Since bexleyheath has already been nominated have a mini challenge instead
100 clicks, a woo and a yay to whoever plots all these qotw stories on a google map, complete with clicky goodness to go to the stories ;).
( bluemeat has been best of all the animals since, Fri 30 Oct 2009, 12:17, 5 replies)

Balamory
It's fucking shit
(magic the cat will someone please think of the kittens, Fri 30 Oct 2009, 12:08, 6 replies)

Anyone here from Derby?
If so

CUNTS

That is all
(Darth Foxtrot A one-man army dedicated to making fetch happen, Fri 30 Oct 2009, 12:05, 1 reply)

Portsmouth
I love Portsmouth. Southsea is actually really nice, Albert Road is brilliant, even North End has a kind of grimy charm. It's not exactly nice, but it is soulful and I've been there literally hundreds of times at night and never got beaten up myself. Which is nice.

That's not to say it isn't godawful, though. I heard one story, which I really hope is not apocrhyphal, about a guy who did a round the world cycle tour, cycling through every country on Earth. He was almost shot or stabbed or bombed hundreds of times in grotty, awful countries like Rwanda or Afghanistan or Australia, but made it through unscathed and successful. Finally, he had completed his herculanean task, and returned to England on the ferry, docking in good old Pompey.

Where, within half an hour, his bike, that had seen more action than most of us would see in ten lifetimes, was nicked.

Good old Pompey.
(WarneMarsh My priority for frivolity begets quality jollity, Fri 30 Oct 2009, 12:04, 8 replies)

Pontypridd...
... ponty-sodding-pridd. One long uncovered sewer draped with pound shops and dodgy phone shops, with a pustule of gruesome pubs at either end. And right in the middle... the Taff Vale centre. A shopping centre which appears, at first glance, to sell only chipboard (for the purposes of replacing windows). A piss- and vomit-stained 60s concrete job, with a condemed towerblock on top. And three shops still trading.

So far, so Hartlepool, you may think. But the residents of Pontypridd live there... usually the kind of folk who moved out of the south Wales valleys for a bit of cosmopolitan buzz.

Once I mentioned to a Ponty lass that I was going to a meeting in London later that week. "London," she said "I'd hate to go there. It must be like Pontypridd on a saturday afternoon... every...single...day!"

Ponty even boasts a university, which sensibly does not mention it is based in Pontypridd and is moving to Cardiff as fast as it possibly can.
(nordelius, Fri 30 Oct 2009, 11:41, 1 reply)

Grantham
Grew up there , if you like getting into fights on weekends it is the perfect place for you.
(dirtyotter Touch Me I’m Sick, Fri 30 Oct 2009, 11:39, 3 replies)

Ballymena
This really is the crowning shit hole of N.Ireland.

It's got bigotted, sectarian, racist, ignorant residents who don't speak to outsiders and complain that there is nowhere to go for a night out other than the local pub. The reason for this is simply that the last night club that opened in the town was overun with paramilitary groups within 3 weeks, who then put their own members on the doors as bouncers. It was finally closed when several punters were stabbed after a local paramilitary feud, one guy having his eye stabbed out.

Many are delusional too, being told by a local that I couldn't be as good a sound engineer as he, since y'know he was working in a bus fitters yard and I was working as a sound engineer, and had been for a few years.

I have seen locals being ignored simply because they left to live somewhere else or simply because they got an education. One evening in particular springs to mind when my mate went over to a group of her old friends after coming back from university they respoded with "what do you want?" and "your the one who decided to leave" etc it seemed that they were annoyed that she didn't want to work in the local chip shop for the rest of her life (which, i hear, they are still doing 6 years on)

The local council is funny as hell though, apparently the town has a huge heroin problem and they seem to think it's caused by shops being open on a sunday as far as I can tell. You can usually find the hardcore religious types standing in the centre of town preaching to people who just ignore them. The authorities just ignore the problem completely along with other more serious allegations againt the town's more 'respectable' residents.

The council once banned ELO playing at their local football grounds on the basis that they were promoting satanism amongst the towns vulnerable youth! Many of whom are to preoccupied with buying wkd from the local off license.

The town does have some lovely people in it but it appears that if you live there long enough you become an embittered, jealous, resentful person, who gets angry at everyone else who worked hard to get somwhere, just because they were not handed everything on a plate.

Oh and I would walk through the darkest, deepest parts of Stoke, Essex or fucking Glasgow before I would walk anywhere through that town at night...it's fucking deadly.
( Bamboo Steamer, Fri 30 Oct 2009, 11:33, 4 replies)

Bridgend, South Wales.
Anywhere that has a police riot van(or two) parked in the town centre as a matter of course every Friday and Saturday evening is likely to be a bit rubbish.
Actually by 11pm on a Saturday night Bridgend resembles a cross between a Zoo, Bedlam, and a drunken football crowd looking for a punch-up!
(verynaughtyboy, Fri 30 Oct 2009, 11:33, 1 reply)

Oradour sur Glane
Lazy french fucks haven't bothered to do a thing to this town since the war... could do with a lick of paint or two, if they ever get round to it.
(CornishStanley can't post hyperlinks, Fri 30 Oct 2009, 11:27, 1 reply)

Carterton. apologies in avdvance for length.
It's the home of RAF Brize Norton, so like most garrison towns at the arse end of nowhere the population is a mix of squaddies and yokels.
Cue me being sent to Brize on permanent posting after every place I'd been in the previous 6 years with the exception of the Falklands being closed down. After sorting out my digs I decided to wander into the town to check out the local nightlife. At that time Carterton boasted a grand total of three pubs (These days there's only two as the only half decent one got burned down). The first pub I walked into was called The Aviator. I could have sworn there was an invisible line across the middle of the bar. Squaddies on one side, inbreds on the other. I got in the queue on the civvy side, got my pint and sloped off to the bandit and put a few coins in so as to avoid eye contact with anyone.
Now, at the time I had fairly long hair and was thus obviously NOT a squaddie. However I was also obviously NOT a local. I'd been at the bandit for about five minutes when a yokel wandered over.
Yokel: "Who're you?"
Me: "I'm stuj, just got here, hi."
Yokel: "What are you doing here?"
Me: "I'll be working at the base from tomorrow."
Yokel: "You're a squaddie then."
Me: "Nah mate, I'm a civvy, I couldn't be a squaddie with hair like this."
Yokel: "You work at the base you're a fucking squaddie."
Me: "Fine, I'll just leave you to it then."
And that was the first and last time I ever had a drink in Carterton. Far better to just hop on the X10 bus into Oxford for the evening. Although the nearest proper town to cartoonton, Witney, is quite nice.
Length? Well it's been my home station since 2001, but the longest I've ever spent there is about 3 months.
( stuj (^(^;;^)^) GO TEAM SPIDERS!(^(^;;^)^), Fri 30 Oct 2009, 11:22, 3 replies)

Various Shitholes in the USA and how I'm surprised I'm still alive.
At the tender age of 20 I found myself flying around America with my girlfriend on a 4 week unlimited standby flights ticket with Delta Airlines. It was called The Delta Pass and cost a mere 235 quid for non US residents under the age of 25. It was like Willy Wonkas golden ticket to the Promised land... of certain death.

Being rather naieve and on a tight budget we found ourselves in a few dubious areas due to genius accomodation idea #1. Get the bus into town and wander around looking for a hotel. It couldn't fail. Until:

Orlando: Getting off a bus at midnight in the middle of some downtown ghetto area of Orlando and wandering around looking for a hotel, wearing backpacks. Mercifully the first person that came across our frail souls was a cop on patrol. He guided us to a hotel and told us never to do something as stupid as this again. He'd got an *actual* shotgun mounted on his dashboard. I wasn't going to argue with that authority!

So genius Hotel Idea #2 was born. Once we'd landed in each destination we'd use the free phones at the airport to find the cheapest hotel that would put on a free shuttle service and had cheap rooms.

Miami: Upon returning from a nice trip to Miami Beach to what appeared to be a very nice hotel in a somewhat dubious area of Miami the bus driver insisted on waiting until we'd crossed the road and got safely into our hotel. He strongly advised us that the following morning we got the hell out of there. We did.

Denver, Colorado: Some remote suburb hotel that prided itself on free XXX hardcore porn in every room. There were a lot of ladies on the street corner who's stockings didn't go all the way up to their skirts. When we checked in the receptionist looked very wary of us. Turns out in future conversations that to most 'merkins we both looked about 12.

Sanfransisco: The lovely free transfer bus took us into a shabby hotel in the deepest suburb of Chinatown. Upon leaving the hotel to find something to eat 'Lets try Chinese, lol' it was very apparent when we left the hotel that this was not just some chinese themed tourist trap but was a whole district under Chinese occupation. i.e The only non chinese there was scrawny old me and my 5'2 blonde haired girlfriend wearing a bright pink t-shirt. Opposite the hotel was one of those metal fire escapes that the bad guys get chased down in cop movies. It was teeming with whores. We ate at the closest restaurant and got the hell back to the hotel. The following day the we went to see the Golden Gate bridge and on the way back realised the g/f had lost the map back to the hotel. All we had to go by was the name 'The airporter hotel'. Did any Cop in the dubious area of Sanfransisco we'd found ourself in at dusk know of this hotel? Did they fcuk. This was the only time I truly felt in fear of my life on the trip and things were getting desperate as light faded.

We were obviously looking desperate by this point and we were relieved to hear another English voice asking whether we were ok. 'No, We're lost. Nobody knows where our hotel is and we lost the map.' we told this 20-something. Upon giving him the name he only bloody knew where it was and insisted he escorted us back there. 'No wonder nobody knew where it was. It's 15 miles away.'

New York: The Delta Pass had run out. As had our money so we found ourselves at La Guardia airport with 3 days to kill before the return flight. Hailing the nearest taxi and handing over our bags to the rather large but smartly suited bubba look-alike it suddenly dawned upon me that this was probably not an official taxi (infact there was nothing to indicate it was a taxi at all) and as we headed into the night I was becoming increasingly agitated. When he took one of the long curving exits from one of the freeways I was seriously expecting him to rob us, throw us out and leave us in the middle of nowhere. I unsheathed my trusty Swiss Army knife blade (heh, I'm gonna go down fighting!).

20 minutes later we're dropped off at our hotel. Alive. Turns out the guy was down on his luck and all he had left was a nice car and a suit and just wanted to make a (semi-honest) living.

So there we were stranded for 3 days in a hotel in the middle of gangland New York. About 20 miles from the City. The first day we decided to venture out to the 7-11. It was like a scene from Boys in the Hood. We went back to the hotel and spent the next 3 days hiding under the bedclothes.

We took 22 different flights and there were many more shitholes but these ones stand out the most.

If I wasn't an athieist I almost think we had a Guardian angel looking out for us on that trip. We were youthful idiots.

Length? More like depth. About 6 foot(under) by rights
( Airman Gabber Living life like a 70's BBC presenter, Fri 30 Oct 2009, 11:22, 5 replies)

Here’s a thing,

I was in Hatfield yesterday for the first time in about 20 years. Despite spending most of my formative years there, and only moving 5 miles away I’ve not once been back to the place…until yesterday.

I was accompanying an 78 year old relative to the doctors. For 5 weeks or so he’d been suffering from shortness of breath, even when resting, and had lost a stone in weight. He had a chest x-ray and been told to expect the results in a 10 days or so. However, just 2 days later he gets a call from the doctor’s saying come and see us RIGHT NOW, we need to discuss your X-ray results.

So there I am in the waiting room, sitting next to the poor fella who’s about to be told he has lung cancer, trying to make small talk to keep his mind off the impending date with the doctor. As my chat dried up Hatfield came to the rescue. A woman staggered into the surgery complaining of being in pain and started rolling around on the floor repeating the words

“pain killers pain killers”.

She gave a false name and date of birth

“pain killers pain killers”

More rolling around on the floor, and then sat up and clicked her fingers at the receptionists when she though she wasn’t getting the attention she thought she deserved

“pain killers”

After being told there’d be a 3 hour wait to se a doctor she called 999 “because the queue is tool long”. Class. I’ve not seen an ambulance crew that un-impressed before.

This junkie trying to scam some morphine kept us entertained for a good hour. God bless you Hatfield.

Too finish the tale. The usual doc was out and the replacement didn’t know anything about the appointment, didn’t have the x-rays and complained that he hates it when that happens as it makes HIM look stupid…yeah doc it’s all about you. When I suggested he found out what was going on he complained about how busy he was and said I should take the old fella home and they’d be in contact in due course. Fucking typical lazy incompetent NHS wankers.

Lets just say I rather forcibly suggested they tried a bit harder, and after a whole 2 minutes effort they found the X-rays and results. Lung infection – nasty but not fatal, looks like the old bugger’s not finished yet. Hooray!
.
( Ring Of Fire A petty, drooling belming butthurt retard., Fri 30 Oct 2009, 11:09, 9 replies)

Stoke-on-Trent
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.
( Enzyme is powered by sunlight, Fri 30 Oct 2009, 11:00, 9 replies)

Midsomer
Must have a higher per-capita murder rate than Baltimore. And it's not like it's even a serial killer or anything - they catch each perpetrator then somebody else decides to do some killing. Must be something in the water.
(Vice Admiral Sir Charles Cockbrush KCB MBE DSO, who is finding it increasingly difficult to log into b3ta.com wants to duck your aunt and kick your puppy, Fri 30 Oct 2009, 10:55, 1 reply)

Brixton
When a friend of mine from out of London moved there, he thought everyone was threatening him when he got off the tube.

It took him months to realise they were saying 'Skunk?', not 'Scum!'
(SnowyTheWereRabbit the Leporid from Hell, Fri 30 Oct 2009, 10:53, Reply)

Im sure someone has mentioned St Helens...
...by now. I can't be the only one to have experienced the staggering shittiness of that place.

Nestled between Liverpool and Manchester like a tumor, it's the town where I did the majority of my growing up. I came to know it like the back of my hand, and came to know it also as the run-down, piss-stained, pissant, inbred, chav-infested backward-thinking shitburg that it truly is. It's main use, it seems, is as a dumping ground for all the persona non grata that other towns don't want. For the most part the people in it are what makes this town the wasteland-of-the-soul that it is, but it isn't helped by the grubby litter paved streets, 60's/70's demilitarised-zone-esque council estates and numerous other architectural or aesthetic disasters that pass for locations of interest.

I hate the place even more recently, because a small handful of the worthless fleshwaste chav cunts that plague the place are largely responsible for harassing the only sibling I had left to an early grave. The first anniversary of the day he died occurs in just a couple of weeks. Suffice to say, I left the town for less depressing pastures long ago, but there remain a fair number of people there who are very dear to me. However, I despise the town and almost everyone in it aside from these few. I wouldn't go near the place if it weren't for them. This isn't everybody, I know - I've seen lots and I'm sure there are more that I haven't seen of more decent types hiding amongst all the vermin, but they're a definitely a minority and why they choose to stay is unfathomable to me. There are a few other minorities that aren't quite so agreeable, like the numerous masonic knitting circles of OAPs who form a cohesive unit to automatically scorn anyone who wasn't born in the street they live in. They can get fucked along with the chavs. Then there's the inbreeders, especially in Haydock, where the family has been there forever and they never marry from outside the town. They're just plain odd, in thought and deed.

Chavs, proto-chavs and senior chav propogators are very much the majority however. A 1-hour walk around the poundshop-scattered town centre at any time of the day will present to the viewer a breathtaking number of sub-human scum adorned with market-stall sportswear, allergy-inducing 'jewellery', hickies, low-quality tattoos, bruises, and excema. Males and females alike walk around with their hands down their pants, or down each other's - decorum and good taste in St Helens are basically things that happen to other people. Uncontrolled brats orbit almost all of them from age 12 upwards, conceived by stupidity and delivered only as a device for getting into a council house. Any attempt by any normal person to interact with these indigenous animals is a complete waste of time unless one has the capability to move several rungs down the food chain at will. If the wildlife senses any indication that you're not on the same bottom-feeding level of life to them then it will result in a very unpleasant time for the unprepared. Thankfully, I've perfected several tricks for dealing with them as I occasionally have to, so I don't run into much trouble. I've warned the BF to go nowhere in the town without me, being as he is both a very intelligent bloke AND a southerner. He'd have no chance on his own.

As for the nightlife in St Helens... fuck. me. Think of it more as pondlife with disco lights and you're halfway there. The aforementioned z-chromosome social retards come out from under every rock in town to spend taxpayer's money on Stella and Bacardi Breezers and puff their chests out at one another, and that's including the females. Any perceived, or more often simply imagined slight (though I'd hesitate to say these fuckers have any imagination whatsoever) against them is rewarded with sovereign-ring and fake-Rockport boot imprints on your face. And again, that includes the girls, either on the receiving end OR the giving end - both cases are equally common*. In fact, you just need to be within arms' reach sometimes for this to happen. Dress code is as simple as they are, with the females dressed like 2p whores and sporting the apparently compulsory faux-gold hoop earrings so big you'd think they can pick up freeview. The males are typically unimaginative, wearing trousers and shoes only because they can't get into a nightclub without them or it would be shellsuit pants, wifebeater vests and pocket-pool all the way, same as they do the rest of the week.

Such evenings end for all those who don't know that pretty much anywhere is better in either back-alley rutting, amateur-yet-brutal pugilism or the worst fast food you'll ever taste, or indeed any combination of the three. I think the last time I spent a Saturday night in St Helens town centre is more than 10 years ago, and I don't miss it. At all. One thing that could be said in favour of Saturday nights in St Helens is that it means that most of those who attend willingly at least get a fucking wash once per week.

The main reason I hope for a Euromillions win is that I can get everyone I care about out of that poxy little town, build an impenetrable wall around it and then fill it with water to turn it into the country's biggest cesspit. The basic material is already there after all.

St Helens - I'd say so bad it's good, but it really isn't. It's just bad and more bad.

* I remember one case, a little sister of an old college mate who was and despite the episode I'm about to describe, still is a sweet and very pretty girl. She rebuffed some knuckle-dragger's drunken and less-than-gentlemanly proposition in one of the town's nightclubs and so the twat glassed her for it. Really people - don't go there. Ever.
(thatblokeoverthere not quite as much an arsehole as I thought, Fri 30 Oct 2009, 10:46, 4 replies)

Never to to Nevsehir
Nevşehir is a town in Cappadocia, Turkey and could rightly be described as the arsehole of Turkey.

The people of Nevşehir are the most miserable bunch of Turks you will ever come across! Turks from other towns tend to agree and even say that the inhabitants of Nevşehir only care about money!

The restaurants are crap! The hotels infested with cockroaches! My wife & I spent one miserable day and night in this shithole. My wife would not get undressed and get into bed - instead she slept fully clothed on top of the bed!

There is a large army camp in Nevşehir and we had the misfortune to walk past it a few times. The guards are miserable and have faces like a bag full of hammers! The guards eye you up with evil stares as you walk past, their fingers playing over the triggers of their guns, seemingly just waiting for an excuse to open fire!

Cappadocia is lovely, just avoid Nevşehir!
( Vambo, Fri 30 Oct 2009, 10:44, Reply)

Hell in Rome
I used to live outside Rome, in a lush green suburb full of lovely people with pools and gardeners. On the other side of the main road was a huge dusty field interspersed with stagnant canals, half-built mafia houses and the odd pot-holed road lined with skanky prossies and decorated with the odd dessicated cat carcass outlined on the tarmac. Eventually they must have decided this place needed a name, so they called it Infernetto. Which means 'little hell'. Never has a town been more aptly named.

Except maybe Bletchley which you can't even say without feeling ill.
(chesty, Fri 30 Oct 2009, 10:40, 2 replies)

Stornoway
Oh dearie me. The Western Isles, staunchly Protestant and bible adhereing. I went there once to install a network. Got to my B&B, had a cup of tea and asked the landlady where I might get something to eat.

"Well, there's Mrs. McGlinchie's Tea Shop in town. Just past THE DEVIL HOTEL!!!"

Devil hotel, eh? That sounds like the very dab. So I head off to "Mrs. McGlinchie's". But I got seduced by THE DEVIL HOTEL LOUNGE BAR. I've been in some dives in my time, but this was one of the most dispiriting "lounge" bars I've ever been in. Dimly lit, no windows, the only sign of humour coming from the Sky TV at one side, showing "Fox's Grimmest Funerals." Sticky carpet. But, a drink's a drink, I've got a per diem and the B&B is cheap, leaving the balance for lager and Marlboro. Several beers later, I notice something really odd. Most pubs, behind the bar, there's crisps and nuts. This place had the largest selection of mints, toothpaste and breath fresheners I'd seen since I worked in the stockroom at Boots. By now it's 9ish, so I decide to go and get a meal. Everything was shut. Everything. The Happy Fun Time Chinese shut at 5pm weekdays, 6pm Saturday, closed all day Sunday. Everything was shut. So, I trudged back to the B&B with a consolation pack of Fox' Glacier Mints, to be met by my landlady, who had stayed up well past her normal bed-time of 8pm to offer me a scone, a cup of tea and a really filthy look at the Spawn of Satan who'd come to stay under her roof.
Happy day, happy day...
(Haviland drinking like they're going to ban beer., Fri 30 Oct 2009, 10:38, 4 replies)

Dover
On the way to Calais, we opted to spend the night in Dover. Mistake. Walked into a pub where I was the only one without a shaved head (including the 'ladies') or a pitbull. Walked straight out again and into the biggest pub we could find, got some drinks and stood against the wall by the door - my theory being that if it kicks off, at least someone will witness it and call the cops or if not, we can make a quick getaway. Later in the queue for the chip van, a guy strolls up to me out of nowhere and says 'you pushed in, I was there.' I'd only had one pint (too scared to get legless) and started to plan my withering verbal demolition of him in front of his fellow Dover locals but instead admitted that he was probably right and let him in.
(Mr McKenzie Mr McKenzie, Fri 30 Oct 2009, 10:34, Reply)

Brixton
Ever so slightly dodgeite.

Witnessed last night a man attempting to woo a stranger in the street by following her and repeating: "I'm not dangerous. I'm not dangerous, stop a minute, I'm not dangerous."
( rofl harris, Fri 30 Oct 2009, 10:33, 3 replies)

Stevenage [2]
Overheard as I walked past the Stevenage DSS office; a bloke on his mobile phone having a heated conversation with someone.
"...Why are you hurting me, darlin'? I don't understand why you're hurting me like this! I don't want to hurt you back, 'cos the only way I know to hurt people is wiv violence! I luv you darlin'! Don't make me hurt you back..."

I love working here.
(davywavy, Fri 30 Oct 2009, 10:27, 1 reply)

I have a friend from Sunderland
who thanks to the noxious fumes in the air was born with a genetic disorder called Trisomy 23.

However, he's quite intelligent, doesn't have the errant palmar folds, the almond eyes, nor does he say "Timmah" at every opportunity.

Actually, he's a rubbish Downs....

/Hull
( Undercovercarrot got done for gross misconduct on..., Fri 30 Oct 2009, 10:24, Reply)

Stevenage [1]
I work there. I have many stories, all of them awful.

Overheard in the shop where I buy my lunchtime sandwich:
Girl, to friend: I'm not going to have much to eat today. I've started me diet 'cos I want to lose weight for me holiday.
Waitress: What'll it be, girls?
Girl, to waitress: What's the smallest portion of chips that you do?
(davywavy, Fri 30 Oct 2009, 10:22, 3 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.

BAM!

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.
(TheSnark oh, c'mon, like you didn't see me coming, Fri 30 Oct 2009, 10:14, Reply)

Given the amount
of shitey hellhome towns in this world full of twats and unhelpful arseholes, wouldn't it be good for the sake of humanity to have some sort of human cull?

I'm thinking about 90-95% of the population of the world starting in Manchester, that way we can grass over all these places like hull and Slough and Port Talbot etc and live happily ever after.
(magic the cat will someone please think of the kittens, Fri 30 Oct 2009, 9:59, 2 replies)

I live in Sydney
Up until somewhat recently I lived in one of the more dodgy areas, in fact I used to live on the street that had this happen. Never once did I truely feel unsafe (there were quite a number of dodgy people around but just stepping up and saying "You don't really want my wallet" was enough to get them to back down). I also grew up around where this took place

Now I've moved with the little woman to a nice suburban flat (suburb is called Ashfield), lots of great neighbours and a decent way from the city, that turns out is a hotbed for police activity. As I write this there are police officers in the hallway trying to bash down the door on the appartment above me because the guy up there has a habbit of smacking his wife around a little more than she likes (after last weeks QOTW I've downgraded that from a 'lot more'). I've been warned by police *in my security locked building* to not wander around as much with my black gear on with my hat pulled down (I've not got much style so that is what I look like) as it makes them think I'm up to no good. 3 different appartments have been broken into with no apparent entry method, the current theory is that someone has a master key.

So this current place I'm in is a lot worse as far as everything goes. It's got a lovely veneer of safe and nice going on but as it turns out is a whole lot worse than areas that get there own wikipedia pages due to riots and large amounts of hard core violence.

No funnies here for you, there isn't much funny about smacking a chick around who isn't into that sort of stuff. I just wish it I could move back to the safe violent areas of town tonight to make it easier to sleep.
(pseudomonkey is not a real monkey., Fri 30 Oct 2009, 9:57, 5 replies)

I can't believe I've not seen Yeovil mentioned yet.
The only place where I do a little Obi-Wan every time I have the misfortune to trundle along the A30 into the godforsaken hellhole.

"You will never find a more wretched hive of scum and villainy. We should be careful."

The place beggars belief. It exists as a kind of hub for the outlying towns and villages, and basically houses all the low-end chain shops, chav emporiums (emporia? Whatever), and nasty boozers that they don't want on their own doorsteps.

And the nightclubs. Oooh the nightclubs. Every slack-jawed Somerset yokel for miles around descends on the place on a Friday and Saturday night for a fuck or a fight, or if they're really lucky, both. You could put bromide in the water there and halve the country's teenage pregnancy problem overnight.

Why did I relocate to Manchester? For a good number of reasons actually, but pretty high on the list was to put at least 200 miles between myself and fucking Yeovil.
( barryheadwound Mul-ti-pass? Multipass!, Fri 30 Oct 2009, 9:42, 1 reply)

An addition to my previous post...
I already mentioned my home town St Neots here, but thought you should just see what a chav-ridden shithole it can be...so I give you this article.

EDIT: And just look at this...
( snee held his breath since, Fri 30 Oct 2009, 9:33, 1 reply)

Stoke on Trent
Went to Alton Towers with my girlfriend and her mates, and stayed in a hotel in stoke. We arrived pretty exhausted, and the first thing the concierge told us was that we should avoid going out after 7 if we didn't want "stabbed or sumfink." I've never been in a more hostile place... No one smiles, they just wander around aimlessly, and staring at you as if you just defecated into their grannie's ashes before feeding it to the dog. It is the only place in the world I have ever been driven AT, on a quite regular basis. The entire town is coated with a thick film of soot and grime, and people seem to actually go out of their way to be nasty or unhelpful. It has only 2 redeeming features: 1, it isn't Dundee, and 2, it has quite possibly the best car wash sign ever, proudly claiming to give "the best handjobs in town."
(DonMorte Cake is a made up drug, Fri 30 Oct 2009, 9:27, 4 replies)