b3ta.com user Lo Pan
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» Rubbish Towns

Hello Skegness!
(or Skeggy, as those locals who have mastered the power of speech affectionately call it).

Hello to Skegness Railway Station. The end of a meandering little line from the East Midlands, it’s serviced by infrequent, dirty, scabby little trains taken by assorted oiks who smoke, drink and litter the carriages as if they were their own disgusting front room.

Hello to the world’s greatest concentration of static caravans and trailers outside of America. Millions of people, it seems, make their way to Skegness to holiday. Some choose to stay. Forever.

Hello Butlins. You might think holiday camps can't be that bad, you might fondly remember watching Hi-De-Hi. You're wrong. Billy Butlin himself opened his first ever camp in Skegness and it's been downhill ever since. The dregs congregate here to forget.

Hello to the seafront. ‘Skegness is so bracing’ goes the slogan. No it isn’t, it’s fucking freezing. Cold and windy, all the time. Raining for the most part too. And the sea itself? Filthy, of course, the brown water of the North Sea endlessly churned up in the Wash, making paddling or swimming (if you can bear it) akin to being trapped in the washing machine with a bag of sand.

Hello to the Jolly Fisherman, official town mascot, dreamt up by a railway marketing executive in the days when British seaside holidays were something to aspire to. Nowadays the pitiful, ruddy-cheeked fat man running along the beach looks like a sex offender fleeing from the mob (another scene to look out for in the holiday snaps)

Hello to a piss-poor selection of run down amusement arcades, greasy spoons, shops selling utter crap and ‘family pubs’ frequented by arguing, violent tribes of Neanderthals, swigging watery lager and shovelling plate after plate of burger and chips down their greasy, bloated necks.

Hello to the local nightlife, not least Flirtz lap dancing club. You could be forgiven for thinking you'd somehow landed in at the Moulin Rouge, or one of Pigalle's other legendary bordellos and burlesque houses (that is, if you were an imbecile). Replete with its regiment of vile, tanorexic strippers (and noted for its curious use of a Reliant Robin, painted in corporate colours of pink and purple and parked strategically around the town as a mobile advert to pull in the punters), Flirtz is the zenith of a visit to Skeggy. After this your likely destination is hospital, since no night out in the town is complete unless you've been glassed and then beaten up.

Hello Skegness! Wish you weren’t here.
(Fri 30th Oct 2009, 14:02, More)

» Pathological Liars

Thick Office Liar
My company is blessed with the presence of 'thick office liar' who is:

A) Crap at her job
B) A bit dim
C) A terrible liar

Some examples:

She bangs on about not needing to go to the gym or play any sport because she always walks to work and back, 20-25 minutes each way. Fair enough, however on the frequent occasions that she's more than 10 minutes late for work (2 or 3 times a week), she'll phone in to say that she's been waiting for a bus for ages and none have turned up.

Another time she rang in to say that halfway to the office she left her mobile at home and was going back to get it. Her mobile number was, of course, displayed on the phone here when she rang from it.

Having spent the past year applying for countless jobs and failing to get them (IT Managers know everything you dimwit), she constantly denies that she is looking for a job, despite claiming in her appraisal that she'd been offered a much better paid position but decided to stay with us to develop the role. On one occasion her manager, siting in the same office as her, noticed various job websites open on her desk, and suggested work hours were not best used looking for other positions. The reply came 'I'm not looking for jobs, they're pop-up spam, I'll close them now, and get on with counting paperclips' or whatever it is she does. Half an hour later she piped up 'What does OTE stand for?'

Pathological liar, or incredibly stupid?
(Fri 30th Nov 2007, 14:10, More)

» Voyeurism

The Brixton Screamer
We lived in 'Mansions' in Brixton in about '93 (for mansions read purpose-built Victorian slum flats. No wonder they used to riot round there).

A girl moved in upstairs, seemed ok, said hello on the stairs, bit of a hippy. Within a couple of weeks we'd learned that she never seemed to go to work (mind you nor did we), and that she enjoyed noisy sex with an antipodean bloke at all hours of the day and night.

Funnt up to a point, but the crumbling block had no sound-proofing, so just when we were settling down to laugh at freaks on Kilroy or play on the Mega Drive, she'd pipe up with her wails, moans and shrieks.

It went on for a few weeks until the solution came - every time she started to moan, we would too, but louder. 2 or 3 of us shrieking our lungs out (and howling with laughter). She soon shut up (and stopped saying hello).
(Fri 12th Oct 2007, 14:28, More)