent years – some of whom choose not to leave. This is why the town is so popular.

The Market Square – Seen by most residents as the epicentre of the town, the Market Square not only provides valuable shelter from the rain, but also confuses first time visitors – part of an ‘in-joke’ amongst residents. There is a clock face on each side of the Market Squares ‘spire’, but amusingly, the time is never correct! It is thought that the idea was thought of nearly 15 years ago by a member of the local council, known to be a bit of a prankster, and the joke has carried on to the present day. What makes the joke even more hilarious is the fact that the Market Square doubles as a bus stop, with the timetable showing the ‘correct’ times. Of an evening, irate adults can be seen chasing after buses down towards the Tesco roundabout, shaking their fists angrily in the air as they do so, having fallen foul to the ‘Wrong Time Clock Joke’ (as it’s known locally). A good place to watch this event is from the Whiteleaf Cross Public House situated within crawling distance of the Square.
At Christmas time, the Market Square is adorned with numerous light bulbs, as well as a huge flashing Santa, visible from Coombe Hill, 5 miles away, which illuminate the historical building quite beautifully. Thousands of residents make the pilgrimage to the town center once a year on the coldest, wettest day in December available, to watch the lights being turned on, sometimes by a celebrity (Leslie Grantham being the most famous to date). The sheer effort that goes into decorating the town each year is scarcely matched by Risborough’s neighbouring towns and villages, a fact that leaves locals jubilant and smug.

An illuminated Market Square stands decadently as two comets pass agonisingly close over the top of the town.

The Annual Festival – Established in 1996, the Princes Risborough Festival’s main aim is to promote and enhance the profile of Princes Risborough, its clubs, businesses, associations and inhabitants, and to bring a week of entertainment and general enjoyment to all who wish to participate. The festival culminates to the famous street fayre, more about that to follow. Throughout the week prior to the street fayre, a wide range of events are held from music (to suit all tastes, if tastes are ‘middle of the road’) and theatrical entertainment, to local organisations recruitment evenings, factory tours and heritage and natural history walks; all of them being extremely well attended. The Street Fayre is held on the final Saturday afternoon and attracts thousands of people, and it’s not hard to see why.
Musical entertainment provided by up and coming hip bands, as well as more established older bands, fills the Risborough air. If you’re one of the lucky ones to get to the town early enough, you may be able to grab a white plastic chair to sit and watch on. Families mingle around the Market Square to watch the performers, interspersed with pockets of sun burnt men, drinking warm beer out of plastic pint cups, but smiling regardless. Numerous stalls and fairground rides ensure a fun-filled afternoon for all the family, not just the local men who (and don’t tell their partners this!), use the Festival as an excuse to get drunk and partake in mundane conversations about how rubbish the festival is.
It says something about the community spirit in Princes Risborough that the High Street gets closed for at least a day when the street fayre is on, leading to limited parking spaces, yet there has not been one complaint to date. The organisers of the event have helped substantially in solving the parking dilemma when festival day comes around by using the local park as a make-shift car park or advising festival goers to "stick it ‘round the back of the George & Dragon – it should be fine". The festival is as firmly imprinted on people’s minds weeks after the event, as the dents on the local park caused by the hundreds of cars driving over the soft grass.

Morris Dancers perform a rain dance at the street fayre

A fire engine rushes to a stall to extinguish burnt sausages and burgers

Restaurants - If you feel peckish when in Princes Risborough, you needn’t worry as there are a vast amount of restaurants which offer a fantastic range of fine cuisine at affordable prices. From the delicately spiced food of the newly opened Radhuni Indian restaurant, to the subtle aromatic fragrance of the food at House Of Spice Indian restaurant or the mouth-watering Indian food at Jaflong, there is sure to be something that you and the family will enjoy. Alternatively, eat as you much as you like and more, at Top Wok, where the Chinese food tastes like all good English Chinese food should. Rivalling Top Wok for the title of ‘Risborough’s Best Chinese Restaurant’ is Golden House. The food taste very similar to that of Top Wok, but can be eaten in the comfort of your own home. It has often been a topic of great debate amongst residents as to which Chinese provides the best food, but it has proved too difficult to split them. If Chinese grub doesn’t tickle your fancy and you prefer Indian food, then the Poppy Seed provides delicious meals with a smile.
There is also an Italian restaurant which offers fresh pasta dishes, pizzas with various toppings and all other stereotypical Italian food stuffs. Rivalling this for authentic food is the Turkish restaurant, ideally situated opposite the Market Square, between two Indian restaurants

The Poppyseed provides delicious food, but bring money as it isn’t really free

On top of all this entertainment, Risborough boasts a huge elderly community that will do their utmost to ruin your day - so why not visit? It's a great town.
(, Thu 29 Oct 2009, 11:33, 14 replies)
“You will never find a more wretched hive of scum and villainy”...

...How prophetic Obi Wan was when he mentioned those immortal words.

Only problem is...he was talking bollocks…cos I managed to find one. It wasn't difficult as it goes - I was born there.

There is an area sooo repugnant and despicable that the mere mention of it makes you want to drizzle half a gallon of mind bleach liberally over a pair of rusty garden shears, before ramming said shears into your own colon via the left eye socket of the person standing next to you.

When this QotW came out, young Spankyhanky and I had a quick word. Once we’d dispensed with sending each other sex-texts, we got down to the business of which one of us should enlighten you all on this scab-on-the-boil-on-the-hemorrhoid-on-the-dog’s-arse of this once green and pleasant land…the place that I call ‘home’, and he calls – ‘the shit-tip he managed to escape from…’.

We tossed for it (of course). I lost – Nobody wins a tossing competition with Spanky.

So here we go – are you sitting comfortably?

*opens bible*

On the eighth day, God was proudly recovering from his lazy day off and watching whatever was the equivilent of 'Monday Night Football' back then. He then took a moment to glance down upon his wonderous creation of rapturous beauty and immense potential, and he was about to congratulate himself for the umpteenth time…when he spotted something amiss...

“Hang on…this can’t be right” thought the beardy one (and I don't mean Noel Edmonds) – “Oh buggeration!", exclaimed God: "I’ve proper fucked up here - big-stylie fashion!”.

And lo, he was right – he’d missed a spot – there was a whacking great hole in the middle of one of the smaller land masses.

“Well…” thought the omnnipresent old mighty gonad-ed one. “I’ve got to sort out this arse-up pronto or I’ll be right for the fucking high jump”, and he delved around in his pockets and looked behind the fridge for any spare material that he could use to fill the hole.

But nay-eth – there was none.

Just then, God felt a stirring in his holy crap factory, caused by the satanic return of the once-blessed Bhiriani he had quaffed with one-too-many lagers the night before...and he had an idea

“Ah well – this’ll have to do” quoth God, and he dropped his trollies, squatted over the Earth and curled out a mahoosive quantity of unholy dumpage posessing the kind of girth and pure stink that is only capable of being produced from the speckled gravel patch of the almighty himself.

Then he stomped on it a bit…had a slash, and went back to watch the Monster truck rally – satisfied with a ‘jobbie well done’...

The putrified lump he had left behind however, was allowed to fester and worsen, until some cock-end eventually wandered onto it and decided to plant a tree slap-bang in the middle of the steaming mess.

That man's name was ‘Cofa’* – the surrounding area was then named after it - ‘Cofa’s Tree’.

Slowly over time, the name evolved into…


Not even deserving of a capital letter.

And here we are. Anyone spending more than half an hour in this godforsaken wasteland of wankers and wanton wobblebottoms would think that the Nazis had the right idea when they tried ‘doing an Alderaan’ on it during WW2.

Some little towns can be boring or under-funded – at least they can be called ‘quaint’ or some shite like that…Some of the ‘big’ cities can boast Economic growth, cultural diversity and modern thinking. Cov has none of those attributes – only excuses. It’s a monstrosity, a segregated concrete junkpile of shame and ineptitude – jam-packed up to the heaving rafters with the lowest fuckwitted shit-biscuits imaginable to humankind.

You know what you get when you drive into town? on the signposts it says:

‘Welcome to Coventry – the city in Shakespeare’s county’

Yep – that’s all we’ve got. The whole city – over countless generations and hundreds of years of possible achievements – the best thing we can proclaim is that it’s QUITE near to Stratford, somewhere that around 400 CUNTING YEARS AGO was the birthplace of some ruff-wearing batty boy who is more famous nowadays for boring the dirtboxes off our poor schoolkids than for actually acheiving any cultural inspiration.

But never mind about that - he was born near us…so yay! Put up a fucking SIGN!

If there was any justice, the sign would read. ‘Welcome to Coventry – for Fuck’s sake…KEEP DRIVING! IT’S THE PEDAL ON THE RIGHT…GO GO GO!!!

I love Geordies, Scousers, Cockneys, even Brummies. Don’t get me wrong – All of those people’s hometowns are fucking dumps too in my experience – but I’m jealous of the way they feel for their cities.…it’s THEIR dump, and the pride they show in those far superior cities personifies a lot about what is great and good about this country.

What the sychronised-swimming spazfuck have we got to be proud of in Cov?

Industry? - We used to be one of the engineering and car industry capitals of the world…now we’re lucky if we can find a petrol station that hasn’t been ram-raided. Most of our former glorious manufacturing heritage has either been demolished...or is currently on fire.

Nightlife? – You’re lucky if you live through the night more like. If the bottle-toting Neanderthals don’t get you then the STDs will – distributed with faux gusto round by the bins at the back of the local shiteclubs by a clap-ravaged trollope called ‘Cherrii’ (The bad spelling in this case is not a typo.).

Picturesque-ness? - Oh dear me. I sped drove through town only yesterday and I’ve seen wart-infested baboon cocks on wildlife documentaries that are more pleasing on the eye.

Chav problem? - Hmm...Wood End is an area so delapidated and stricken with Chav violence and poverty that a group of well wishers from War-torn Somalia considered doing a charity gig to raise money for it… but then they just gave it up as a bad idea, because some things are just too.far.gone. Instead, they released a single entitled: “Can’t the government just put something in the water to stop them breeding?”

Living in Coventry is like being implanted by an alien – you’re alive, and so you carry on regardless; trudging through life in the vain hope that everything is alright, but deep down you know that some day…it’s going to burst through your chest and leave you face-down dead in your bowl of Coco-Pops.

So 'why do I still live here?' I hear you ask. Why don’t I just fuck off? I can’t. I’m stuck here – generations of friends and family are all here, sharing the misery and mass hysteria from behind our state-of-the-art security systems. We’re in it together.

Besides, I love a good rant.

Maybe I shouldn't work for the Coventry Tourist Board...if there is such a thing. What a fucking job that would be.

(...and don't even get me started on the football team...I thought that if I as much as touched on that subject then my feeble brain might blow a microchip…Or I might burst into tears…and nobody wants to see that – I feel shite enough as it is).

* The ‘Cofa’s tree’ bit about the origins of the name 'Coventry' is true...if I remember my old history lessons correctly – 'every day’s a school day' and all that...
(, Mon 2 Nov 2009, 11:18, 10 replies)
True story*
Just after the July bombings in London a few years ago I was walking down the road towards the bus station and was following behind a Muslim looking gentleman who had a large rucksack over his shoulder.
"He's a bomber, he's a bomber, he's a bomber" was going through my mind.

Just then he dropped a wallet from one of the pockets of the bag. Snapping out of my suspicious mode I picked it up and ran up to him.

"You've just dropped this mate"
'Oh thank you sir, I am extremely grateful, that is very important to me'
We walked towards the bus stop for a few yards and he stopped and said to me 'Were you going to catch the bus to Chesterfield?'
"Yes, why?"
'You did me a kind act, and it deserves another in return. A word of advice, don't catch the bus into Chesterfield'

Straight away "He's a bomber, he's a bomber, he's a bomber" started up again.

"Er, why not?"

'Because it's a shithole'

*or a made up one
(, Fri 30 Oct 2009, 6:17, 3 replies)
Savannah Georgia
Savannah Georgia is well known, there's books and movies which feature it's southern culture, beautiful atmosphere and - modernly, even it's creative and artistic flair.

It hosts a film festival each year run by Robert Redford showcasing independent films and has a few different arts colleges, booming fonts of creation - and supposedly a rockin night life.


We went down when my gf was considering going to the University of the Arts in Savanna and ... holy shit.

I live in Washington DC and have wandered the streets at night passing nods with junkies, killers and and armed thugs. I'm 6'4, 225lbs and I've backed down professional football players (though it was just american football so...)

Savannah made me feel unsafe walking around in the middle of the day.

In DC we kill each other from time to time, and hey - that's understood. But nobody feels like it's "ok"... you know?

In the cultural mecca of Savannah - there was a level of desperation mixed with a righteous victim tinged "I deserve everything I want and it's your fault I don't have it" mentality that outright scared me.

The place reeked of pain, and resentment - and then you take that as a base and you add in the college kids on top - self absorbed, spoiled, oblivious - walking so ripely and tantalizingly through the poorest, most unhappy, and (rightfully perhaps) angry down trodden sad bastards you've ever seen.

Maybe it could have been different, maybe it could have just been a poor town where people worked and tried and did what they could and people would have accepted it ... but those fucking kids... a constant reminder of how easy it was elsewhere ...

I'm not making excuses for muggers, rapists and killers... but imagine a starving beaten carnivore and then drag a fattened prime rib in front of it everyday, day after day while it lives on mud and shit ...

Some people can handle that, but everyone gets angry.

And rich parents keep shipping these rich kids into this dying town, not so much with spending money - but with ipods, jewelry, cd collections and nice clothes and nice cars... and go figure, crime is impressively high there for some reason.

Schooling there was 38k a year. To go to art school. They had degrees in Video Game design, modern art and "design your own degree" degrees (I shit you not)

(The school is so desperate for intelligent students (rather than their usual rich / spoiled / useless ones) that if you score a perfect SAT - you automatically get a full scholarship and can go for free. Which was the only reason we were considering the place really ourselves ... the instructors we talked to responded to my gf like water in the desert. The poor fuckers. )

In an inspired idea deserving it's own reward for brilliance, the university is spread across about 5 miles square of city, a nice idea in a nice city ... a death trap in this one. Campus buildings were dotted across the city between abandoned buildings, angry hungry people out of work and a lot of secluded privacy for fun encounters.

Students were expected to walk or bus across this putrid pit at least twice a day, and up to eight times depending on which classes they're taking.

We toured a few of these building, my favorite classroom had docking stations at every seat - students were expected to bring their laptops everyday as a requirement. When I left and saw a "Used Electronics" store literally a block away, I laughed out loud. Then I felt dirty.

Of course that was one of the few stores I saw open in the city at all, there was a short strip of tourist stores which huddled in the corner of the city (afraid and shivering and knowing their time was coming) and a fair number of bars - and Three separate places where you could get gold teeth made on the premises.

How many businesses can your town support solely dedicated to making gold teeth out of ... "found" gold?

Seriously, if that's not a measure of how fucked up a place is I don't know what is.

Though the fact that every bus in town and most every other advertising surface I saw was dedicated to advertising bail bondsmen was probably another sign. I mean, bailing out your recently incarcerated friends was a booming business.

I have a picture of three drug dealers easily identifiable because of their admirably spot on costuming and their apparent full time jobs of leaning on a drug store wall next to the word "DRUGS" written in 5 foot tall letters on it (Advertising from a more innocent time I assume... maybe.)

I had to admire their moxie and sheer balls for taking advantage of the free advertising and placement.

The whole place smells of rot and decay, partly the southern swamp atmosphere that you can get anywhere but mostly the pungent odor of buildings and people slowly decomposing.

I've lived in Florida across from a paper recycling plant for a year and thought I'd never find a more unholy stink than the rendering and rotten milk (from the 'empty' school milk cartons trucked in, aged in the sun for a week or two and ready to be made into new fresh cartons to put new milk in...) and I found that less unpleasant the stink of flop sweat, fear and despair that this place seemed to have in it's woodwork.

Savannah boasts over 200 individual parks within the city, making it in he city councils opinion one of the most beautiful and natural cities in the world - from what I saw, the population needed them to sleep and shit in.

When taking the tour of the campus and being shown the living arrangements (smaller than usual dorms rooms in converted motels, with bad lighting and secluded stairwells of course) 6 different guides and current students said to us, unprompted and unasked "Yes, the crime is a problem - but you learn to adjust" and then gave us advice for handling it.

"Adjusting" included for these people:

Never traveling in a group smaller than 8.

For one guy - Leaving all his car windows down at all times - because he had learned that no longer having a radio or any belongings in the car wouldn't stop someone from breaking the window anyway, in his case the last time to take his empty slurpee cup out of the cup holder.

One girl explained that owning a personal Taser, and budgeting to keep it charged and to replace it when it wore out was the way to go, though she was thinking about getting a hand gun. "Rape alarms" - hand held sirens you can set off to call for help and scare off a bad guy ... "just weren't effective."

Another girl just decided to give up having a life outside her room for 4 years. In her words "Invest in broadband, it's just... safer. I've made a lot of new friends online."

The crowning moment for me was walking the main street (which if you left at all, you were in danger) and looking between two stores to see a guy who was selling handguns on a little table. He had them spread out quite nicely and a few more on his person and apparently (if I understood the transaction I was seeing) was willing to take trade ins.

I'm betting there wasn't even a waiting period.

All in all, my gf decided to go to another college.

I really am sorry about the length, the memories just came pouring out, I think I lanced a memory-puss-pocket with this one.
(, Mon 2 Nov 2009, 19:49, 3 replies)
Maps of Rubbish Towns
Bluemeat asked for a map of all the towns mentioned so here it is.

I've only done the first 60 odd so far cos i'm lazy but i'll get to the rest a bit later.

Hover over the pins in the map and click more info for a link to a story about that town.

(I only included stories with one town in it and with replies cos I couldn't be fucked doin all of em and if i missed yours out then it's your own fault for not being funny enough)

(, Fri 30 Oct 2009, 13:05, 18 replies)
The Clacton Experience
Oh God it’s awful.

Such brazen ineptitude surely warrants some kind of achievement award, the monumental shittiness of Clacton-On-Sea cannot be solely attributed to the guiding hand of mankind alone. It’s hard to imagine that even the combined efforts of the Great Plague, Hermann Goering’s urban remodelling committee and Thatcherism in a hellish frenzy of municipal misery could possibly conceive of something to rival the suppurating nastiness of an Essex seaside town. Indeed, the very thought of such awfulness is why I’m inflicting on you the most florid metaphors for “Squalid”, “Pox Riddled” and “Rectum” that my simple brain can conjure on a whim.

Clacton-On-Sea owes its very existence to the efforts of Victorian holidaymakers, who each year would flee the slums of London for two weeks by the seaside. Now the morale destroying unflushed lavatorial ambience of East London during the 1880s is well documented, but I can’t quite shake the feeling that sharp pangs of homesickness would have lured all but the most masochistic back from the Essex Coast before too long.

The Pier

“Clacton Pier, Clacton Pier, come and spend your money here!” jingled the advertisements in the 1980s, accompanied by the smiling mugshots of Chas n’ Dave.

The reality is even worse. The pier itself is a blocky, carbuncular structure constructed from decaying wood, seaweed and crumbling concrete, lit by swathes of pink neon in the most garish pastiche of an episode of Miami Vice. The aesthetic appeal is in the same league as the end result of a Lego building competition for war traumatised nine year olds. Once you’ve gotten past your ocular distress, you realise that your nose has been stung by the acrid stink of rotting seaweed, jellied eels – jellied eels, for fuck’s sake! – and the swaggering unwashed East End wideboy types who exist merely to transport gold sovereign rings from place to place. Your patronage is rewarded with stingy portions of chips drenched in life threatening amounts of salt and slovenly filled beakers of warm, pissy beer. All priced at a premium. The so called “amusements” consist of knackered fairground rides, a rusting wheel and a few ageing arcade games which appear to have survived a recent nuclear apocalypse.

The Arcades

Viewed from above, the Clacton promenade must look like a gigantic pink cock, flanked by neon lit cubist testicles on opposite sides of the road. These are the home of Clacton’s more miserable attractions, namely the slot machines. A quick wander around rewards you with the spectacle of watching men with vacant facial expressions slap buttons on blinking fruit machines in the futile hope of a payout. Feral kids charge around everywhere while overpriced video games empty your wallet. Once you’ve had your fill of this object lesson of cynical bad taste, you may wander over the promenade to the delights of its mirror twin, containing more of the same, but furnished with a slightly less smelly carpet.

Indeed, my sole cherished memory of the arcades at Clacton was happening across a barely functional, cigarette burned Outrun cabinet, which served admirably as a knicker elastic loosening ice breaker during an early date with my very first serious girlfriend one Sunday morning.


I had the massive misfortune to be enrolled at a higher education establishment in the town during the mid nineteen nineties and vowed that wherever I went in life, I’d never settle for anywhere worse than Clacton. The effort expended in maintaining this vow has thus far been minimal but with wholly successful results.

The thing that most struck me was the universal lack of ambition demonstrated by of any of my college mates. There was the chap whose dream job was to work in the local Vauxhall dealership and the girl whose idea of a life achievement was to get to the age of twenty without being impregnated. Clacton suffered (and still does) from high youth unemployment and piss-poor wages because it dies a seasonal death every autumn when the boarding houses close and the supply of tourist pounds dry up. Those with any nous whatsoever got the hell out of town as quickly as possible. I’m not sure which was the more depressing spectacle, seeing the aforementioned girl drop out at nineteen and eleven months due to an unplanned pregnancy or the chap on our course who never spoke to a soul and leafed through Commando war stories comics during lunch.

Climate and Ambience

For fifty weeks of the year, Clacton-On-Sea is grey. Grey skies, grey concrete and grey pavements conspire to inflict SAD on all but the most robustly jovial of souls. The only colour to be seen is either pink neon or on the track suits of the many Cockney Wankah types swaggering around presumably in between buying and selling clapped out Fords, slapping their wives and shouting “Yew faackin’ shtoopid caah!” at the very same.

For two weeks of the year however, it all changes. The grey skies turn blue, the temperature rises above dreary degrees centigrade and prompts the population to shed clothing and head for the beach. Baywatch it ain’t. Imagine a writhing sea of pale wobbling tits, greening elongated tattoos and ambitiously sized swimsuits. The females are even worse.

One sunny weekday afternoon, I took myself, my textbooks and my notes down to the beach to complete an assignment. Within half an hour, a whale of a man appeared and wasted no time in strutting about in a pair of microscopic red speedos, randomly bending over and pointing his lardy arse everywhere while his wife sat on a deckchair and scoffed chips.

Meanwhile, two girls of late teen vintage spread a blanket a few yards away and stripped to their bras and pants. In an act of eye watering vileness I’ll never forget, one girl turned to the other and spoke.

“Shell. D’yer fink me spiders legs poke aaht the side of me fong too much?”

This ghastly speech was followed by some futile furtive gusset tugging as the owner sought to shield her worryingly unkempt fanny from unprepared eyes. Gag.

Indeed, such a metaphor serves to conclude this dismal piece, for I pledge to ensure that when I’m running the country this neglected, unwashed clopper of a town becomes the location of choice for the RAF to practice carpet bombing.
(, Thu 29 Oct 2009, 17:12, 6 replies)
Formula for posts this week:
[Insert town name] is the worst place on the face of the earth because:

[Insert list of petty irritants which are not funny]

[Ignore the obvious fact that it is inevitable you will despise the place you live/spend most of your time because familiarity most certainly breeds contempt and that, really, all places are equally shit. You only think your town is worse because you see more of it]

[Claim moral and intellectual superiority]

[Final LOL and length gag]
(, Thu 29 Oct 2009, 16:18, 9 replies)
The only town in Britain that's an anagram of "Wanker"
(, Wed 4 Nov 2009, 12:03, 2 replies)
Bromsgrove: An Unofficial Guide
Although I currently hail from darkest, chavviest Redditch, I wish to pay tribute to my birthtown, Bromsgrove.

Nestled between Birmingham and Worcester, in the crotch of junction 4a of the M5 and the start of the M42; a once thriving industrial town - reduced to a mishmash of expensive housing estates, charity shops, vast amounts of takeaways and "Slug & Lettuce" type bars.

The northern end of Bromsgrove High Street, at its most busy. Note the Cancer Research Centre shop and the obligatory Argos

The only affordable housing is on the estate of Charford, famous for its high crime rate, perpetrated by one single family

Charford offers luxury accommodation, with rent and utilities paid for by others who actually have to go to work

Claims to fame include:

The gates of Buckingham Palace were made here.

Bromsgrove is at the foot of the Lickey incline, famous for being the steepest railway incline in the UK; site of at least one rail crash due to brake failure

The top of the comedy-named Lickey Incline - bloody steep, innit?

Notable residents included:

Michael Ball
Richard Orford (bloke from Big Breakfast who incidentally, due to marriage, I am sort of related to)
Alfred Housman (who's statue can be seen sporting a traffic cone every weekend - the joke never gets old)

Bromsgrove's Premier Nightspot "Love2Love", where Basshunter collides with Abba on the CD autochanger every night; the Ben Sherman-clad clientelle standing on a lifeless dancefloor.

Where music goes to die

Transport links include Bromsgrove Railway Station, where one train a day (if you are lucky) stops to allow people to squeeze onto the already packed train to Birmingham.

A rare sight indeed, a train actually stopping at this deserted outpost of a town

Bus links are well catered for, with the "not at all scary" bus station with it's retro toilet facilities - when you can smell it, you know you're home.

Bromsgrove Bus Station - photo taken early on Sunday when the Post Office and bookies are closed

Leisure facilities include Sanders Park; which features an icecream kiosk which opens at least twice a year, and a mini assault course known as the Trim Trail - used only by mothers wishing to injure their children for the compensation money

Sanders Park Bandstand - with capacity crowd

Avoncroft Museum - every primary school child's nightmare destination, featuring the largest collection of retro telephone boxes (about 6) This replica of Dr Who's police box donated by local tramp and celebrity, John "Dr Who" Clews - sadly died recently of a head injury when heckling chavs pushed him outside the Asda.


RIP Dr Who :o(

Other points of interest:

The Bromsgrove Union Workhouse, on the Birmingham Road, was opened in 1838 and closed in 1948 and is in use as an Indian restaurant today.

Ernest Anthony Pratt (or Anthony E Pratt) (1903 - 1994), the inventor of the board game Cluedo, is buried in Bromsgrove Cemetery

Yes - Bromsgrove really is the town of dreams
(, Mon 2 Nov 2009, 22:23, 12 replies)
Between the ages of nought and 30, I managed to live in three cities. I was an undergraduate in Hull, a place that I grew to love after walking from the city centre to Cottingham on one of those quiet, foggy October mornings. I was a postgrad for 4 years in Birmingham, a place that I grew to despise on account of its being Birmingham.

But I was born in Stoke, and it was to North Staffordshire that I returned after student life ended. So it is that I've spent the vast majority of my life either in Stoke or in the vicinity thereof. I can claim with some confidence that, if a city could ever serve as a refutation of the hypothesis that there exists a benevolent and powerful deity, Stoke would be it. The City Council - meaninglessly - declared itself a Nuclear-Free Zone in the 1980s; the irony of this move is that there can be few places on Earth that would benefit more from the judicious application of a small atomic bomb.

The tragedy of Stoke is not that it fails; it is that it fails so badly, when it need not. It was once a thriving industrial city; it was never wealthy, but it was wealthy enough, and it had an industrial pride, confidence, and swagger. But the decline of the pottery industry, the decline of the coal industry, and the closing of the Shelton Bar Steel Works tore the heart from the place. Into that void spilled poverty both economic and aspirational. Stoke has become a city in which the disappointment of the past has mutated into a sneering réssentiment of the present: in a place where, once, a person did not need an education to be able to provide a decent income for himself, education came to be seen as disposable; once seen as disposable, it came to be seen as pointless; once seen as pointless, is came to be seen as worthy of suspicion and all-but-actively discouraged. The same applies to any other form of aspiration. The people take a perverse pride in their poverty, to the extent that they resent and resist any attempt to end it.

There is one growth industry in the area: warehousing. The economic hopes of the region have been pinned on the provision of large, pre-fabricated empty buildings into which things can be put. As you head into the city by train from the north, you can see a large green warehouse on the left. It is in the middle of nowhere, and was completed a couple of years ago. It is still empty.

It was in Stoke in the 1990s that I heard a shopkeeper complaining about decimal currency.

I have several doctor friends, several of whom have commented that working at the North Staffs hospital is fascinating because they see illnesses there that have been eradicated everywhere else in the country for two generations: diseases of pollution and poverty. The hospital itself is built on a plague-pit; I had an aunt who would refuse to be admitted there because she could remember it from her childhood, when it had been a workhouse.

Stoke-on-Trent is a city built on coal and clay with a spirit of asbestos.
(, Fri 30 Oct 2009, 11:00, 9 replies)
I'm fully aware of the shortcomings of my own home town, although I'm immensely proud of it too. But Frankfurt, FFS what a monstrosity. I spent an evening there a few months ago. I thought I'd pass the evening in a bar, idly chatting to the locals as I have done on many occasions the world over.
BOY was I wrong!
After trudging in the drizzle from the station some of the first things I encountered were; people shooting up between parked cars, some of their friends spark out in doorways under sleeping bags and every second building was either a brothel or a peepshow. Classy! I eventually ended up in a little corner bar where I got into a 'discussion' with a lairy local guy because I was English, and therefore responsible for the eyesore that was Frankfurt, all that bombing y'know. I explained that by his own logic HE was responsible for the perceived shiteness of MY home town.
"How can that be?, I've been to London and it's a great place" he argued.
"Ah, but you see I'm not from London, and the Luftwaffe made my home town what it is today" I replied.
"Where are you from?" He asked in quite a belligerent tone.


Belligerent to sheepish in three syllables

My home town outshited Frankfurt AND bitchslapped Johnny Foreigner all in one evening.
No wonder I'm proud.
(, Thu 29 Oct 2009, 16:51, 7 replies)
A friend of mine walked into a Gregs in Bolton and asked if they had any vegetarian pasties.

The fish-wife behind the counter looked at him like he'd shat on the floor before saying:

(, Thu 29 Oct 2009, 12:27, Reply)
Rubbish Towns 2009 Official Map
Here's the finished map. There wa sa limit to only 200 places so i had to limit it just to the UK so sorry all you foreigners.

Hover over a number and click more info for a related story from all of you lot and maybe you'll find your own.

(, Fri 30 Oct 2009, 16:19, 9 replies)
Flint, Michigan
If you’ve heard of Flint, n’er a kind word has been said this bankrupt catastrophic tumourous anus of a city. It’s like Detroit scabbier little brother, where living human remains scurry the streets alongside the cockroaches and rats, licking crystal meth off strip club urinals. Flint is a peek into the apocalypse.

I had a friend who lived there – a guy so great that I always cock my head in wistful memory when I think about him. He’s in a wheelchair.

He decided to brave the crackpires for a night out on Flint-town. He got himself nice and beered up, then wheeled himself curbside for a bit of fresh air.


With great collision, he was thrown from his wheelchair. Dazed, he looked around to see another wheelchair-bound man crawl out of his old chair and into my friend’s shiny new wheelchair, then speed away.

He had just been chairjacked.
(, Fri 30 Oct 2009, 10:14, Reply)
Hell on Earth has a Name...
Many of the places I’ve rested my hat have been what some might term colourful. Encompassing the entire rainbow from red to signify the blood splatters of a Friday night when someone utters those immortal words: “You lookin’ at my bird?” (Never a good idea to answer that with: “Cheers, mate. I thought it was some sort of hybrid cross between a hippo and a fucking warthog.”); the distinct yellows of vom deposited outside some nameless Wetherspoons (which at last count probably employs round 25% of the local population) or – more likely – deposited all over and occasionally inside someone else’s girlfriend while she’s being vigorously fingered by a bloke named Darren who she met on the way back from the pisser five minutes ago; the rugged browns of the pile of shit stained nappies you find piled up in your garden like a stinky gift from the gods, marvelling as the pigeons merrily pick at the desiccated sweet corn, pecking away at the runny baby poo and gobbling down the chunky bits of encrusted carrot, and not forgetting the pearly white spunk you find splashed up the walls of your local bus stop in the style of Jackson-fucking-Pollack.

And then there’s the memorable places, the bizarre encounters with the natives that leave you wishing you’d been shipwrecked on a cannibal infested desert island with nothing more to barter with than a bag of beads and a couple of well-thumbed editions of FHM. Like the time on Oxford Road in Manchester when I had a bus seat chucked at my head by a load of United supporters because I, stupidly, went to the shops wearing my sky blue Coventry Shitty footie top (tip: don’t wear sky blue near a load of United supporters, they’ll immediately think you follow the bluer half of the city and attempt to stove your head in with the nearest heavy object). But the place that stands out for me the most was somewhere I spent a couple of weeks while on secondment with work. This place is fucked up. It’s strange. The local chav wise men and women (those with one GCSE), should declare it an independent republic so the rest of the UK can declare war on the place and bomb the fuck out of it.

And this place is Newport (the Welsh one).

I can sum this place up with a few of the phrases I had to utilize during my (very) brief time there:-

“No, I do not want to purchase those Addidas jogging bottoms you’ve just nicked from Matalan. And even if I wanted to, the fuck-off big security tag round the crotch area would make mincemeat out of my knackers if I even attempted to put the fuckers on, let alone go for a run wearing them.”

“Yes, I am English. But no, I am not going to – as you so quaintly put it – fuck off back to England. And, no, I really, honestly, truthfully do not give a toss that your team beat my team in the Six Nations. No, it doesn’t keep me awake at night, and no, this orange fella you talk of who’s currently fucking Charlotte Church does not haunt my waking fucking dreams.”

“No, I am not a gayboy because I live in London. “

“I’m sorry – I do not know where the Job Centre is. I recommend you stop smoking that incredibly large spliff, put down that bottle of white lightning mixed with tramp flob, and get a fucking A to Z.”

“No, I really do not think this is a castle. A small pile of pollution stained rubble next to a bus station does not constitute a building, let alone a fucking castle.”

“No, I cannot lend you a fiver. I don’t know who the fuck you are, I’ve never met you before, and if you think I’m more likely to dip my gonads in a breville maker than give you my contact details so you can pay me back later. ”

“No, that is not the case. My mother did, in point of fact, give birth to me in wedlock.”

“I’m sure your growler is ‘as tight as a five year old’s’, its just that I am actually in a very serious relationship and, besides, I prefer not to hook up with girls who proposition me at bus stops. And it might be a good idea if you had a wash first and didn’t have a pushchair with you before you try this again in the future.”

“I’m sorry... I thought you were speaking Welsh. That’s why I didn’t respond to you... Are you on drugs? Do you have a speech impediment or a cleft pallet?”

“If you hate the English so fucking much, why the fuck are you wearing a Liverpool FC footie shirt, you fucking moron?”

“No, we did not fuck each other last Friday night round the back of Hyper Value. I – unlike you – would’ve fucking remembered.”

“I’m sorry – did you just ask me how to spell ‘I’???”

Still... makes... me... fucking... SHUDDER !!!!!!
(, Mon 2 Nov 2009, 14:07, 8 replies)
Liverpool - 'City of Culture'.
Yeah right - and Chernobyl is the 'City of Health and Safety'.
(, Thu 29 Oct 2009, 16:52, 15 replies)
High Wycombe
High Wycombe holds mixed emotions for me. I detest the town with a passion, but it’s where I had my first sexual experience of sorts, so all the old feelings and memories come flooding back whenever I pass through the town. The town itself is dirty, smelly and full of Jeremy Kyle guest types, and not even the recent introduction of a brand new shopping centre has done much to enhance the reputation of the town. Underage mothers, illegal immigrants and rowdy teenage boys mix in harmony and it truly is a horrible, depressing place to go and shop on a Saturday afternoon.

However, I still get that ‘butterflies-in-the-stomach’ feeling of nervousness and excitement thanks to seeing a naked girl in the bus station toilets. She was the first girl I ever got to see naked in the flesh, and was named Ebony; funnily enough, she was black (not that I have a problem with that – otherwise I wouldn’t have slept with her). I’d been to a Wycombe Wanderers game with my mates, and afterwards we walked to the dingy bus station so we could all get our designated rides home. I however, (unbeknown to me) was going to get rather a different ride that evening. Ebony was stood inside the bus station with 3 of her friends, sheltering from the rain and probably spitting on the floor. As my mates got onto their buses and disappeared to their homes, I was left alone waiting for my bus, feeling quite intimated at being surrounded by a group of girls. I sat patiently, head down, trying to keep myself to myself, but it was hard not to stare at Ebony. Whilst her friends were quite loud and brash, Ebony carried herself in a much more feminine manner. Not only that, she was stunning; like a young Naomi Campbell, minus the punching and violent outbursts. She had beautiful, big brown eyes, which provided the finishing touch to her perfect, pretty face. Although she was quite slender, I could tell she had an ample pair of love pillows, and looking at her got my teenage body quite excited.

After 10 minutes of being sat by myself, Ebony and her friends came over and made small talk. They weren’t the bitchy adolescent girls I’d imagined them to be, they were all very kind and asked what I’d been up to, where I lived etc. I mumbled my answers and felt myself getting red in the face, but I noticed Ebony smiling at me, which reassured me I wasn’t making a complete fool of myself. We chatted for a while when I realised my bus was due in 5 minutes. Needing a piss, I made my excuses and ventured to the toilets. Unsurprisingly, they were filthy; as I urinated into the metal trough, fag-ends floated down stream to the clogged up drain. I was shaking off, when I heard the door open behind me. Being young, I quickly put my cock away, expecting an older gentleman to come and stand next to me, and embarrass me with his bigger penis. I turned, felt a damp patch form on my cotton boxer shirts from where I hadn’t shaken enough, and there was Ebony.

Ebony smiled and pushed me into a cubical, switching the lock to ‘occupied’ behind her. I almost fell over, much was the haste that she led me into it, and I kept asking what she was up to. My rigid shaft stood to attention, but I was absolutely shitting myself. I hadn’t done anything like this before but Ebony seemed to know exactly what she was doing. She stripped naked, her labia was so smooth and delicate and reminded me of a Labrador’s mouth; dark and shiny but with a thin pink trim. As she released my rod from its lair, the pungent smell of urine filled the air, and a couple of droplets dribbled out of my foreskin.

“I…I didn’t shake properly”, I stammered.

With that, Ebony punched me square on the nose, and followed it up with a slap to the back of my head. It stung me, and I was in complete shock. Then, she bent over, (I noticed her arsehole widen slightly as she did so), took my wallet from my jeans, picked up her clothes and left me. I sat in tears for a good quarter of an hour, on the toilet, head in hands. I finally plucked up the courage to put my clothes on, and examined the damage in the mirror. It was nothing too bad, a slightly bleeding nose – it was my mascualinity and pride that had been hurt the most. To make matters worse, I had to scrounge 20p off an old woman so that I could ring my mum so she could come and collect me.

High Wycombe – do not go there
(, Thu 29 Oct 2009, 14:47, 4 replies)
Dorchester, Dorset
The town where Woolworths would not die.

Also, the town frequently voted the owner of Britain's worst Christmas lights, thanks to a council too scared to spend any money on anything.

Here they are:

Beat THAT, Oxford Street.
(, Thu 29 Oct 2009, 11:48, 18 replies)

oi vey
(, Thu 29 Oct 2009, 11:16, 1 reply)
New York, New York!
Yup thats right I hate it, not the quaint little town in Yorkshire (That has a cracking shop that makes fudge) but the sodding eyesore in the US. Back in 1997 I was there on business and hated it. Street crime was at an all time high, gang activity was rife and the whole area was totally rundown.

During the 24 hour period in which I stayed I witnessed a number of shootings (A couple were aimed at me) brawling and a couple of nutcases fighting over food. Thank God for my special services training as I don’t think I could have lasted while I was there.

The people I met were mainly soulless looking and seemed like they were serving a life sentence.

Before I get any replies about how lovely the place is and how I might have visited the wrong districts let me tell you that my business trip started at the (Then standing) Twin Towers and was semi funded by the US government. I also got to see places like the New York Public Library but they looked more a fortress than a place to broaden your knowledge.

Pfft sod it I’m glad I managed to escape and my chances of going back to that hellhole are nonexistent what with the wall built around the place and the mines on the heavily guarded 69th Street bridge.


Snake Plissken
(, Tue 3 Nov 2009, 14:45, 2 replies)
Actually, Manaus is not so much rubbish as fucking, fucking weird.

To get to Manaus, you have two options: fly or get a boat. It is slap bang in the middle of the Amazon Rainforest at the confluence of the two rivers that make up the Amazon itself.

Now you are probably thinking that somewhere which can only be reached by boat or plane has a small population. Nope, it has a population of 1,700,000. Or to put it another way, the same size as Birmingham.

It is hotter than Satan's nutsack in Manaus. And the humidity is like nothing you have ever experienced before. Every day, at around 3pm, there would be a monumental thunderstorm lasting around half an hour. Every. Fucking. Day. In fact, Manaus residents would make appointments "after the rain" as it was such a regular event.

Clothes would last you a matter of hours before you have to change due to the sweatiness and the dust. One shirt I had actually rotted and had to be thrown away.

Beer is served in ice sleeves because if they didn't, by the time you got halfway down it would be around blood heat.

The place is lousy with legions of mosquitos, butterflies and numerous other insects. All the grass in the municipal areas has been replaced with astroturf, as regular grass either rots or grows so quickly it has to be cut every other day.

In the middle of all this is the opera house. A magnificently spectacular, opulent and completely over the top monument to the rubber barons' wealth. And the rubber barons truly own the city. On the way to the hotel, the taxi driver told us we were lucky we were British, as there have been a number of high profile kidnappings/extortions of wealthy Brazilians who came to visit. The police were usually the ones who did the kidnappings.

On our final day, we watched a plane on final approach to the airport literally fall out of the sky and explode. People scarcely looked up.

Never have I been somewhere so bloody weird.
(, Fri 30 Oct 2009, 12:47, 6 replies)
Its fucking hot (can get as hot as 427 °C), and its also bloody freezing (can get as cold as −183 °C). It doesn't have any moons. Also theres almost no atmosphere, so even if you were somewhere with a mild temperature, you'd instantly asphyxiate. Its rubbish.
(, Thu 29 Oct 2009, 16:27, 1 reply)
I once got mugged (sort of) in Birmingham when I was but a SubCulture Hero In Training (henceforth abbreviated to SHiT). I was bumbling around the city centre looking for a handy pizza hut from which to obtain an affordable alternative to the overpriced, under-edible hotel food for me and my mate.

While I was trolling around looking for it and having a quiet smoke I was approached by what was possibly a retarded monkey in a tracksuit demanding the loan of a smoke. Being a kind soul I obliged the miscreant, and obliged him again when he insisted I gave him another. When he requested, somewhat gruffly and after parting me from my precious tobacco products, that I then hand over my even more precious beer money I refused, naturally. It was at this juncture he demonstrated he had a knife and that my refusal had not stood me in good stead.

Being a shrewd, but cowardly SHiT I decided my only option was to negotiate with my assailant, promising him that if he led me to the nearest Pizza Hut I'd happily pay him for his time. He agreed and off we went. Luckily, his chosen route took us right past the hotel in which I was staying and so I feigned momentary memory loss, claiming that in all the excitement I'd forgotten what I was supposed to be ordering for my friend and, if he'd just wait outside for a couple of minutes I'd nip in, find my friend and be reminded what I was getting for him. My helpful miscreant agreed and sat on a bollard waiting for me.

I spent a good twenty minutes watching him from the 10th floor bar, munching on my overpriced prawn baguette and sucking on a Bacardi Breezer.

Birmingham - So rubbish even the muggers can't get it right.

I'm going to sCUNThorpe next week... wish me luck.
(, Fri 30 Oct 2009, 15:01, 1 reply)
(, Fri 30 Oct 2009, 3:11, 2 replies)
Fucking Melksham
Forget Basingstoke, Swindon, Milton Keynes, Chatham, Stafford, Hull, Coventry, Gravesend, Andover, Westbury, Corby, Stockport, Dundee, or any other British hellhole. Even Trowbridge is (marginally) an improvement on fucking cunting shitting wanking bastard cunting felching arsing cunting fucking wanking pissing shitting cunting fucking Melksham.


The definition of a Melksham virgin is an 11 year old girl who can out run her older brother.

The population of Melksham has the highest level of educationally sub normal people in the western hemisphere.

There are rumours that Dell are planning on launching the “Melksham keyboard” – specifically designed to enable residents to be able to type - with 6 fingers on each hand they struggle with standard keyboards (well the 4 residents that have mastered the ability to stand on their hind legs, read, write etc struggle - the rest of the population are too busy pointing in wonder at passing aeroplanes to go and get electricity connected to their mud huts).

99p stores won’t open a shop in Melksham because they think their brand is too upmarket for the place.

Rumour has it that one resident having recently been the first in the town to be introduced to the concept of money rather than bartering is planning on being the first person in the rancid spunkpit they call a town to get a mobile phone – he already thinks he has enough cash for the piece of string & is now hoping to have enough for the tin can by 2013.

I would rather live in the middle of a radioactive medical & chemical waste dump whilst being constantly arse-raped by a Aids ridden Baboon than go with 80 miles of fucking Melksham.
(, Thu 29 Oct 2009, 14:06, 11 replies)
As true now as it was in 1937:
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.

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.

Sir John Betjeman
(, Thu 29 Oct 2009, 13:09, 12 replies)
Not content with being one crap town, Stoke-on-Trent have gone all out and pissed over the UK by declaring themselves as SIX crap towns and trying to disguise it as a city.

HANLEY - Full of people that when you're trying to film a University project, come up to you and shove their oatcakey faces in the way. More chavs than eyebrows and one very annoying dancing hobo outside a closed Woolworths. FUN FACT: Hanley is 83% wasteland, with demolished buildings on every street. Saved from utter failure by one thing - Revolutions vodka bar. This is supposedly the "centre" of the "city".
BURSLEM - Where Port Vale play. I needn't say more. Slowly tarmacking over the whole area.
STOKE - Just to piss off non-Stokies, they've named one of their six town within Stoke... Stoke. So when you say to a Stokie, "Hey ugly, what's in Stoke?" they cannily point you in the direction of the Spode factory and tell you that the streets are paved with pottery. Home of the Stoke rail station, conveniently located next to nothing.
TUNSTALL - I've never before seen a place where there is paint peeling off bricks, but lo, here it is. 27% of all houses are abandoned according to the Department Of Making Up Facts.
FENTON - Has a 24 hour tesco, staffed entirely by sub-level aliens disguised as humans. You can tell they're aliens because they've forgotten how to blink, and stack shelves. Crime rate slightly higher than that of Somalia.
LONGTON - Feel themselves worthy of their own train station, so if you ever make the journey to Crewe, you get to see it in all it's grey glory. Doesn't stop raining.

If you live in Stoke, as I did for three miserable years, I have a top tip! Stay indoors. No matter how damp and dull your house is, it's even damper and duller outside.
(, Thu 29 Oct 2009, 12:27, 8 replies)

This question is now closed.

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