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 !!!!!!
( SpankyHanky, Mon 2 Nov 2009, 14:07, 8 replies)

Ha Ha...

I'm a quarter Welsh you know.

Apparently it explains my singing voice, rampant lust over Katherine Jenkins...

and fondness for sheep, amongst other things...

*Clickety*
( Pooflake braces for an onslaught..., Mon 2 Nov 2009, 14:50, closed)

This
gets a click from me!
(Monkey the Chicken Twitter: death_stairs, Mon 2 Nov 2009, 17:43, closed)

I have cousins in Newport
and I would venture to say that from the sounds of it, you probably met them.
(Zapiola zip-zap-zop, Mon 2 Nov 2009, 17:51, closed)

If you can
give a place such a serious slagging when you're from Coventry - which is a cesspit in a class of it's very own - I believe I shall give a miss. Have a click.
(berk, Mon 2 Nov 2009, 19:02, closed)

I grew up
in Cwmbran and Newport and would have to say you are right in all respects but one. Genuine Addidas trackies? Really, try knock offs from the market with 8 stripes :):)
(Obi wanker nobi Its not a bug, its an unexpected feature, Tue 3 Nov 2009, 13:17, closed)

Ah, Newport
I'm actually from (near) there and everything you say is more or less true. It's a chav-ridden hole of a place and of this there is no doubt. There are worse places though. Far, far worse places. I was there a few weeks ago and pleasantly surprised to discover that a Friday night now only requires the presence of two riot vans in the town centre as opposed to the six or so that used to be required, so maybe it's on the up. I doubt it though. Maybe there was a delay with the dole cheques coming through that week.
(barnaby_kettleworth, Wed 4 Nov 2009, 11:57, closed)

You fcukin knows it
Safe as, clart.
(Guy Debord cette mauvaise réputation..., Thu 5 Nov 2009, 0:37, closed)

Dear God !!!
It's like being back there! And, for the life of me, I still have no fucking idea what clart means...
( SpankyHanky, Thu 5 Nov 2009, 9:11, closed)