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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, 14, ... 1

This question is now closed.

Managua, Nicaragua
Stopped off here when heading South through Central America. The place looked like a bomb heap. The city was hit by a massive earthquake in the 70s and then suffered under the Somaza regime afterwards, so I think they pretty much decided that they couldn't be bothered (nor afford) to rebuild it.

It also oozed menace. Arriving at the main bus station by taxi I was harangued by a pack of men offering me a variety of 'services' that ran the full spectrum of Class A's through to young women ("very clean, very pretty" apparently). Stories abounded of gringos being driven off in taxis to remote parts of the city where they were then relieved of their wordly possessions. A couple of Americans backpackers were murdered around the same time I was there.

Needless to say I got the first bus I could out and vowed to never complain again about how rubbish my hometown is.
(, Tue 3 Nov 2009, 10:56, Reply)
Hull... Need I say more?
Admittedly, I'm probably spoilt, having grown up in York, a lovely city, but to me, Hull is the shittest place on Earth. I've lived in Nottingham, where gang related gun crime is commonplace, but at least it's not Hull.

Hull is stuck at the end of the M62, literally at the end of the world. The people here are so backwards it makes me want to weep. I worked in a chemist shop which had over 200 methadone addicts- in ONE SHOP!!

To give an example of how thick the people here are, our car was stolen, then three weeks later it was parked, two streets from where we live, in EXACTLY the same condition as it was when it was stolen! They didn't even think to change the number plates!

The most annoying thing about Hull, however, is its gravity-well effect. Once you've been, you can't stay away! I left, I got as far as Australia, then, for some reason inexplicable to myself, I moved back of my own volition! You hear this story all to often in Hull- people who left, ended up coming back, then shortly afterwards wanted to leave again... Crazy
(, Tue 3 Nov 2009, 10:38, 3 replies)
Only one mention of...
Caernarfon. Charity Shops, empty shops and a castle. Thats it.
(, Tue 3 Nov 2009, 10:30, 3 replies)
Marrakech - pretty but stinks of piss
Earlier this year my girlfriend and I hitchhiked to Morocco for charity. More details in future QOTWs no doubt (assuming someone raises "The dumbest thing you've ever done in a French truckstop"). Upon arrival we headed for Marrakech because, well, that's where the guidebooks said was bestest. My only basis for comparison is a film from 1942 about a small town called Casablanca, which has apparently gone downhill since the invention of colour.

There was much about Morocco that came as a culture shock; once you get into a taxi you can't help but notice that everyone drives like a psychopath who's late for their next hit, many of the streets absolutely reek of piss because donkeys are popular but sanitation isn't, and everyone wants to sell you something. Seriously. EVERYone. Suffice to say it takes some getting used to. The streets are narrow and you're flanked by stalls everywhere you go - more accurately, you're flanked by about 8 or 9 different stalls repeating themselves every few metres; orange juice, olives, carpets, football shirts, glassware, shoes, bags, knock-off DVDs, etc.

Obviously being European you're an absolute beacon for thousands of different sales pitches (the rucksacks that had accompanied us through France and Spain may have screamed "tourist" as well) but you learn to block it out - something you learn very quickly is that if you respond, even slightly, just a shake of the head and a polite "no, thank you", the recipient of your attention will consider the sale complete and follow you until you cave. Now, I hate ignoring people, it makes me feel awful, but by the third day I was just plain annoyed. So I thought, let's have some fun.

Oh dear.

One thing I have to say about the people of Marrakech is that they're intensely resourceful. And the whole time we were there we didn't have any problems with the language barrier; everyone spoke at least rudimentary English. But I thought, I'm safe with German, right? Why would anyone in Marrakech speak German? So I turn to this parcularly insistent carpet salesman and say "Sprechen sie Deutsch?", thinking, aha, this'll flummox him, what a clever fellow I am. FFS...

Yeah, he answered, in German. Perfect fucking German. Well, it sounded pretty good, the only words in German I know are "Sprechen sie Deutsch" and, bizarrely, "Schwarzwelde Kirschtorte" which means black forest gateau. This was of little help to me as he realised I was English and began haranguing me endlessly about how we Europeans think we're so superior, etc. He had a point. I was caught red-handed in the act of being a prize dickhead. Had to buy a carpet to shut him up.

Length? 6' by 3', and it didn't even fly
(, Tue 3 Nov 2009, 10:22, 9 replies)
I confess that I never lyk'd that Place; nor could abide the People, that dwell therein.
Yours truly
O. Cromwell
(, Tue 3 Nov 2009, 8:50, 5 replies)
Not the greatest (but after nearly moving to Wrexham I saw it in a whole new light). But dear God look at this monstrosity; its out Post Office and Benefit office. And its a listed building!


Apologies for crap piccy, ill try and find a better one.


This was taken from the Weatherspoons; it looks even bleaker in the rain.

We are the birth place of Sir Rowland Hill (invented postage stamps) and are big on Carpets. And the Harriers played West Ham in the FA cup a few years back.

(, Tue 3 Nov 2009, 8:29, 1 reply)
17 charity shops and rising.
(, Tue 3 Nov 2009, 7:45, 5 replies)
Dirty Old Town, Dirty Old Town.....

I worked there for quite a while - it's the most useless town in Britain. I used to be woken up in the morning to the sounds of sparrows coughing.

Redcar. Population 35 000, 5 last names. It's the place where Middlesbrough send their troubled families.

Most of the residents are just dumb beyond belief. So dumb that I invented a way to get myself out of trouble when some gang of meatheads tried to start something. I carried a stick. When the meatheads started their pre-fight banter, I'd take the stick out of my pocket, shake it at them and then throw it as hard as I could down the street while shouting "FETCH!!". They couldn't help themselves. Instinct just took over and they were off, racing down the street after the stick...

(OK. I made that bit up but I'm sure it would have worked...)

I did get one great laugh out of Redcar though. While on a pubcrawl I passed a building that had:

Redcar Philosophical Society

engraved on the wall and I just lost it. In my minds eye I could see all of these guys crouching on the floor, banging two rocks together and discussing whether this new-fangled fire thingy would ever catch on.


(, Tue 3 Nov 2009, 6:13, 6 replies)
East New York, Brooklyn in the '80s
Well, after reading some of the other posts, this place seems kind of quaint. You had to have a chain on both sides of your car hood, not just the middle, or the battery side of the hood would be pulled up like a sardine can, and battery removed. A guy once tried to sell a used battery to my boss, who rejected it and then found that his car wouldn't start. He chased the guy into the projects, but the guy got away, with the heavy Cadillac battery! It's amazing what a guy can do when he's all coked up.
The Chicken Delight had double bullet proof glass, like a liquor store. The chicken on the sign should have had a bullet proof vest for truth in advertising.
People pushed shopping carts full of rags (and car batteries) up and down the street just like taxis (which were never there).
I didn't go shopping there, I just went to work there, worked there, and then got the hell out of there.
(, Tue 3 Nov 2009, 5:27, 1 reply)
After spending most of my life in Swindon, I feel it only fair that I comment on the place since everyone else seems to think that simply the name alone is enough to justify it's entry into Room 101.

Swindon is Shit.

Everything about it is chavvy and nasty. It's the only place in the world, probably, where Burger King has gone bankrupt. Burger King for fuck's sake. The only shops that do any kind of trade are Poundland, Wilkinson's, and Ann Summers. From the once glorious days of steam everything has been a downhill spiral apart from the 15minutes of fame as a commuter town/IT mecca of the mid-nineties.

After I went to uni they tried their best to turn it around. They pedestrianised large areas and put in all the chain bars in one handy little area that would keep all the yobs in one place, make it easier to police and try and create a bit of an atmosphere. One of the biggest bars they had was called the bedroom which featured a massive bed on the upper floor... Let's just say that the slags of Swindon aren't shy and that this was a monumental display of poor foresight by the management.

During my university years I worked away in Gloucester for a summer. I thought they were comparable in terms of shittyness but oh, how wrong I was. Gloucester at least has a Jumping Jack's! At the end of the summer, my new friends and I came to my home town for a night out on the town to celebrate our hard, summer slog: 11 hours a day, door-to-door selling educational materials in probably the 2nd or 3rd most retarded place in the U.K. It was a big mistake.

We went to the Brunel Rooms, Swindon's premier nightspot. Famed for easy girls, big fights, and... well, that's about it really.

We'd been there for about 30 minutes before my mate James got punched in the face for looking at someone else's girl. I took him to the toilets to wash the blood off his nose whereby we were dragged out by the bouncers who thought that his nosebleed was the result of having snorted too much of Bolivia's finest. They took us into the back room and slapped me about a bit, then basically strip searched him just to add insult to injury. Did I mention he was tee-total? No? He was. Very Christian, very straight-lace, never say boo, or even fuck-off, to a goose.

We decided that enough was enough and to call it a night. We left Brunel and were walking towards the glowing lights of The Van. Prime rat burgers were only seconds away but it was not to be. Some crazy fucker with an iron bar was entertaining the notion that every man in Swindon wanted his woman. This was unlikely, since she was on all fours bleeding from where he'd lumped her previously. After the police arrived and took him away, things calmed down and we managed to get a taxi home. Still, needless to say, I haven't seen those friends of mine since as nobody in their right mind would return to Swindon.

However, Swindon for all it's faults still can't compare with Dunstable. Dunstable is gash. I went there once when I was about 15 to stay with my friend's mum after his parents split up and we'd barely gotten out of the car before we were chased by a gang of local yobs shouting "give us a swig of your cider!" and being arrested for climbing over a garden wall trying to escape the little fuckers. Every one of my friend's mates was heavily into sniffing glue or sucking back cans of Lynx through a flannel. At least in Swindon we can get weed. Never go to Dunstable. In the words of Ripley, "I say we take off and nuke the whole area from space." What a dump.
(, Tue 3 Nov 2009, 4:33, 4 replies)
Any place where the students are the richest people in the city has got it wrong.
(, Tue 3 Nov 2009, 3:59, Reply)
The South Side of Chicago
During the '60s I attended school on the south side of Chicago. We had people dropping dead on the sidewalk, a shootout between criminals and the police (only one, though), and fires too numerous to count. Once, some of the girls decided to make a booze run to a neighborhood liquor store. On seeing the girls, one of the locals stopped his car, got out, and cried out in amazement, "White women!", got back in his car and drove away. Ah, nostalgia.
(, Tue 3 Nov 2009, 3:54, 1 reply)
*another idiot not answering the question properly alert* Smalltown Western Canada,
s'where me and Mrs Infidel reside now. Six months here and we love it. It's got cowboy hats, rednecks and a small local drug problem and everyone drives a pickup truck (including me)
There's almost no historical stuff as the oldest town hereabouts is about 100 years old. There are tons of shabby, broken down wooden houses and every farm seems to have a collection of dead, rusting cars and assorted agricultural junk in its yard.

But the people are great, genuinely open, decent, down-to-earth, funny, good people. THERE ARE NO CHAVS.Even the baddest looking tattoed geezer will pat the dog and wish you a good day. No shithead noisy neighbours (the local authorities actually deal with complaints and sort it out)and a genuine sense of community, no litter, no broken glass in the streets. Thanks to everyone who posted a reminder of what we left behind.I didn't know my heart had cockles until your posts of misery warmed mine up.
Oops, I forgot to say, I was spawned and raised in Luton, a town which needs little in the way of introduction.
(, Tue 3 Nov 2009, 1:56, 2 replies)
I'm not angry with Stratford Upon Avon...
just... disappointed.

Given the many nice towns within easy reach (Leamington, Henley-in-Arden, Warwick), the alleged jewel of Warwickshire is actually a bit rubbish.

Any charm it might have once posessed has been swept aside by mounds of overpriced tourist tat, fat Americans and pickpockets. It's not chavvy, or ugly, it's just overcrowded and has this feel of being worn out by millions of feet belonging to millions of tourists in search of... I'm not sure exactly. The theatre's nice, if you can get tickets, there's some buildings to look at, a lake, and that's about it. Shakespeare was born there, but you can't exactly go and see him, and you can go buy his books anywhere else, at about a third of the price. It's a town without a purpose that makes you feel a bit empty inside.

Plus the last time I went there I was attacked by a goose.
(, Tue 3 Nov 2009, 1:16, 5 replies)
Thornaby-on Tees
It has been mentioned at least once previously, however:

I was actually born & raised here – I no longer live there. Sadly my sweet little home town is now just like any other sprawling shit-hole town or city that pockmarks the UK. Sad really.

For anyone remotely interested here’s a couple of links:


and a bit of a spoof doco I found on the Tube of Yoo:


I should mention that in the last year the landscape of the Town Centre has changed dramatically due to a multi-million pound make over. Still have betting shops next door to one another mind
(, Tue 3 Nov 2009, 1:15, Reply)
Whisky, deep fried mars bars and lasses with lovely accents
These are some things which make Fife great. What doesn't make it great, however, is Glenrothes.

These are some of the highlights:
(The photographer here has been very clever here because he has taken this photo on the one day of the year when the sun actually shines and so it looks 99.71% less shit than it would usually.)

(This is from a BBC report on how Glenrothes this year won the Carbuncle award this year:
(I dare you to look at the links above and *not* want to kill yourself)

There are a couple of redeeming feature of the town, mind:

And this:
(If you happen to be a tramp looking for a place to kip, piss, do a dump or harangue the tourist.)

It appears that Fife towns have been featured quite a lot in this QOTW; for some reason, Fife Council deigned to build a job-lot of shit-holes in the 60s and 70s, seemingly unaware that grey concrete + grey skies = heroin addiction + heart disease + suicide. Och, well, gotta love 'em.
(, Tue 3 Nov 2009, 0:38, 6 replies)
Castle fecking Cary
This isn't really about the town, just about a night I spent in and around the train station there. But meh, I'll tell you anyway.

At about 1.30am, after a good drunken day/night at NASS festival, Daniel and I realised we didn't have camping tickets, and were swiftly deposited on the side of a country road, which was as dark, scary and endless as Satan's minge itself.

Our train (which left at 9am) was a mere few hours walk up this pitch black road, so we got going. After stumbling around for a while, we were picked up by a very nice lady (hello!) who gave us fleeces and dropped us at the station. The waiting room/toilets were shut. Arse.

We agreed to take it in turns to sleep/keep watch, and Dan promptly lay down on the ground and started snoring loudly. I curled in a ball, cracked open a can of cider and wept tears of vodka. Or maybe I just shivered a bit, it's all a bit of a blur.

***wavy lines***

A few hours later, I am rocking back and forth, full of wee. Dan is still snoring. I ring some local hotels, but everyone hates me and they don't pick up. It's about 4am, and still very dark. I kick Dan and tell him we're going to look for the public toilets I vaguely remember seeing on a tourist map. I'm not going to piss against a tree, I'm a fucking lady! So we get going.
About half an hour later we're in the town centre. I see a REALLY FAT cat. I NEED to stroke him, RIGHT NOW, and I run over. The cat starts making violent sex noises at me, and I realise it's a fat, grumpy old badger who wants my precious fingers for his breakfast. I run away.
About 2 hours of wandering through a boring English town later we find the toilets. They are locked. Arse.

I piss against a tree.

We make our way back to the station. The next morning I am sick on a posh business man's shoes. Sorry mister.
(, Mon 2 Nov 2009, 23:50, 1 reply)
The Worst Town in the Land ?
Defending Middlesbrough


in your face Stockton...

EDIT: another chance to see Jeff Stelling's rant:

(, Mon 2 Nov 2009, 22:56, Reply)
place called oniontown.
actually called oniontown, few towns over from me. famously large inbred population, rowdy hooligans who block off roads going past oniontown with parked cars, forcing people through oniontown, and who throw cinderblocks at them from the hilly sides of the road. actually happens. interesting side note, the cinderblock/rock attacks are partially motivated by youtube videos about oniontown's terrifying nature, which inspire other people to go see what it's like. but "onion people" don't take kindly to strangers. vicious cycle.
(, Mon 2 Nov 2009, 22:46, Reply)
I come from Edinburgh
'nuff said.

Haha, but seriously folks, Edinburgh's lovely and I feel lucky to say I'm a native - even more so after this QOTW. Glasgow's where I'm studying now and it gets a bad rep. Stay out of certain areas and it's pretty much as lively and charming as cities get. I've literally never been mugged, beaten up, or even badly threatened (touch wood, ooh-er madam).

Kirriemuir on the other hand...I've never been inside it for long (it did look atrocious though; like it was aspiring to be Dundee), but I worked with some of the inhabitants once. It was a fun day. One of them claimed the truck we were in "smells like ma fanny". They smoked foul rollies - CONSTANTLY - that honestly smelled like they'd been recycled, or at least marinated in farts and tar for an hour. This in a confined space.
Their breakfast consisted of four cans of Tennant's Special (the less classy cousin of Tennant's), and their lunch consisted of as much of the provided beer as they could physically fit on their persons.
They were apparently the best of the bunch, because everyone else in Kirriemuir is a smackhead, as was the aforementioned woman, who moaned all day that she needed her methadone. A reliable source told me that the junkies there would go to the doctor for methadone, where he would supervise their intake of it (they'd sell it otherwise). They'd then go outside, throw up their latest meal, and sell THAT.

The worst part of that is imagining the sort of person who bought it.

I do feel I've led an exceptionally sheltered life now...
(, Mon 2 Nov 2009, 22:40, 3 replies)
St Austell, Cornwall
Specifically the Travelodge, home of the national dried spunk collection. Room 112.

Seaforth, when the Germans bombed the docks in WW2 their cruellest strategy was avoiding wasting valuable munitions on this shithole.

Clacton-on-Sea, the standard by which all other shitholes are judged against.
(, Mon 2 Nov 2009, 22:40, 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)
Boring seaside town
I went to a crappy seaside resort for a break recently, and it was rubbish. Literally the only entertainment they had was a scuba equipment shop and hire.

Man, what a dive.
(, Mon 2 Nov 2009, 22:23, 1 reply)
For a couple of months, I worked in South Elmsall (between Barnsley and Pontefract.)
Aside from being the birthplace of playwright John Godber, this buzzing metropolis's main claim to fame is that it's among the top 3% of deprived areas not just in Britain, but in all of Europe. It's a small, gnarled town made entirely of blood-red bricks that's been crippled not just by the total failure of its economic lifeblood (the mining industry) but the three recessions that followed.

But in spite of all this, it didn't seem truly, soul-sapping awful in the way so many bland commuter towns do - although it was undeniably ugly, in a state of decay and stuck round about 1970, it was far from irredeemable. There was still a strong sense of community and a healthy sense of humour there, even though most folk are completely and utterly alienated by our shallow, aspirational society and the images of opulence pumped through our radios, television sets and newspapers 24/7/365. It wasn't quite "friendly", but it was more as if outsiders were judged on their own merits - if you were civil and friendly, you'd get a similar response; and if you acted like a twat, you'd get treated like a twat. And if you want to hear old people swearing, go into a South Elmsall pub and mention Margaret Thatcher. It was an interesting experience - however, I wouldn't want to live there.
(, Mon 2 Nov 2009, 21:38, Reply)
Slightly Off topic, but an irritation...
The small town I live in in Shropshire, (approx 52,00 residents) is all lovely, all picturesque and that shite, but, as a resident here all my life, I'd like to point out the things that DO GET ON MY TITS. Those being:- Yes, we do have all manner of *thrilling* sites such as the steam railway, old churches, gardens.... blah blan blah and they are all historic and that. But really, do you have to piss me off on my 2 days off (the weekend) by coming to the town to look at them, take pictures, clog the bloody footpaths etc etc up?

And while I'm still at it:- the local rag is some of the most mundane bollocks I have ever read (although saying that, it is better than the Daily Mail). Sample stories from last edition include:- "Neil’s 50 years 0f folk" - A local resident who has spent nearly 50 years in the music business has had a selection of his songs put on the internet for all to enjoy. Oh joy. Surprised they could find a page for it what with all the fun of the weekly WI's meetings and who has grown the biggest marrow this year.

And what is with all this bullshit building of retirement homes aka Death Valley? Honestly, the past few years has seen hundreds of the fecking things built with no consideration to getting affordable homes for younger people in the area.

Last few points summed up in less detail:- everyone knows everything about everyone/is related to someone or knows someone you think doesn't know them...(you can't fart without someone hearing it), the rentless number of charity shops......... ahh I think that's it for now!
(, Mon 2 Nov 2009, 20:42, Reply)
Baku, Azerbaijan
Oil and wealth on one side of the street to rival anything you've seen. Blood, violence and desperation on the other, where a dollar would have kept a family for a week, comfortably.

Little girls sent out to be tour guides for tourists, keeping what little money they managed to get for lord knows who.

I felt guilty just being there.

(, Mon 2 Nov 2009, 20:38, 1 reply)
Bastard place, Born and bred there. Spent the first eighteen years of my life in a one horse, three pub town (The Posada and The Giffard Arms shut at half ten, but if you were quick, you could run down to the New Inn for a last one before eleven.)

Moved to London in 1991. The minute I left, the fucking place became a vibrant student city. Now, when I go back, there's pubs, bars and student totty everywhere. Prior to 1991, the only sign of a pulse in the place was a mad bloke who used to wander the Mander Centre dressed as a cowboy...
(, Mon 2 Nov 2009, 20:36, 8 replies)
I pulled into a hotel once after a full day of driving and decided to treat myself to something nice to make the crap day a little better.

I asked the lady behind the desk "Where is absolutely the nicest place to eat around here? The absolute best - I'm willing to drive a bit more for a nice dinner right now."

She thought about it for a while and then replied, "Denny's is right down the street."

"No, no, Money is no object! and I'll drive an hour more if I have to, Where do people go for a special event or a real treat - where would you go if you could go anywhere?"

She thought about it, and I appreciated that she took me seriously and invested her time on the matter.



"It's really good. My parents went there on their anniversary."

what could I say to that?

For the record, they got our order wrong, but it was pretty good, as fast food breakfasts go. But it was just a Denny's
(, Mon 2 Nov 2009, 20:04, Reply)
I was born and raised in Colchester but after various moves have ended up in Ipswich for the last 8 odd years.

The thing is, I don't seem to be able to get back out! I've tried selling up and moving a couple of times but each time it's fallen through. I think it's a secret plot to keep my genes in their pool. And god knows they need them.

In those 8 years I've had my car broken in to five times, the last time they tried to steal it and wrote it off. I've had a walk-in burglar (who I luckily disturbed thanks to my cats. An answer for another QOTW) and not that long ago caught some guy pissing in my back garden, pissed off his tits, at 6:30am.

After the pissing guy, I decided to replace my back garden fence and gate with a taller, more secure one. I left parts of the old fence on my driveway, waiting for a couple of dry days to take them up the tip. Someone flipping pinched them. I know it saves me a job, but still...

And I, apparently, live in a nice area!

And Ipswich men are so hard to get along with! Every single conversation I have with a newly met bloke goes like this:

Him: So do you support 'The Town' then?
Me: I don't really follow football to be honest. I grew up with Colchester Utd as my home team so I lost interest in football at an early age. (I always tag on this last part to stop them questioning my sexuality with the power of humour!)
Him: Hur, hur, hur. Oh. (They don't know what to do if you can't talk 'The Town'). So did you go to school here?
Me: No. I went to the Gilberd in Colchester. (You would have thought they'd got that from the Colchester UTD comment).
Him: Oh. *Looks around desperately for someone more local.

Every single conversation.

I kind of feel it's my fault really, that maybe I should follow at least one team just so I can make conversation (and maybe a friend) with a man. As it is, I've got several female friends and one lone male friend (who also doesn't like football! No, he's not gay either. Nor from Ipswich).

Please let me get back to Colchester. Please.

On another note, Solihull. Surprisingly nice place despite the name.
(, Mon 2 Nov 2009, 19:57, 9 replies)

This question is now closed.

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