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)

I keep reading
about St Helens and how much of a shit hole it is. So I thought I'd do a virtual tour via Street View (in the vain hope of spotting some girls dressed as '2p whores' - but alas, no street view for St Helens yet.

(got any pics of any 2p whores?)
( Albert Marshmallow is a completely irredeemable cunt, Fri 30 Oct 2009, 14:24, closed)

I expect...
...that it's partly because it's too insignificant to bother with for street mapping, but mostly because one look at the place from those driving the camera cars would realise that a tour of S(hi)t Helens carried too much risk of the car being vandalised or stolen.

And no, I don't have any pics though I was tempted a couple of weeks ago whilst walking past a local pub through part of the town to a birthday 'do. This wasn't just a 2p whore, it was a 1p whore. I had to tell the BF to stop staring
(thatblokeoverthere not quite as much an arsehole as I thought, Fri 30 Oct 2009, 15:51, closed)

It's where dreams go to die
It's really horrible, the people are horrible, the town is horrible. Everything about it just makes you want to jump off the nearest high building. That might actually explain why there are so few. A Car park and an old office building are the only ones I can think of. The rest are chimneys and one gas tower.
(Hitler's other ball. R soul., Fri 30 Oct 2009, 16:13, closed)

the place
is usually crawling with skanks on a saturday night, i've walked through on my way home from parties and the state of some of the people i see.
i feel embarrassed for them. i mean id never dream of leavin my house in so little and unflattering clothing.

st helens at night = breeding ground for chavs.
(stitched, Fri 30 Oct 2009, 16:33, closed)